If You Got the Guts, Run Baby Run: A Woman's Story

By Joan Santoro

The story involves my daring venture to invade into in a mans world as a labor unions leader. It was an enlightening experience as I gained a valuable amount of knowledge from all types of people. Taking over, as head of a labor organization is a huge responsibility and certainly not a position to be taken lightly. Few women have had those experiences or traveled to the areas where I campaigned.

The probability of becoming famous was never an issue with me. The enormous responsibilities of settling individual grievances, negotiating various types of labor contracts, attending conventions and seminars keeping abreast of the ever-changing laws, mentioning just a few of the many important factors of the position I challenged. Several well-qualified people on labor issues were ready and willing to work with me.

The hurtful traumas that transpired during this era finally disappeared as writing things down. I later realized that it was important therapy to write about my struggles in a book. Of course at this time of my life, I would not be so naive about a lot of things but life constantly teaches us valuable lessons.

Life is different now, as women handle mens tough, demanding important positions. Perhaps I was just born too soon. My interest as a concerned people person is still prevalent in my daily endeavors and thankful of the road I took. Id do it all over again despite all the extreme hardships, as I understand the political arena much more than before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465328038

Book preview

CHAPTER I

I walked slowly toward the huge black wrought iron gate that automatically opened hearing only moaning noises of worn out hinges that led into the Monterey hospital. Half of me wanted to run home, the other half believing that after today I’d have a much brighter outlook on life.

The dark, dismal, cloudy day didn’t improve my feeling of fear and helplessness. The sky was almost black with a steady drizzle of rain, and a heavy gray fog with many dark clouds hovering overhead. I’d assumed after my scheduled operation, I’d get rid of my disfiguring mark that had traumatized me since the brutal assault, but even that thought didn’t ease my insecurities.

Pam, a friend and neighbor drove me to the hospital. It was almost seven in the morning. I’d glanced back several times to see if she had really left. She’d been in a hurry to get to her job, and didn’t appear as cheerful as usual. Maybe that too contributed to my uneasy feelings. I wondered if I’d ever get over the emotional pain I’d carried around these past years. I was nervous when I made the first appointment with Doctor Harmon who was to operate. After my initial visit to his office, the surgical date was scheduled so quickly I never had a chance to become frightened.

The automatic door closed with a jolt as I neared the nurses’ station. It reminded me of old movies I’d watched where a criminal was to be locked up for life when I heard the loud clanking of the heavy door closing behind me.

The nurses were expecting me. The paperwork had been completed a few days earlier. A young lady walked toward me, introducing herself as Diane and guided me to a small room just a few doors down the long corridor. We’ll get started right away, she said as she bustled around getting ready to take my vitals.

I quickly undressed, put on the hideous white gown that was provided, and sat with my bare legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Diane appeared alarmed at the stupid question I asked, Can I change my mind now or is it too late? I knew I really didn’t mean that, but my fear of surgery had not diminished.

Two other nurses entered the room pausing briefly after hearing my fearful remark. One carried a hypodermic needle. Okay, let’s get it over with, I said, trying desperately to conceal my inner feelings. After a quick jab of the needle, all three ladies scurried out of the room. Left alone in the quietness of the bleak and sterile room, in a short time I started to relax.

The warm blanket that was provided felt good. I stared out the window at the rain that was falling much harder now than before. It was late July—one would expect it to be a warm sunny day during that month. The hospital grounds were lovely. Colorful flowers of all kinds were planted in the various attractive pots that were carefully and strategically placed in the patio area.

As I lay all cuddled up many earlier experiences of my life began to emerge, things I had not thought of in years. In my relaxed state, I began remembering the fear that I felt when my tonsils were removed, perhaps at the age of five or six. It seemed I could remember the same frightening sensations that I’d had years before.

I was born in San Francisco. My childhood had not always been enjoyable. Mother worked as a secretary for the United States government and was sent out of the country during World War II. I was so young but survived care for several years in various foster homes. I remember living in a beautiful old historic mansion near the Saint Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco. Early on I was taught the social graces of the era, and can remember using gold silverware at an elaborate birthday party given in my honor. My mother gave strict instructions that I was to be taught proper manners and etiquette. I recalled feeling ashamed of living in that old lovely home. My friends from the Our Lady of Victory, a Catholic school that I attended believed I was rich. I only wanted to be like the others and have a father and mother to live with everyday.

I never knew my real father, but years later I learned who he was and after reading his family’s background in the Who’s—Who book, I feared of being shunned. His family was very rich. I never pursued the dream to find my natural father and it still haunts me.

Mother returned to the states and married when I was ten. My stepfather’s name was Olay Wells whom I dearly loved from the moment I met him, especially when I learned he was a real cowboy. Everyone called him Red. He had served in the Army during World War II, and almost immediately I called him Dad.

Mother was rather a shy lady and usually quiet. Friends and family could never figure out how she could fall for a cowboy as she had never been around horses or ever lived near or on a ranch. She had always worked in offices in large cities, and this was certainly a different kind of world. She really loved Dad and within a short time learned to ride horses, and truly enjoyed the country lifestyle. We were a happy family. We would both ride along with my Dad over the 1,400-acre ranch constantly checking on the collection of various animals that we cared for.

My prayers were answered by their marriage. The huge ranch was almost on the top of Fremont Peak overlooking the lovely Salinas Valley in Monterey County. Dad had taken a job as foreman of a local doctor’s several ranches. He was a handsome man and reminded me of movie stars like Roy Rogers and Gene Autry the cowboys I would sometimes dream about meeting.

Within a month after our move Dad gave me a quarter horse and trained me so well that later on I became a well-known young competitive performer in the rodeo and later competed in the surrounding fair circuits. Dad taught me how to rope cattle, jump and race thoroughbreds. Mother always commented that Dad and I were alike. I really felt loved and secure. I assumed we were poor and felt kids who lived in the country knew there was not a lot of money for frills, but looking back I can see how wealthy we really were.

After the first summer on the ranch, I started high school in Salinas, California, and a year or so later, Dad purchased his own ranch in the San Joaquin Valley and I was transferred to a school in a town called Oakdale. I continued to improve my competitive riding skills, becoming more proficient in handling horses.

Once a man, who represented a large circus, approached Dad after spotting my performance at the local rodeo. He asked Dad if I could be allowed to travel with the circus during the summer months with the quarter horse I’d personally trained. Dad was not at all impressed by the offer even though it meant I could make some money for school. No matter how much they offered it was made clear that no daughter of his would be allowed to join any part of a circus.

On Saturday nights, Dad would take me to the Grange Hall a few miles from our home where he called square dances. We’d have the first dance, and then I was free to join my school chums.

At the age of sixteen, I graduated from high school and married a few months later. George and I had a son and named him Gary. He was a nice Italian man about ten years older than me. His family owned a construction business. The marriage didn’t last, but only because I was just too young. Our friendship grew later on and when he passed away from cancer at a very early age, I was at his bedside during his heartbreaking illness.

In 1952, I moved back to Salinas, rented a small duplex and went to work in an office at the Sears Roebuck & Company store. A few years later, I was employed at a real estate broker business as a secretary. My parents moved to Salinas after selling their ranch, wanting to be closer to their grandchild and me.

In 1957, I remarried. Hank and I had two sons, Jim and Tom. Hank owned a distributorship for a milk company and worked hard in his business. Later he moved to another nearby town. He had a terrific personality and everyone liked him. We divorced a few years’ later, but always remained friends. Both of us continued as responsible and concerned parents for our sons. On holidays we would all have dinner together until his sudden death due to a heart condition. It was a terrible shock to my boys, because they always loved him.

Dad passed away in 1966, due to a heart attack. We all missed him terribly.

My thoughts were interrupted as Diane entered my room, gave me another shot, and within a few minutes began pushing my bed toward the operating room. The doctor was standing close to me with a mask covering his kind face. Hi, Joan, let’s take a look, as he carefully studied my face, tilting my head back and forth preparing for his well-planned technique that was soon to begin.

If you just relax, we’ll get it over within no time at all, one nurse said while giving me another injection. She looked at me with eyes of dedicated compassion and understanding regarding what women go through from time-to-time. Being awake during the surgery was the scary part but, thankfully, the last shot had begun to take effect and I was more comfortable and not as worried as before.

The doctor used a marker on my face where he was about to make incisions. Have you been working on your manuscript lately? he asked.

No but I promise I’ll get back to it. I had told Dr. Harmon earlier while in his office that I had started to write a book. His questioning my story brought my thoughts to the present time and I became fully aware of why I was to have this surgical procedure. Not wanting to talk anymore, my mind wandered, and I was not at all interested in knowing what they were about to do with those shining tools placed on the stainless steel tray.

What inner drive, I wondered, made me take the path in life that I’d chosen? I’d listened to my heart and not my head. Would I ever find the reason for my obsessive hunger or need that caused the heartbreak I’d endured? We always have choices, and why in the hell did I choose the difficult road that ended with me in the hospital on this particular day? If nothing else, I had certainly learned valuable lessons.

I became aware enough to hear the nurse and doctor’s conversation. I’d barely catch a glimpse of the sterile instruments that they were constantly picking up and setting down, wishing only that they’d hurry up. I remember asking several times, Are you almost finished? Each time my groans were uttered, I got another shot to ease the discomfort.

I had no idea how much time had passed when the doctor asked, Now that wasn’t so bad was it?

Nah, not that bad. I replied.

The nurses rolled me onto a gurney, and the doctor pushed me down the hall toward my room announcing, I’ll be back later. For the next few hours he constantly checked on me, each time assuring me that everything went well. I liked and trusted my doctor from our first meeting. He’d explained the procedure in his office so no questions needed answering. My broken nose and ribs had healed; my face had been repaired that day. I now believed I could get on with my life.

Past events still revolved in my head and I was glad that the surgery was over, and I was fully relaxed in a wonderful and peaceful state.

Rain was falling as I glanced outside of the window thinking that the warm hospital bed was as good as any place to be on a day like this. In the stillness, I began to desperately focus on attempting to understand how the whole ordeal began; seriously thinking there had to be a reason for my plight, there had to be

CHAPTER II

In June of 1959, little did I know that my life was to completely change, and within a few years thousands of others were to go into a different direction too, as history was in the making in the Salinas Valley. Not only in our town but other areas were also to become seriously affected by what our county was soon to encounter.

How well I recall that first day when I entered the dilapidated General Teamsters’ Union hall in Salinas. I remember clearly that my heart thumped as I neared the old faded green stucco building. A girlfriend told me of a job that was opening at the union. I’d never been in a union hall before. When I worked for the real estate broker I quit only when it was time to give birth to one of my sons.

My first impulse as I opened the door was to turn around and run home. Interviews had always frightened me but hearing that the pay offered at the union was higher than other positions listed in the newspaper, I felt I at least had to try. Where I’d worked before was located downtown in a more modern environment. This office setting looked run down, and it was far away from various places that my girlfriends and I would visit during our lunch hour. I arrived with no understanding of any organized labor functions, nor had I ever been interested in learning about that type of business. The responsibility of supporting my three sons became the main reason for my seeking employment there.

I’d dressed carefully for the dreaded interview. Get on with it, I thought, as I walked up the couple of stairs that led to the union hall. I could at least talk to the manager, even though I was still having serious doubts about working in that place. Like most young gals, I was searching for fun and perhaps would someday date again, and that drab place didn’t appear to house the kind of man I wanted to meet.

As I walked into the dilapidated building, I couldn’t help but notice the water-stained, black and white old pictures that hung on the bleak walls. Each frame was haphazardly hung in an unusual position. The pictures showed groups of construction workers taken around the early 20’s or 30’s. A large faded American flag was leaning on the podium in the front of the hall and a few hundred folded chairs were neatly stacked around the sides of the large meeting area. Dirty windows were covered with dreary shades that prevented any sunlight to creep into the large room.

On one side of the sparsely painted wall was a colored photo of James R. Hoffa, President of the International Teamsters Union in Washington, D.C. I recognized his familiar face from the news accounts on television and pictures that I had seen from time-to-time, in the newspapers. I hadn’t questioned or cared why he was always in the news hearing only that he was a gangster.

I could see several men as I opened the door sitting in two small offices in the back of the empty hall.

Hey you, you son of a bitch, I’m not about to go out there! one hollered into the phone to a caller on the other end of the line.

Keep it down! another man called out from another office as he spotted me walking toward the counter situated near a small area located in the front portion of the hall. A dark-haired lady sat at an old cluttered oak desk busily typing on a relic of a machine; glancing up only after I spoke of my scheduled appointment. With her hand she directed me to a small, dimly lit portion of the reception area.

Immediately a man came out of that office, not waiting for her call on the intercom telling of my presence. He walked toward me saying, I’m Bud Kenyon, just call me Bud. Come on in here, while pointing to a chair in front of his cluttered desk. He was a short man, in his late fifties and I couldn’t help but notice his well-groomed mustache. His casual red and black plaid shirt gave the place the appearance of a relaxed atmosphere. His limp was noticeable; I heard later that he’d lost a leg early in his life while working on the railroads.

He explained the requirements of the secretarial position while constantly maintaining a soft business-like tone. I noticed his heavy eyebrows nearly connected across the bridge of his nose as he peered through horn-rimmed glasses at the application I’d handed him. It was a very brief interview, and almost immediately I felt assured within a short time the job was mine if I was still interested. His final question to me was, When can you start?

Right away, I answered. It was unbelievable how my initial negative thoughts about the place had drastically changed since my arrival.

We’ll call you in a day or so, he said smiling as I got up from the chair, walked toward the door, and confidently headed outside to where my car was parked. I returned to my home to wait for further instructions and find out when I was to start my new job.

Disappointed after not being called after a week passed, I was certain someone else had been hired.

Then about seven o’clock one morning, Fran who introduced herself as the union’s office manager, phoned and asked, Joan can you be here by eight? She didn’t sound too friendly, and I was annoyed at the early hour question. The thought of staying in my comfortable bed seemed important but after a second or two, I remembered the new refrigerator I’d just purchased, and the monthly payments revealed themselves to my not yet awakened state of mind. I’ll call you right back, I said.

I had a baby sitter lined up, and immediately called Ernestine. She would sit for the younger boys and Gary would walk to his school. The kids had known her and immediately showed excitement that she was coming over to care for them. Ernestine was happy to help and she needed a job too.

I called Fran back and said, I’ll be there as soon as I can, give me an hour, thinking to myself that I’d not work there very long, just because of her tone of voice. Seriously believing in a month or so, I’d begin a job search for something much more glamorous and sophisticated. I hurriedly dressed, was in the car and arrived at the union in record time.

This was the beginning of an eventful era that lasted fifteen years. On that first day I joined the closely-knit family of the local Teamsters’ employees.

By lunchtime that same day, Fran and I began a close friendship that lasted for over 30 years. She was a special person, tall, perhaps in her late 40’s, dark-haired and slim. I was soon to learn that she knew more about organized labor than most. She had been working for the local since the 1940’s. Fran was very supportive and always teaching in me knowledge regarding the union’s policies and procedures. With extreme patience and understanding, she taught me so much.

Each of the twelve employees there had completely different personalities, and we had a lot of fun during those years. We’d have disagreements, but we always stuck together if outsiders made any negative remarks about any one of us. It was a happy family environment.

Initially I was hired as a secretary, mainly to help the more than 10,000 members with medical benefits that were just beginning to become important issues in contract negotiations. Eagerly I accepted the responsibility and later earned the title of insurance and pension consultant. I learned the rules of insurance plans and worked closely with Teamsters’ members answering their insurance benefit questions and resolving their individual problems. At times I’d be calling on doctors regarding members billings, speaking to lawyers determining employees’ life and pension benefits. I was assigned to assist members when a death occurred within their families. I loved my work and felt that we all were helping mankind by aiding those less fortunate.

Often I received an assortment of appreciated gifts from members, such as flowers they brought from their yard, sometimes candy or often homegrown vegetables; people just showing appreciation of efforts made on their behalf. We all tried to make a difference and help the members in their personal situations.

Once the union sent me to the City of Hope in Duarte, California to assist a family who’s son was afflicted with cancer. The young boy lost his arm and eventually died from the horrible disease. His mother and father were good friends of mine and that was such a tragic loss of life. Later I was appointed to help the City of Hope in obtaining donations from companies that had contracts with the union. We collected clothing, produce and all types of merchandise. Once Tom Merrill a Salinas farmer donated a live white-faced steer to the hospital’s fund for sale, and I had the privilege with my Dad to drive that beautiful animal to San Francisco to the Mayor’s office. I took a picture that showed Dad giving the steer away with the Mayor’s wife standing by. Was that an exciting day!

Many times I hated to go on vacations, believing I would miss something that was going on within our group. It was that kind of unique dynamic atmosphere there.

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