The issue is often too emotional for a rational discussion, she laments. "It's very surprising to me how uninformed people are about circumcision — even men who have been circumcised. I don't like to use the word ignorant, but it's amazing how uninformed they are — and how willing they are to be uninformed."
In Miami, protesters rallied in September 2010 outside of South Miami Hospital to support "Baby Mario" after he was circumcised against his mother's wishes. Vera Delgado filed a lawsuit over the incident, with her attorney, Spencer Aronfeld, accusing the doctor of battery. The hospital admitted that a consent form was misread. The case was settled, but terms were not disclosed.
Deirdra Funcheon
Dr. Helen Salsbury says many doctors do not numb babies' skin before a circumcision. She, however, injects a local anesthetic called lidocaine.
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Aronfeld proposed a "Mario's Law" that would prevent hospitals from circumcising newborn boys unless medically necessary, thus creating a waiting period so parents would not feel pressure to circumcise. No politician would sponsor it.
Around the country, scores of patients have sued over botched circumcisions. The company that manufactured the Mogen clamp went out of business after the FDA received hundreds of complaints about it, and the company lost three multimillion-dollar lawsuits, including a $10.8 million judgment for a Florida boy who lost the head of his penis when it became trapped in the clamp. Mogens, however, are still available on eBay for less than $20.
Aronfeld suggests that the anticircumcision effort suffers from a perception that it's a fringe movement of hippies and weirdos. "They sort of need a national spokesperson," he says. So far, no celebrity has stepped up to be the anticircumcision poster boy or girl, although it has gained occasional national attention. Penn and Teller dedicated an episode of their Showtime series Bullshit to debunking circumcision myths. The lead singer of Blood, Sweat & Tears recorded a song about his botched circumcision. And Howard Stern frequently tells his radio listeners that he thinks the practice should be outlawed.
Even though Aronfeld is Jewish, he says he was swayed by the Baby Mario case. "There are a lot of compelling arguments to be made that circumcisions are not appropriate in this day and age. I'm open to that, and there is a lot of credibility to it."
On a Sunday afternoon in December, guests pass through two sets of heavy gates to reach the tony community of Williams Island, near Aventura. They park their Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs by a mailbox decorated with blue balloons. Inside the waterfront home, Michael Andron, dressed in a yarmulke and prayer shawl, prepares to perform a bris, also called a brit milah. He puts on surgical gloves and places an anesthetic spray on a table. He sets aside an empty chair, a nod to the prophet Elijah, who, because of his zeal in upholding the ritual of circumcision, is said to be present in angel form at every bris.
About 50 people stand in a living room, making chitchat and sipping drinks from the open bar. When he's ready, Andron leads a singing prayer in Hebrew. In a short processional, a baby boy, bundled in blankets and wearing a crocheted yarmulke, is carried into the room. He is passed to his seated grandfather and laid on a fluffy white pillow, to which he is then strapped with a soft leather belt. He sucks contentedly on his pacifier.
After a brief welcome, Andron gets down to business. He warns that the baby has many reasons to cry but says he'll be fine. "I'm worried about all of you." He instructs: "Talk quietly — and try to stay vertical." Guests oblige, and a hum of party chatter picks up. Some people turn their heads away. Some make nervous faces and grip their wineglasses tightly. At least three hold their iPads high in the air to film the action. Andron picks up his Mogen clamp and bends over the baby.
Andron's combination of religious gravitas and personal warmth makes him a highly in-demand mohel. He's also a karate master, an energy healer, and a theater director. "I've been called a Jewish renaissance man," he says. "The stuff I do is pretty odd."
Expectant families usually book him through his website. The bris must occur on the baby's eighth day, and due to the uncertainty of the birth date, Andron is almost always on call. Some weeks, he performs just a few procedures; other weeks, he'll do 20. "Considering how extreme this commandment is," he says, even barely observant Jews usually have a bris. Andron does not charge a fee; rather, families make a donation to him. He hates to talk about money but says that on average, he gets $500. Today, he's performed five of them, thus earning about $2,500. He never turns anyone away because of money.
Andron was raised Modern Orthodox in New York. Initially, his professional interests were in holistic healing, but while living in Philadelphia, he witnessed a bris by a talented mohel. "The surgery was elegant, fast, clean, professional, and artistic," he says. He apprenticed and learned to do it himself. There is no government licensing or regulation for mohels. Andron says he can do in a few seconds what it takes surgeons up to 20 minutes to do.
