Written By Madison Bigelow

Never in a million years did I think that I’d be given the opportunity to do archival research. Even prior to two years ago, I didn’t realize that there was “research” to be done in the humanities (I use scare quotes here because of course there’s research to be done everywhere, I was just personally chained to the assumption that research only happens inside a science lab). 

Throughout the series of archival visits we did during May-June 2023 together, my day always began the same: waking up at 6:30 am in my bed in New Jersey, hopping in the car by 7:30 am, and hoping that I’d make the 10:30 am meeting time the team had agreed upon in Hartford, CT. Other than the long drives I knew I had ahead of me, I had no further expectations for what it would be like to be working with some historical documents that, in reality, are the same age as my parents. 

While we were able to view so much material, collectively, over our five visits to the Connecticut State Libraries archival warehouse, there was even more in the archives that we weren’t able to touch. Partially, that was just an issue of time, but the CSL warehouse also houses a large volume of legally redacted documents that archivists just haven’t been able to review yet, and therefore, couldn’t be handed over to our research team. 

My biggest takeaway from working in the archives has been reflecting on how deeply emotional this process has been for me. Usually, I feel like the term “research” connotes feelings of sterility, scientific precision, and white lab coats. However, my personal experience has yielded so much more than solely the MTS’ collection of archival information. To hold someone else’s history in your hands is an indescribable feeling; it only becomes more visceral upon the realization that those same people were unable to voice their own stories, and those many stories tucked away in the CSL warehouse (and beyond) might fit together to shed just a bit of light on the largely forgotten legacy of the Mansfield Training School. It’s a feeling that I frequently remind myself as I reflect on that time I spent in the archives this summer, whether I’m working on a post for the memorial blog or just sitting at the dinner table. Even more so, it’s a feeling that renders me with a complete sense of awe and appreciation for the work that Jess, Brenda, and the rest of our research team has been able to accomplish in terms of piecing these histories together with a collective aim of empowering the experiences of those who’ve otherwise been disregarded by MTS’ most prevalent component of their heritage. 

Written By Lillian Stockford

Files and files worth of policy.

 As a genre of Mansfield Training School documents, policy is a broad one, encapsulating a huge variety of information. Grocery schedules are outlined in one policy next to instructions for how to deal with runaway residents in another. A policy for ordering and caring for new kitchen equipment is next to a policy template letter for informing a family about their loved one’s passing. It is a rollercoaster of a box in the Connecticut State Library archives. The mundanity of every day in the institution, the moments of fun and community, and the callous and cruel treatment the residents were subjected to–these are all nested in the many pages of policy in one CSL archives box. Each policy was signed by Mansfield Training School Superintendent Neil Dayton, who was superintendent from the 1940s to the late 50s. Whether or not he wrote each one, they all gained his stamp of approval. With so many policies, it is clear that Dayton had both a great deal of power and yet, ironically, almost no power at all. Each element of the institution was looked over by Dayton and regulated. There is a policy where Dayton asks that all news releases be approved by him before going to the press. This policy included both written and verbal information. It is clear that Dayton wanted to be involved at all levels and in all aspects of MTS. Such voluminous policies also speak, however, to the complex system that was Mansfield Training School. So many moving pieces. So many lives involved. To have everyone under your control was a nigh impossible task.

Runaways, (as they were called, a specific change away from the word escapees, a word that would cue others into the fact that there may have been something to escape from), were a popular topic of discussion by Dayton. One policy is about whether or not to call the police when a resident escapes and the procedure for notifying the police about a found resident. There is a line stating that “A patient who has earned community placement does not deserve a police record unless the circumstances are unusual,”. It can be gleaned that there was a hierarchy present. Those who could work and benefit the institution, such as those in the laundry or the cottages, were more “deserving” than those who couldn’t. Which then leads to unequal treatment like that seen in the policy above. 

The other policies concerning escapees are no less upsetting in their language and rules. One details that those who run away should be “deprived of all entertainments for a period of three months,” and also cut their hair short. A deprivation of freedom as punishment for fleeing their prison and a physical representation of their escape attempt. In that document, there is no mention of understanding what would lead someone to run away. Clearly, it was a big enough issue to warrant a policy. There is no help mentioned for the escapee to work through what happened to them. In fact, one policy even states that “It is unfortunate that a few boys and girls can make so much trouble and cause many others to be corrected who are not to be blamed, “, a line that clearly blames the escapee for being a “troublemaker”. There is no recognition of the system and institution that led them to flee. Instead, there is only a harsh punishment to strip them of any positives they may have had in their home and to remind them that they do not get to choose. There were even situations where these escapes were not being told to the parents of the escapee. So, Mansfield Training School authorities were not informing families of their child’s deep unhappiness. Or if they were, they were only telling them after the incident had ended. Overall, Dayton’s policy does not seek to address the structural problems that have led to an escape issue but instead seeks to exact further control of its residents, especially those who sought to free themselves from their cage. 

Policies covering gifts between residents and employees were another big part of the box, with multiple documents being written on the subject, and with each policy having multiple edits. A level of distance between the worker and the resident was expected at MTS. This distance was mentioned to be for two reasons. The first, and biggest reason, was to prevent favoritism. Even well-meaning relatives simply wishing to thank the caretakers of their family member may accidentally influence a staff member. Or worse off, they may intentionally give a gift to then have footing to ask for a favor down the line. This was the thought process attached to gift giving. Interestingly this portion of the policy evolved over the years. In the beginning, it mainly only concerned aides and other workers working directly with residents. Those “on the ground,” so to speak. However, an edit was made in the early 1950s to include administrative workers and to include not only relatives but also business partners. What connections may have occurred there are unclear for the particular policy document but it does imply that there may have been concerning business connections with MTS. 

The second reason given connects back to the previous discussion of escapees. This time it concerns the giving of money to residents rather than the receiving of it. Those who gave money to residents who then went on to escape could be considered as aiding that escape. This sort of warning would have achieved two goals. One, it would have prevented almost all gift-giving, as it would have scared aides who would worry they would accidentally be an accomplice. It would also give an avenue to have a scapegoat if a resident escaped. It wasn’t a structural issue, no, it was simply that a staff member gave them money. That is why they ran away. Pushing the blame on a specific person is easier than confronting the system.

Hundreds of policies dealing with hundreds of aspects of the institution. Dayton’s era of detailed policy tells us both so much and so little. His policy-making answers questions while at the same time posing so many more. Behind each policy and rule is usually a reason, a story, and sometimes even a tragedy. These “reasons behind” the policy start to peek through when looking through enough policies, such as the tragic death of a resident who was given unauthorized medicine that led to his passing. The policies offer a glimpse into these sorts of tragic and preventable events, while also showing just the day-to-day happenings of Mansfield Training School. 

Written by Paula Mock

For me, the team’s visit to the remaining buildings of the Mansfield Training School was sobering. All of the papers that we’d been seeing in the archival library were now brought to life in front of us, making it much easier to visualize and put the pieces together in a physical space. I certainly underestimated how emotionally involved I would get when exploring the site, and how much weight the space seems to carry–you feel a heaviness in each room, especially knowing the long history that has happened here. I think that being together in person, seeing buildings we’d mostly only ever seen on maps, encouraged our collective curiosity and drove us to investigate deeper than we might have if we went individually. 

As Jess opens the door that leads to the un-renovated half of the former Longley School, we all crowd around, trying to peer into the vastly different space from the fairly-well-maintained transportation center. UConn occupies half of the building, using the space as a set of offices and labs in an area of campus that isn’t very frequently traveled. Walking down the hallway as a larger group earns us some odd looks from figures in lab coats, but no one approaches us with any questions or warnings, and we swing open the propped-open door. It’s dark, dusty, and honestly pretty intimidating; but, as there’s no signage warning us to stay out, Jess takes several steps forward into the space. I remember a distinct moment where the rest of us held back for a second, thinking, Are we really doing this?  

As we walk in and begin looking around, I see something that lingers with me long after we leave the site for the day. Tucked behind a binder in a rusting filing cabinet, a paper folder that holds a left-behind set of photos proudly states, “Memories Matter!”

In the pictures, two young people are smiling at the camera, posing in front of a (somewhat dated) wall, with one person’s arm thrown over the other’s shoulder. 

It feels a bit odd to encounter here, where everything is coated in a thin layer of dust and grit, and where every time you pick something up you inhale a number of particles of who-knows-what. 

Who are these people, and why were their photos left behind in the abandoned half of the former Longley School? Did they have any connection to the Mansfield Training School? Were they UConn students? What is their relation to each other? Where were the photos taken? And–the big question that has been eating at me ever since we left the school–why were these photos put in an otherwise empty drawer directly behind a binder full of (clearly quickly and rashly abandoned) plans to renovate the Longley Building?

From these questions, more questions arise–which has become a very familiar occurrence while working on this project. Each new thing we discover begins to bleed over into the last, making clearly defined categories extremely difficult and organizing all that we stumble upon nearly impossible.

In my mind, the irony of the phrase “Memories Matter” printed on this forgotten packet of pictures wholly sums up the history of MTS and how it’s been represented & remembered thus far. As with many histories of disability, MTS’s story has been largely ignored and smoothed over in order to lessen the social repercussions or blowback that might have erupted if the public was more aware. Training schools and other institutions like them, as prevalent as they were in the 20th century for “first-rate” treatment of developmental disabilities, have been glossed over in our history books, if mentioned at all. We as a collective have a tendency to conveniently leave out the less “pretty” parts of our histories; if we erase our mistakes, they can’t possibly be repeated, right?

Written by Lillian Stockford

I have toured archives before, as I had taken a course on the university archives. So I went in with some knowledge of how they functioned. As a history major who hopes to enter the field of archives, the “archives” portion of the work was one aspect of the project that drew me in immensely. It was incredibly exciting and impressive to experience the state archives and learn about how they work.

Getting the chance to go back into the stacks was absolutely fascinating as it gave me the chance to learn even more about the field that I love. Seeing the different storage types, such as laying a photo poster board flat in special cabinetry, was very intriguing. The photos especially were interesting as it was a different media type than we had been looking at previously. These boards were set in a specific manner by those at the Mansfield Training School. It was also just striking to think about the difference in the ways they were stored at the campus versus in the archives. In one they were left to disintegrate, likely in a basement. Some of the pictures were missing and in general, the boards had clearly seen some wear and tear. But here, at the state archives, they had been preserved so diligently in a climate-controlled space in a special holder. It was also interesting hearing how archivists go into sites to recover materials, as the fieldwork aspect of the job was not something I knew a great deal about. As someone who is interested in entering the archival field it opened my eyes to the many aspects of an archive. I knew of those who catalouged, preserved, built collections, talked with donors, but I hadn’t considered how they recovered documents that hadn’t been stored in a collection. It also made me consider some of the dangers archivists have to face when doing these recovery missions, like asbestos exposure.

It was also interesting hearing about the laws that affect archives and how that pertained to our project. Privacy laws and their far reach are not something I had previously looked into but they have played such a large role in this project. During this trip I heard about the archivists side, having to discuss with lawmakers how to both protect those mentioned in documents without having to over-restrict. I also saw its myself as a researcher as we had many boxes shut to us for privacy reasons. It was facet of research I hadn’t considered, and it was element of archival work that I knew of but hadn’t fully understood. 

It was also fun learning the little tips and tricks of archival research. For instance, putting the rulers in the boxes to save one’s place. These are all aspects of being a researcher that I have gotten the chance to learn hands-on.

Written by Jess Gallagher

October of 1967 marks a critical year in the alliance between Mansfield Training School (MTS) and the University of Connecticut (UConn). Dubbed as “A Salute to the University’s 50-year-old Partner,” President Homer Babbidge of the University of Connecticut gave an address at Mansfield’s 50^th Anniversary Dinner expressing  his gratitude for the University’s association with MTS. 

While Babbidge’s work with MTS spanned only five years at this time, in his tribute he mentions the legacy of the “many pioneering leaders who launched this School and nursed it through its formative years” (“Bulletin on Training for Research in the Field of MR”). These leaders include one of the institution’s first physicians, Dr. LaMoure; former superintendent, Neil Dayton; and present-day leaders such as Governor John Dempsey and Superintendent Francis Kelley—whom he affectionately calls “Fran.” 

Importantly ,Babbidge’s thoughts and praise for MTS greatly relied on the key connections between UConn’s research with residents from its Psychology, Education, Speech, Psychical Education, and Child Development departments/programs. With these UConn departments and research programs serving as the main catalyst for the relationship between the two institutions, Babbidge claims:

“If fact, they [the researchers] deserve accolades for their partnership they have developed between our two institutions—a partnership that may one day make this little community of Mansfield into one of the world’s greatest centers for the study and treatment—and yes, prayerfully, even for the prevention [of intellectual disabilities].” 

Babbidge continues, recalling societal attitudes surrounding the topic of intellectual and developmental disability just a few years prior to his speech as being “locked behind the doors of late-Victorian propriety when those few who cared had to work with..in the dank atmosphere of ignorance and among the cobwebs of rejections” (“Bulletin on Training for Research in the Field of MR”). What is the most interesting piece of rhetoric here is the insinuation that within the walls of MTS residents still weren’t confined. Yet it’s clear that restraint logs, reports of abuse regarding the distribution of psychotropic medicine, and newspaper articles detailing the physical abuse that went on at MTS during the time of this speech and the years that followed were realities. 

Babbidge’s choice of the words “community” and “partnership” from the quote above also prompts us to question how those within positions of power at MTS and outside of it viewed these ideals as a whole. 

For Babbidge and many researchers within the field of science, medicine, and psychology, community/partnership goes hand-in-hand with study/treatment. We can assume, based on the context of the time, that ‘attitudes’ toward disability that Babbidge picks up on, and lack of leadership from disabled people on services related to disability due to ableism and disablism that ‘community’ was not fully designed for the true benefit of the residents at MTS. Community and partnership, instead, relied on the mutual gain of researchers and the institutions themselves whether it was financially, academically, or socially. Becoming the “greatest center for study and treatment” through an MTS-UConn partnership would not only boost the elitism of UConn and its standing as a top-rank research institution for its scientific discoveries but attract the attention of other funders such as NIH for the research of faculty members. 

“Community” at MTS relied heavily on the act of othering—an act heavily reliant on the power dynamics between administrators, staff members, researchers, and residents. In countless fields of research, people with disabilities are often seen as the “objects” of study by researchers. MTS residents would be dehumanized simply through their position in the eyes of researchers and some staffers. 

Babbidge’s critique of the social attitudes of the time doesn’t stop there. Toward the end of his address to the many parents, scholars, administrators, and audience at this anniversary dinner—Babbidge paints an image of what life was like prior to the work of MTS-UConn and a resurgence of new “progressive” discussions surrounding disability. 

“The deaf, the blind, the mentally ill, all suffered at the hands of a society that would rather lock up its problems in an institution than do something about them. And somehow we managed to break out of the darkness. Brave parents, long tortured by the ignorant slings and hostile arrows of society, brought their afflicted children—almost literally—out into the daylight. By the single simple act of acknowledging [disability] as a problem they “opened up the doors and let the sunshine in.”

This is a very triumphant narrative from Babbidge, but his language is especially interesting. Here, he moves to saying “we” within his speech, saying “we managed to break out of the darkness.” But who is this “we?” 

In the next lines following this quoted material he’s specifically talking about the parents of residents from MTS and the wider collective of parents of disabled children and adults, not disabled people themselves—but this phrase becomes complicated when we realize Babbidge’s own experiences with disability. In a Hartford Courant article, “Babbidge Dies; Former UConn President Was Author, Collector,” William Cockerham writes, “Babbidge also had a handicap. When he was a child, he was looking out of a bedroom window at some older children playing ball when the ball came through the glass, destroying the vision in his left eye.” How does Babbidge’s relationship to disability work with his status as University President? And most especially, in his connection to the Mansfield Training School during these years – where some residents were also identified as “blind” along with “mentally defective.”  

There have yet to be any specific narratives from Babbidge himself discussing his relationship to disability, but historically, Babbidge was a key figure in Deaf history and “The Babbidge Report” to Congress on the “dismal failure” of oralism. In an article from Gallaudet Press, the findings of the Babbidge report “coupled with the Vocational Education Act Amendments of vocational rehabilitation funding of postsecondary deaf and hard of hearing students during the 1960s, Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 (equal access to communication, interpreter training), PL 94-142 (Education for All Handicapped Children Act of 1975), and now the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act of 1990 (IDEA) all contributed to the expanded changes in educational options for deaf and hard of hearing youngsters of public school age.” 

With such a large role in both Deaf history and in the history at MTS—Babbidge’s position as being both frustrated and angered by society’s current treatment of people with disabilities makes sense. For him, and many other parents at MTS, the institution itself was viewed as “progressive,” yet, still continued to use deficit-based language and curative models when addressing disability, in practice, conversations, public relations, etc.  

While parent advocacy played an important role in advocacy, the image offered by Babbidge of these parents being tortured by society’s ideals contributes to language that we see as being harmful today that de-centers disabled people in advocacy movements. Babbidge continues this thread by saying:

“The dark days of ignorance and indifference are behind us; we have moved out of backward old fashioned institutionalization into the mainstream of community life. We have public support. We have enlightened vigorous leadership. We have a University nearby that wants to help. All systems are go.“

The cycle of institutionalization continues to persist through mass incarceration, “smaller” institutions, and many other ‘fixes’ that have been used to address institutionalization of the 20^th century. The days of ignorance have never truly been behind us; it’s still currently with us, and in front of us. As medical, social, policy, governmental, political, justice, and rights-based conversations surrounding disability continue to change, shift, grow, and develop–we are bound to see even earlier versions of advocacy and the language we grow as “outdated.” Understanding this history, in turn, can help better inform our present, and engage us with new models, ideas, and narratives for the future.

Written by Lillian Stockford

The taking away of one’s privacy is in many ways dehumanizing. It removes a person’s freedom and creates an environment where it is a struggle to truly be an individual. 

Looking at the Mansfield Training School dorms, a few descriptors come to mind. A minimum security prison. A place stripped bare of personalization. Sterile and unwelcoming. 

The image of the children’s dorms is especially damning. The beds are so close together that they almost form one continuous bunk. The lack of privacy and personal effects. One may argue that it was for resident safety. However safety does not have to mean inhumane. Not giving residents any space to have as their own does not make them safer, it simply takes away a basic human need.  It exposes the insidious belief that people with disabilities do not need or deserve privacy. And this belief further leads to a lack of respect and understanding.

Even in spaces meant to be “homey” there is a cold feeling. The decals of cartoon animals on the walls of the children’s dorm do not do much to brighten the space. If anything they make the space feel more empty as they make the deficits of the room more obvious. There was a “day room” to function as a lounge space for residents but it was also depressingly bare: empty tile floors, minimal furniture, and naked walls come together to make a less-than-comforting environment. It feels almost clinical, like a doctor’s office waiting room. The “day room,” much like the dorm room, lacks warmth and a feeling that this is a home. The institution may have handled medical matters but it also was a place of living for over a thousand people at its peak and it is clear that making the institution a comfortable home was not valued by the administration.

It is also interesting considering the largeness of the superintendent’s home. It has pillars, a feature that tends to be associated with power and wealth, but the residents can’t have two feet of space between the beds? Can’t have stall doors in the bathroom? When placed side by side it is disturbing to see the differences. MTS was a home for its residents. Many didn’t have the option to go anywhere else if they found their lodgings less than satisfactory. For those who had entered the institution as young children or toddlers, MTS was the only home they had ever really known. For those unequipped by the system with the tools to leave, there were not many options available. For children, even less so, as some were wards of the state and given no choice concerning where they lived. Some residents had medical needs that stopped them from leaving, as the resources were not available outside the institution. They were living in a system that pushed them towards institutionalization and then failed to support them once they were admitted. A system that did not value choice and freedom. 

It speaks to a larger trend of not viewing residents as people with feelings and preferences. 

It also makes one wonder why it was necessary to have the beds so close together. Was it simply a lack of care? Or does it allude to a larger systemic issue of overcrowding? Not all of the dorms had this sort of layout, though the others were not objectively good, which I will come back to later. If a facility has to have this sort of layout in order to fit the number of people they need to then there is inherently a structural issue. This sort of design should not have been considered a norm but rather a failure. 

This is a picture of a dorm called the Merritt Dorm, from 1956 which is better than the children’s dorm, with at least wall structures present, but it is still not adequate.  Better than nothing is still not good. There is still a complete lack of privacy, just assuaged a bit by the cubicle-style walls. It still does not look like a home or even a dorm—still no privacy, a feeling of overcrowdedness, and blank walls. 

Even with improvements, the systemic issues within institutions still leak in. Even the newer, better option does not fix the issue, merely putting a bandaid on it. There is a lack of respect for residents, for their needs, for their wants, and for their space. Especially if you consider the length of time that people were living in the institution. It was generally not as short as a hospital stay. People were entering the institution as young children and then not leaving, living in these dorms for decades upon decades. It is also important to consider the accessibility of these dorm setups. The tight spaces would not have worked well for residents who use wheelchairs or other mobility devices. The dorms allude to a larger trend with the institution of not considering the comfort of residents. Of not giving them the freedoms they would otherwise have been afforded. They demonstrate the systemic failures of the institution and a lack of respect for the people who lived there. 

Hello! My name is Ashten 🙂 

I first heard about Mansfield Training School through other students. Mostly whisperings about “haunting.” I was already deeply interested in the history of deinstitutionalization and Disability Studies. I couldn’t get the thought of MTS out of my head. Especially as a UConn student, the erasure of Mansfield Training School’s history was hard to grapple with. I had been to the site and paid my respects, but I felt like a proper acknowledgement of the site was needed. 

That next semester, I was taking Brenda’s course on Disability in American Literature and Culture. During one of the classes, Jess and Brenda presented the work they had done on the Mansfield Training School Project. I was so overcome with appreciation that there were people out there working on a project like this. I knew that I had to try to learn all that I could about the project. Luckily, I was able to join an amazing team of researchers to continue the project. 

I feel an obligation to honor the residents of MTS and those impacted by its legacy. The history of institutionalization in this country is egregious. It is so ingrained in our society that one has to make a conscious effort to understand and dissect the role it has played for so long and the power structures that enable it, and continue to perpetuate carceral modalities of “care.” As a kid and teenager, I was institutionalized. I will never forget how much the pain that has caused me and how it continues to impact me today. As a result, I was unsure if I would have the opportunity to attend college. Now that the university I am attending is so closely tied with institutionalization, I cannot ignore it. I will never understand what it was like to be a resident at MTS, but I do understand the importance of helping the stories be told. I am so lucky that I get to work alongside such an amazing, thoughtful, and dedicated group of people on this project. I am hopeful for the education, conversations, and change that this project will bring. 

Hi, I’m Madison!

To be frank, I had no idea what disability studies was until I met Brenda. I knew people who were disabled, that people struggle with disability, and that there were probably some ways that the world could be more accommodating to human beings, but never realized how deep the concept of “disability” runs through everything we do, see, participate in, and so on. 

I began working with her (and Ashten, too!) when I became a moderator for the Disability & Access Collective Blog, aiming to elevate community voices and prompt discussions about accessibility on and off of the UConn campus. When I learned that Brenda was looking for students to join her and Jess’ project on MTS, I very quickly and eagerly began my application. Having begun this work surrounding access and disability on the UConn campus through the DAC blog, I became fascinated with how UConn might be tied to the greater legacies of institutionalization that shapes the current landscape and discourse today.  

I am so grateful to be working on this project with such an amazing group of people, and hope that this project will empower those who have their own stories about Mansfield to voice their experiences. While I feel incredibly lucky to have been given the opportunity to excavate Mansfield’s history and bring light to what has happened – both inside and outside the walls of the institution – I hope to see the work that we’re doing validate and elucidate the experiences of surviving residents of MTS and their families. 

Hello, my name is Ally 

My interest in disability studies began after I took Disability in American Literature during my junior year at UConn, where I first heard about Mansfield Training School. I originally approached both the class and the legacy of MTS through a sort of detached lens—  I was interested in learning more about disability, but disability wasn’t an experience I or the people around me were a part of. As I began to participate in discussions and read more about disability through the perspective of activists and authors like Riva Lehrer or Cece Bell, I realized how my own familial ties to disability had been swept under the rug and purposefully overlooked since I was a child. 

I’ve always believed in the power of storytelling to prevent erasure. Disability history, on both an institutional and personal level, continues to be buried by the passage of time. This burial is seen on a macro and micro scale with the lack of history taught in K-12 schools as well as the family stories of disability not being discussed at home. The only way we can prevent people and their experiences from being forgotten is to tell their story in full, the best way we can. Our research team has spent hours at the archives, pouring over documents left behind at the Mansfield Training School (MTS), but our job is just one piece of the complex puzzle. I hope the work our research team conducts will shed light on the wrongs done to residents at MTS as well as encourage survivors of institutional abuse to share their stories.  

As we round closer and closer to the day this project (or at least the idea for it) began just two years ago, I honestly still can’t believe this is just the beginning. To me, the years we spent working, researching, writing, and thinking just blurred together. Every moment leading to this blog was a learning experience—a time to sit back, listen, learn, and try to understand the history of MTS and how we can best engage with the residents who still live today. Community should always be at the center of any restorative justice project. And, there are always moments that stick out even in these very early moments. The moments that grab you by the shoulders and shake you awake: realizing how large of an impact UConn had on the lives of residents at MTS, discovering pages upon pages of documented charitable donations without seeing a single narrative from a resident themselves, and discovering just how many medical violations, malpractices, and insufficient documentation occurred at MTS.  In truth, I never knew what would spur out of this project or where we’d go from here. 

I can’t help but think, though, that despite the past year this is really just the beginning. 

On September 24^th, 2021, I scheduled my first appointment to view the Mansfield Training School files at the Dodd Center for Human Rights. Following my meeting with Brenda that served as a catalyst for this project surrounding what happened to Mansfield Training School a week prior, I went in with the mindset of if  I find anything about MTS then maybe we could see how UConn’s history with disability began to form into what we see today. 

Traditionally, higher education has always been an institution where millions of disabled students have felt discriminated against due to the lack of access, support, and acceptance of disability culture/identity in university spaces. I can personally attest to this feeling. I wanted to know, as a student, where UConn had been. At first, I wanted to see some semblance of the past, some bit of history I could see that would give me any inclination as to why so many of us faced bias and discrimination on-campus. 

What was UConn’s connection to disability historically? 

At first, I wasn’t too hopeful I’d find the answer. After combing through search after search on Google, Bing, Yahoo (you name the search engine, I tried it) I really couldn’t find much on UConn’s connection to the Mansfield Training School at all. It almost felt like any remains of the institution, prior to its closure, had been erased. It was simply a thing of the past. A memory. 

I was even less hopeful when I learned that the Mansfield Training School files at the Dodd Center only amounted to a few boxes (plus some scattered folders in other collections from the then-president Homer D. Babbidge). I still felt like there was more to the story that we can see online, which mainly consists of ghost hunters and urban explorers breaking into the site to see “ghosts.” After all, UConn was given all of the property of MTS after its closure, at which point it was renamed the “UConn Depot Campus.” So, I started digging through as many files as possible and amped up my online searches. 

If I could go back in time to talk to the very-very-new-to-research, freshman scholar version of myself (I’d classify myself as a ‘sophomore’ now…at least…maybe, not even?) I’d tell them that sometimes just one word—a name, an organization, a face—can change the entire course of your research. A single piece can change everything and uncover a vast amount of information that you could never have guessed would have ever existed. 

The reason I’m here is to not just learn more about MTS and UConn’s connection through the archives. I’m here because I hope to engage with stories from residents at MTS and learn more about their experiences there. I hope that through this project we can work to center the community and seek the sort of accountability they want to see from a government, university, and institution that was responsible for so much harm. Whether this accountability is through a memorial, reparations, preservation initiative, oral history documentation or film, writings, or any other avenue—I hope that this project can be a first step to creating the change they want to see in Connecticut. 

The largest gap across every archival collection that housed history related to MTS was the lack of perspectives from the residents. Those who lived there and spent nearly their entire lives within that campus. After checking nearly every file, folder, or box, not a single narrative came through that wasn’t under the control of administrators from the institution itself. This really made me focus on, and ask:  

How do power and privilege play a role in whose stories we see in archival documents and history as a whole?