Written by: Gabby Disalvo

Gratitude is a powerful feeling. It can be based on how you are treated, how you perceive the world, and how you see yourself. Gratitude can come from a present time, past event, and “anticipatory gratitude” of the future. While visiting the Willowbrook Archives, I experienced all three tenses in just 48 hours. On June 17^th, Professor Brueggemann and I visited the College of Staten Island. I was amazed that a place which felt so familiar, could also feel foreign at the same time.  

I was born and raised in Staten Island. I have attended numerous events at CSI and have often heard about the offerings and deep history that the school holds. I have also heard many (vague) stories about the Willowbrook institution. I knew it existed, was a bad thing, and was shut down when the “badness” was revealed. I describe my knowledge this way because I now know how bare minimum my understanding was.  

Professor Brueggemann and I had the opportunity to get a “walkthrough” of part of the Willowbrook Mile from historians, Dr. Catherine Lavender and Dr. Nora Santiago, the Willowbrook Legacy Project co-directors. They walked (and rolled) us to some of the markers on the trail and shared their experiences of creating the WM and any history that they felt was notable to share. They told of the horror stories they have heard, especially from a staff member from Willowbrook. They described the documents they’ve read, images they’ve seen, and the hidden details that Staten Island’s “rich” history has buried deep in the archives.  

While passing a main area on CSI’s campus, I was quickly brought back to a memory of the theatre center where I used to have recitals for my dancing school as a child. This building now had a WM marker in front of it. I was struck with such surprise that I had been surrounded by this history then, but I had no idea. Making this connection was my first major moment of past gratitude during our visit.  

The following day Professor B and I attended a rally to advocate for the government to keep their “hands off Medicaid”. We gathered in front of a building which stores the Willowbrook Archives. This is also the location of the first WM marker, which is angled to face the area of the building where these archives are. I was surrounded by 200+ people, all with varying connections to disability. For example, some were individuals with intellectual disabilities that came with friends and family, some were members of group homes, some were family members of residents of Willowbrook, some were Medicaid users (like me), and some were advocates because of their professions related to disability (also like myself). Although we were attending the rally for different reasons, we were all there to fight for our lifelines, our Medicaid benefits. Being surrounded by this passionate energy initiated my present gratitude for the strength of this community during this trying time.  

Gabby at a rally, advocating to protect Medicaid.

After the rally, Professor B and I (and my mom) went into the library and up to the second floor to the Archives and Special Collections area. Initially, I thought the experience would be like visiting the CSL Archives. The air was chilly and felt aged, like a childhood bedroom that has been untouched for many years. I had a lot of built-up tension from the anticipation of sifting through this new material, the awkwardness of having my mom join us on this visit, and the struggle of trying to separate my mind from the concluding rally just outside. As we settled down at the table and opened the first set of documents, I felt my mind dive headfirst into the material. I began painting a story in my mind of what Willowbrook was like. 

Me trying to immerse myself in the reading and imagine life at Willowbrook. 

As a disabled individual, I have had to learn to advocate for my abilities, my rights, and my independence. However, despite the progress in our world, there are many instances where the systems in place or people of power assume that I am not capable of this on my own. Although my experiences are not nearly as extreme as how individuals were treated at Willowbrook for far too long disabled people have been excluded from discussions and decisions about their lives. Reading the ways that the residents were described and seeing the compilations of files highlighted the accessibility that we have today. 

The more I read, the more I was reminded of the immense gratitude I have for my lifestyle. For instance, after our visit with the Willowbrook Archives, I took an accessible Uber to lunch at an accessible restaurant, then used the accessible bathroom there, and finally, took an accessible city bus home. I am endlessly grateful for the level of accessibility in our modern world. I do not mean access in just the “structural” sense, but also in the way that society treats disabled people, especially the United States. Although disabled people still lack many equal rights, the world has gradually become more inclusive and sees that we (disabled people) are to be treated with the same value, dignity, and respect as any other person. 

Written By: Gabby Disalvo

I had a busy few days leading up to my visit to the Archives, so my mental battery was draining lower than my power wheelchair’s battery. I had just finished my junior year, travelled home independently for a disability convention, returned to UConn with my mom, packed away my dorm for the summer, and worked a double shift in my kitchen job the days prior. Entering the parking lot of the Connecticut State Library, I could tell this was going to be a deepened experience. The rusty gate creaked open while a piercing, ringing alarm sounded to alert of my entrance. I was greeted by Damon Munz, a Government Records Archivist, into a large conference room with rows of tables and a group of people reviewing
documents in the far corner. The air smelt aged from the stacks of boxes scattered through the space. It reminded me of an old newspaper that my mom has saved with a favorite recipe. The pages have curled on the edges and some of the ink has smudged away. Although visually it has faded, the quality of the recipe and the meaning it has for my family will always remain. The CSL environment had this same reminiscent feeling. When it came time to start sorting through our selected archival materials, I felt like a detective searching for clues. However, this detective was not prepared for the shocking discoveries she would make.

Throughout the archived materials, there were two common themes: (1) disabled people were spoken about, rather than to, and (2) disabled people were described like burdens to their families and those around them. The first theme reinforces the (false) idea that disabled people do not deserve the same rights as their nondisabled counterparts. The
Mansfield Training School – along with other institutions in that time – often describes disabled people like they are responsibilities and not people. This is especially seen with the second theme. Some of the archived materials, such as a weekly newsletter from MTS, describes caring for a disabled person as exhausting. This example was sharing about a
respite program to relieve family members of their duties temporarily, so they can “recharge” to continue caring. The terminology in this example made it seem like a family should feel and say, “My [family member] is such a burden to my life, but if you give me a little break, I guess I can tolerate them.” These respite programs were seen as a positive thing because they were a way to keep the disabled individual in their home and with their family. However, this does not consider how dehumanizing and disrespectful this was to disabled people, and even to their families. Although these respite programs still exist today, (my family and I use it) they are run and organized in a much more dignified manner.
The purpose of them is to help the individual continue to work towards their life goals and to relieve a parent or guardian of these parental duties. Although the service being provided is similar, the approach and presentation of the program is completely diXerent.

During our time at CSL, we also had the opportunity to see the full collection of archived materials from MTS. We entered an oXice space that transitioned into a factorylike display of countless boxes of archives. Some boxes held medical documents, administrative materials, legal files, etc. When Damon led us to the MTS section, the archives looked aged. Many boxes were restricted; each filled with stories that are trapped like spirits waiting to be set free. Disabled people are already restricted by the inaccessibility and ableism that society creates for us, we cannot restrict these spirits’
stories too.

Written by: Hannah Dang

One of my favorite pastimes is cleaning. 

One of the first things I do after I wake up–and after doom-scrolling on Instagram and YouTube–is make the bed. I tug at the thin sheets and then the thick comforter till each edge aligns perfectly with every corner of the bed. Fluff one pillow, and then place it on top of the other. I pick up the stuffed animals that fell on the carpeted floor and neatly arrange them on my bed. 

I don’t–I can’t– leave it all behind until everything’s exactly how it should be, everything in order. 

I like soaking soap-sudded dishes in steaming water. I like to breathe in the heat of freshly cleaned laundry. I like the way the pool rumbles affectionately as I flip the switch to the filters on. I like to hear the way the kitchen counters squeak in delight as I scrub each surface down. 

Even as I write, the echo of people calling me a “neat freak” rings in my head, but it’s a skin I’ve grown into. It’s not my fault that there are very few things that annoy me more than someone leaving a used cup behind. The urge to clean, it lingers like an uncontrollable itch. 

It’s no surprise that I self-appointed as the “clean-up crew” for this project (I say this with great enthusiasm). At the same time, it’s quite fair to say that I’ve never cleaned anything as thoroughly as the files on the Mansfield Training School. 

It’s an experience I can’t describe lightly. Unlike cleaning my house, cleaning up the files is a different kind of cleaning to become accustomed to. As soon as I open the files, I can’t decide if I am working with a blank canvas or restoring what’s already there, what’s left. For hours on end, there’s cataloguing. There’s reorganizing. There’s renaming. There is the occasional chuckle as I stumble upon another undecipherable document, another blurry photo, or another expired link. 

And there’s the pang in my heart as I read another caging line.

I don’t really know what to feel when I read such stories, or if there’s something I’m supposed to feel. Most of what I read are administrative documents, detailing the superintendents’ policies, the finances, the publicity of the school’s rise and fall, but it felt impersonal to have access to it. I felt like I was intruding on someone’s history. 

This was someone’s else’s past, someone else’s pain, someone else’s memories that I’m piercing together.

These were people’s lives. Real, living people. I read about the way residents attempted to run away only to be caught and restrained for hours, even days. I read about their plans to euthanize the residents, wiping them out of the human race. I read about the names they were all called simply because of the way they looked or what they were born with, and it hurt every single time. 

Because I can’t help but feel fragile in such moments, I shut down the laptop, stretch, close my eyes, and rest in the quiet. Even if I know what I’m doing is for a greater good, for a purpose, I’m someone who needs to practice some self-loving in my work routine. 

People have more reasons than one to like cleaning, but I think one of the most important is the space it clears and provides, a time to create a new clean slate to grow and reflect in. Even something as omniscient as history understands that preserving time takes time. Unlike the bed I make every morning, I have to remember it’s okay to leave the files disorganized every once in a while, but I will always return to finish it. 

That’s the love in cleaning what’s left, and the love in restoring what’s lost.

Written by: Hannah Dang

Based on our visit to the Connecticut State Archives on May 6, 2025~

I was born into a line of oral storytellers. 

Ever since I was a small child and even now, my mother and her mother before her, loved to tell me stories, using their voices to transport me to universes beyond the walls of the dull town I grew up in. Other children learned about Santa Claus, who would bring presents to “good” children during Christmas Eve, and the Easter Bunny, who would hide chocolate eggs in people’s gardens to welcome the spring, but I went to sleep dreaming of faeries and dragons and kingdoms long fallen. 

For as long as I’ve known, a drought has plagued my hometown. And my mother and grandmother showered every inch of land with stories and life like the dragons of old, voices as bright and as deafening as rain and thunder. 

My younger sisters and I inherited their storytelling. Our stories were different, our voices softer than our mother and grandmother, resembling spring rain. At the same time, our stories were simply variations of what we knew and what we experienced. Most of our stories are told to make people laugh, and others cause people to shed tears. 

I’m less of an oral storyteller than a writer now. I’m sitting across from my sister at her desk, inspiration ready to dance through my fingers. Laptop on the verge of dying, crumpled sticky notes thrown on the floor, pens leaking ink, body winded, breath heavy, my shoulders feel lighter, knowing I have the whole day dedicated to writing to look forward to. 

Pages blank, there were many more stories lying in wait. The muscles in my hands release every bit of tension, stretching every finger in preparation to capture the clap of thunder and strike of lightning sparking in my brain, setting off a fire in my soul. 

The story I’m about to write isn’t a story to read during the rain. 

The fire in me is still burning. 

From the moment Professor Brenda sent her email, asking Gabby and I to spend a day with her at the archives to have a hands-on experience with the artifacts, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’ve played the role of a “historian” on my own time, watching YouTube shorts on timeless paintings or becoming obsessed with another Broadway musical and making it my new personality. Going to the archives of an actual historical site is a different story entirely. 

I wasn’t the first, and I probably wouldn’t be the last person to have never heard of the Mansfield Training School until I became a student at UConn. For the past three years, I’ve only heard of the institution briefly through word-of-mouth and photos while working for the Disability & Access Collective and through Fred’s Story, a documentary I helped caption. From the little information I knew, I knew the visit to the archives would be a hard pill to swallow considering the sensitive nature of the history behind the institution’s programs for the people inducted. 

Even the trip to get there was a funny story in it of itself. I had walked twenty-five minutes to the bus stop outside Whitney’s Dining Hall only to be told I needed to pay $5 in cash to pay the bus fare, which I didn’t have as I believed the bus system was free for UConn students. I was about to make my way off the bus when the girl behind me offered to pay for my bus fare only for her to also not have $5 bills. 

In mere minutes, we were kicked off the bus. There, the bus driver left us stranded, two girls in the pouring rain. I couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it. There was a certain irony in heading to the Archives to study disability history only to be denied ”access” by the bus system. 

The rain didn’t deter the fire running through my veins. 

I thanked the other girl for attempting to help me, and I regret not asking her for her name or contact information. In the end, I will never forget her kindness. If the universe allows us to meet again one day, I would like to be friends.Thanks to Ashten and Persephone, I was able to make it to the Archives with everyone else.  

As soon as the door was opened for us, I inhaled the scent of fresh paint, stale air, and old books, and was welcomed with warm greetings and smiles. In seconds flat, my bad morning was forgotten in favor of the memory of seeing Brenda again and meeting Gabby for the first time. One of my favorite parts was receiving my very own ID card from Damon Munz, the Government Records Archivist, to access the Archives again (I keep it safe and flaunt-able in the outer pocket of my wallet). 

Since Brenda also asked Gabby and I to pick some boxes to look at, I remember asking to look at the files on the “items discarded” by the institution, a booklet on surviving an atomic attack, and I was curious to see what would be included in the box of scrapbooks. Among chocolate chip muffins, sweet bananas, and toasted bagels, the four of us combed through the boxes we requested. In the afternoon hours we spent excavating, there were stories waiting to be found and even more waiting to be shared. 

While the folders I picked didn’t have as many files as others, I was as drawn to the way the sterile texts and scratchy penmanship, the blank space, and the thin pages told me everything I needed to know. Something I learned over the years is the way a blank page can tell a story greater than words ever can. Just like in a painting, there’s layers underneath that we don’t see at first glance until we take the time for a second look. Over the course of history, art has been painted over and writing has been deleted and rewritten to suit the story that needs to be told. 

Most importantly, all knowledge, all collections, all history, no matter how big or small, have a purpose in the grand scheme of things. 

As I reached for the box of scrapbooking materials, I was surprised to unbox a cluster of newspaper clippings. In emboldened black and white print, I memorized the words jumping out at my eyes, I burned the photographs to memory, and there was so much, too much. Something churned in my gut, and I recognized it as unbridled rage and broken sorrow. Flipping through the pages, I wanted to burn every headline I read and cradle the embers at the same time. 

Deep down, I remember that even if it’s easier to erase such history, we have to face it. 

Perhaps that is what the world needs more of, I’m pondering as I write. The more people are exposed to the secrets of Mansfield and the rest of disability history, the more people will be willing to channel blazes of kindness, empathy, and understanding. Mansfield Training School may be closed, but the story doesn’t end there for the disability community. 

There’s much to be done, and I’m grateful to be a part of this story.