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.