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.