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When Diana and myself searched for the residential facilities for Nina, it was with the expectation that we would find a permanent, loving home for her. A place with the trained people in the facilities to help her acquire ordinary life skills such as feeding and dressing herself. ...
Our next stop was Willowbrook State School for the Retarded on Staten Island, another institution in a bucolic setting. From their very comfortable and spacious houses atop small hills, the director and his senior staff had splendid views of lovely sweeping greenswards on several hundred acres of wooded lands.
They told us there was a two-year waiting list, but if we consented to admit Nina through the hepatitis program, she could be placed immediately. As it was explained to us, they were testing a new vaccine, and it was nearly totally effective, except for a few small glitches. They also told us that as 100 per cent of the residents got hepatitis, it would be advisable to get this vaccine anyway. What they didn't tell us was that the program was totally experimental, and that the residents at Willowbrook were the guinea pigs. Nor did they mention that the U.S. Army was funding the program.
Yes, parents and relatives did give consent, but as the ramifications of hepatitis and the hepatitis program were not explained fully - indeed, obfuscation was the order of the day - it was not "informed" consent. Of course, nobody would believe that the noble and honorable United States government would ever use innocents in a disease-inducing project. When I asked, much later, why monkeys were not used in the experiments, I was told that monkeys were very expensive. ...
Diana and myself were invited to join the Benevolent Society for Retarded Children, Willowbrook Division, a subgroup of the National Association for the Help of Retarded Children. Both of these groups were moribund and resistant to change. Their main function seemed to be having annual lunches and dinners to honor the self-satisfied directors and commissioners of the various institutions that were quietly and systematically destroying the residents of their hell-holes.
But we looked around carefully, and slowly the full savagery and horror of Willowbrook State School began to emerge. We were surreptitiously contacted by some folk who were working at this awful place, and they put us in contact with other parents who had not been brutalized by imposed guilt or fear of retaliation against their kids. Dr. Mike Wilkins and Elizabeth Lee, a social worker, began talking to the press, though forbidden to do so by the director, Dr. Jack Hammond, a dour sourpuss of a man.
Also leading the charge was Dr. Bill Bronston, a dynamic, intense man, so suffused with passion and compassion that there were days he was so emotionally charged he could hardly speak. Bronston was tenured and could not be dismissed except for cause, but Mike Wilkins and Elizabeth Lee were in a precarious position, as they were not tenured employees and were in danger of losing their jobs.
Ira Fisher, another social worker, took us on a tour of the back wards. When he opened the thick, heavy doors, I was assaulted by smells and sights and sounds that were so awful I didn't want to believe what was in front of me. A look at Diana told me she was stunned by the desperate savagery of this pitiliess place, littered with twisted and grotesque bodies, writhing and rocking on floors gleaming with the slime of every excretion a human body can produce. Strange, high-pitched howls and low groans rent the air interspersed with dervish-like leaping and jibbering beings. The hard, spare floors and walls reverberated with a deafening, dissonant symphony. Not only were some of the residents retarded, they were driven totally mad by the conditions of their so-called state school.
These "recreational" areas held as many as 80 residents, with perhaps three attendants to administer to their needs. High in the corners of these dank dungeons, there flickered the everpresent television, showing soap operas with sleek men agonizing over imaginary lost millions and perfect females weeping over imaginary lost loves. Amidst these insane horrors, with soap operas playing out above their heads, the attendants, no less battered by the conditions than their charges, tried to shuttle and cajole the residents to the lavatory, or to lunch or to dinner, which would last all of five minutes.
... Among the co-conspirators was one of the bravest people I've ever met, one Bernard Carabello, a 20-year-old man who had been a resident of Willowbrook for 16 years. Bernard was diagnosed as mentally retarded, and it was forcefully suggested to his mother that she institutionalize him, which she did, when he was four.
As he was considered retarded, the officials spoke openly in front of him, and he fed us information about what was going on inside the facilities. If it had been known he was funneling this intelligence to us, he would have been beaten and put into one of the isolation cells, or they might have designated him a 'biter,' and, as was done with those so designated, pulled all his teeth. Without the benefit of anesthetic.
Bernard would later go on to become a prominent activist in all areas connected with the handicapped. He earns a good salary and travels extensively hither and yon, giving talks and consulting wherever he is needed. (-- pgs. 127-139)
About the Willowbrook court decisions:
Quote:
From: "Library Archives" <archives>
To: "editor" <editor>
Sent: Monday, April 10, 2006 7:03 AM
Subject: Re: Malachy McCourt and Willowbrook
Dear L.M. Murray,
As far as I know, the consent judgments are not available online. In some cases, they are unavailable even on Lexis-Nexis. We have print copies of anything that we've listed in our guide, and they are available through some other libraries.
Catherine Carson, Assistant Archivist
Archives & Special Collections
College of Staten Island Library
Becoming pally with legendary disability advocates, Diana and Malachy McCourt:
Attached please find your invitation to my 75th Birthday Party and Fundraiser. Pulitzer prize winning author Frank McCourt will be opening the show. Music will be provided by David Amran and Mary Courtney. This should be a great evening. Please invite a friend.
If you cannot open the attached invitation, please visit www.symphonyspace.com and look for the September 20th listing of this event.
Malachy McCourt
Alas, we must decline:
Quote:
From: editor
To: FAMILY804@aol.com
Sent: Wednesday, September 06, 2006 3:39 PM
Subject: Re: Malachy McCourt's 75th Birthday and Fundraiser
Oh, you mad Irishman! Governor indeed.
I cannot think of anything I'd rather do than kick up my heels with the beloved McCourts of New York at Symphony Space, venue of some of the most memorable literary readings ever recorded. I know this because I have a bunch, which cost a bundle, and they will not let you purchase just one tape even when some villainous wag in a hospital pinches Jerry Stiller (the real one) reading The Anarchists' Convention, but never mind that.
I love all the brothers' books and have purchased all in their various forms, which also cost a bundle. Hied it once in a downpour over to the Chan Centre to hear Frank read from T'is a few years back. (Remember the Irish Times headline? T'isn't! What bounders!)
Unfortunately, I will have to deprive you of my charming company as crossing that border now with the Busher's banditos at the ready scares the bejabbers out of me. I will, however, mark the date on my calendar and play a Pogues CD over a pint in your honor. Quaere whether a pay per view podcast might not allow greater participation. Consider it.
In the meantime, Malachy and Diana continue to enjoy plenty of traffic at my Disability Heroes forum, where I have shamelessly scalped a large portion of of the book describing your good work on behalf of Willowbrook's foresaken inmates:
http://www.bcdisabilities.com/bcdisforum/viewtopic.php?p=285&sid=0d927b60c437dc06bf225c2fa65b25d2#285 . Those of us who are today bringing forward new cases of similar institutional abuse owe you a debt of gratitude, so thanks a tonne!
And a very, very happy 75th! Congratulations! If you guys are ever in Vancouver on the Left Coast of Canada, please look us up and we'll dine you like kings.
Symphony Space (Selected Shorts A Celebration of the Short Story, Vol. I)
Featuring Jerry Stiller reading The Anarchists' Convention by John Sayles
Audio Cassette
At least one in three of my generation at school died; because they all took commissions as soon as they could, most of them in the infantry and Royal Flying Corps. The average life expectancy of an infantry-subaltern on the Western Front was, at some stages of the war, only about three months; by which time he had been either wounded or killed. The proportions worked out at about four wounded to every one killed. Of these four, one got wounded seriously, and the remaining three more or less lightly. The three lightly-wounded returned to the front after a few weeks or months of absence, and again faced the same odds. Flying casualties were even higher. Since the war lasted for four and a half years, it is easy to see why most of the survivors, if not permanently disabled, got wounded several times. (-- p. 52)
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns
The enemy nearly slew ye
Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild
When my heart you so beguiled
Why did ye run from me and the child
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run
When you went for to carry a gun
Indeed your dancing days are done
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home
All from the island of Sulloon
So low in flesh, so high in bone
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg
Ye're an armless, boneless, chickenless egg
* Ye'll have to be put with a bowl out to beg
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again
But they never will take our sons again
No they never will take our sons again
Johnny I'm swearing to ye.
Got a buddy in Najaf, he’s playing it straight
Prays to the Lord Jesus Christ every night
Got a homey in Samarra goin’ up the wall
Every time he hear an Islamic prayer call
Me, I don’t care much for Jesus or Mohammed
They don’t stop bullets to the best of my knowledge
Later for the both of you, catch you in eternity
Hopefully, towards the end of this century
I didn’t want to come here, I didn’t get to choose,
I got the hup, two, three, four Downtown Baghdad Blues.
I wish I was back home rootin’ for the Padres
‘Stead of dodgin’ bullets from Mookie El Sadr
I wish I was back in the land of Giuliani
Instead of takin’ heat from Ayatollah Sistani
Don’t know what I’m doin,’ but one thing is clear
Twenty years old, I can kill but I can’t buy a beer
Keep your head down, don’t get your brain cells fried
You’ll be home by Christmas - dead or alive!
I wish I was back in the US of A
Instead dodgin’ rockets in Falluji-ay
There’s a lady with my tattoo on her so special
Dream of her and me out in the desert
She ridin’ round in her Daddy’s Ford Explorer
I’m kickin’ in doors, hey, I thought this war was over
Got sand in my nose, sand in my eyes
But the sand can’t cover up the sights of a
Sniper with my number, got his finger on the trigger
Hope my baby’s okay, still waitin’ for a letter
All I get are emails, so much unsaid
It’s hot here, baby, but it’s so cold inside my head.
Mission accomplished, yeah, up on deck
Got no armor for my Humvee, left facin’ this train wreck
Shia don’t like me, want Islamic Revolution
Sunni say civil war is part of the solution
Maybe someday there’ll be peace in Fallujah
McDonald’s on the boulevard, Cadillac cruisin’
I’m tryin’ hard to keep this whole thing straight
But will someone tell me what am I doin’ here in the first place?
He had extracted one of the small plastic devices, examined it, walked away and placed it on the ground halfway between Elena and the concrete structure. When he returned to Elena he was singing tunelessly snatches of the theme from Bonanza.
He had moved back, and motioned her to do the same.
Then he had aimed a remote at the plastic device and whistled.
When she saw the dog burst from the open door of the concrete structure she had closed her eyes. The explosion had occurred between We got a right to pick a little fight and Bo-nan-za. The silence that followed was broken only by the long diminishing shriek of the dog.
"Guaranteed sixty-foot diameter kill zone," the man who was on his way to Angola to Tulsa had said then.
Here was the second thing she already knew: this June 26 shipment was not the first such shipment her father had arranged. He had been arranging such shipments all through the spring and into the summer of 1984, a minimum of two and usually three or four a month, C-123s, Convair 440s, L-100s, whatever they sent up to be filled, rusty big bellies sitting on the back runways at Lauderdale-Hollywood and West Palm and Opa-Locka and MIA waiting to be loaded with AK-47s, M-16s, MAC-10s, C-4, whatever was on the street, whatever was out there, whatever Dick McMahon could still promote on the srength of his connections, his contacts, his fifty years of doing a little business in Miami and in Houston and in Las Vegas and in Phoenix and in the piney woods of Alabama and Georgia.
These had not been easy shipments to assemble.
He had put these shipments together on credit, on goodwill, on a shared drink here and a promise there and a tale told at the Miami Springs Holiday Inn at two in the morning, on the shared yearning among what he called "these fellows I know for a long time" for one last score.
He had called in all his markers.
He had put himself on the line, spread paper all over the Southeast, thrown the dice just this one last time, one last bet on the million-dollar payday.
The million-dollar payday that was due to come with the delivery of the June 26 shipment.
The million-dollar payday that was scheduled to occur on the runway in Costa Rica where the June 26 shipment had just been unloaded. (-- pgs. 104-5)
Europeana A Brief History of the Twentieth Century
Paperback
By Patrik Ourednik
Quote:
Psychoanalysis became widespread in Western Europe in the sixties and seventies and people entered therapy who were not ill but felt helpless and abandoned and wanted to know if they had any traumas. And when patients had got over their shyness and relaxed, they would tell the psychoanalyst about their childhood, and that was called displacement because eventually they would recollect something they had purged from their memory during childhood, because they did not realize that in mental life everything survived, and that although something might be purged from memory for a while, it survived somewhere, and so the patient would give the psychoanalyst verbal clues that the psychoanalyst could follow. Displacement was when some little boy or girl had an urge that was at odds with morality and so they banished the instinct to their subconscious, but when they grew up and became adults, they could have strange dreams for instance, which showed they had a trauma. And the Oedipus complex was when a little girl wanted to kill her mother in order to have sexual intercourse with her father, or a little boy wanted to kill his father in order to have sexual intercourse with his mother, but they knew very well it was not allowed. There were disputes among the specialists about the Oedipus complex, because some thought it was universal, while others thought it occurred only in certain cultures - in Vienna, etc. And in 1918 a congress was held in Budapest on psychoanalysis and its role in wartime, and most psychiatrists agreed that wartime neurosis had the same causes as peacetime neurosis. And various psychiatrists suggested treating neurosis with electric shock and they kept treating soldiers with electric shock until the soldiers declared they felt completely fit. But other psychiatrists did not agree with this and said that electric shock simply pushed traumas deeper into the unconscious but they did not actually cure them. And others said that soldiers faked traumas in order to spend the war in lunatic asylums and play cards with the other lunatics for money or cigarettes. (-- pgs. 51-52)
Yes, and unbelievably, the medical estatblishment is still using electro-shock therapy, this according to a BBC news report of March 12, 1999. Get this:
Quote:
Electric shock therapy 'not up to scratch'
Electric shock treatment for mental health disorders is often administered by poorly trained junior doctors, it has been claimed. A report into the use of Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT) found that the doctors are also often left unsupervised, and have to rely on out of date equipment. The report - commissioned by the Royal College of Psychiatrists (RCPsych) and highlighted by the BBC Two programme Trust Me, I'm A Doctor - also presents disturbing evidence that people are being prescribed the treatment inappropriately.
Only one third of the clinics in England and Wales were rated as good.
ECT involves delivering electric shocks to the brain. The electric current can provoke a fit or spasm, but also appears to have a beneficial impact on mental illnesses such as depression.
Written and directed by the same sick individual who gave us The Exorcist, this one feels almost like an apology one might take seriously. A bunch of 'Nam vet psychos are holed up somewhere in the Pacific Northwest in an authentic German castle we're told was donated for the war effort by the wealthy Biltmore family, who supposedly had the place reconstructed there. Our mission in the film is to find out whether Stacy Keach is the psychiatrist with the right stuff to save these lunatics or if he's really just one of them.
In this scene, we have a terrific rainstorm, a medic with no pants, a black guy in blackface and white gloves singing along with Al Jolson and five inmates who assume the position at a card table under a particularly affecting wall sconce of a gargoyle:
Quote:
Guy 1: OK, seven cards.
Guy 2: Anything wild?
Guy 3: Deuces, threes, fives, sevens, nines and Jacks.
Guy 1: You are a very sick man. (Cuts the cards repeatedly).
Guy 3: Are you finished?
Guy 1: Most people cut them only once.
Guy 3:Thirteen is my lucky number.
Guy 1: Jacks are better. Come on.
Guy 3: Kings or better!
Guy 1: (Calmly) No, Jacks or better.
Guy 3: I am dealing. I call it.
Guy 2: Did I not hear something about wild cards at the outset?
Guy 3: Yes.
Guy 2: Would you repeat that?
Guy 3: Deuces, threes, fives, sevens, nines and Jacks.
Guy 2: Would you like to add a one-eyed king?
Guy 1: Deal. Please.
Based on the novel:
Twinkle, Twinkle, Killer Kane
Paperback
By William Peter Blatty
Take notes with your eyes, he advises. War is clear and intricate.
Lev watched a shell fall
near a boy and girl
playing horse in the street.
Boy and girl hold their arms about one another and fall down together.
Gambling wildly that night at the officers' club, Lev loses
his ancestral home
whose central section,
with balconies and staircases,
has to be rebuilt on the property of its new owner
a few towns away.
Back from the war, Lev announces Emancipation to his serfs
who craftily
reject the plan.
The two remaining sections of his house,
now connected by empty space and a string of bushes,
have a raw feel.
Riding back at evening to his very quiet house, he smells spring in the lime trees, he is alone.
Strolling through the green fields on a summer day
Watching all the country girls working at the hay,
I really was delighted and he stole my heart awa'
When I saw him in the tartan of the gallant Forty Twa.
Oh I never will forget the day his regiment marched past
The pipes they played a lively tune but my heart was aghast,
He turned around and smiled farewell and then from far awa'
He waved to me the tartan of the gallant Forty Twa.
I stood there on the dockside as his ship pulled out to sea
And pray'd that my own bonnie lad would soon return to me
But many the pipe will sound no more and many the lad will fall
When fighting for the tartan of the gallant forty twa
Once again I heard the music of the pipers from afar
They tramped and tramped the weary men returning from the war
And as they nearer drew I brushed a woeful tear awa'
To see my bonnie laddie of the gallant Forty Twa.
Step lively, now, along with the boys!
The Laurel and Hardy Collection
DVD
Featuring comedy classic, Bonnie Scotland
The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem Recorded Live in Ireland!
Audio CD
Quote:
The Maid of Fife-E-O (Traditional)
There once was a troop of Irish dragoons
Come marching down through Fife-e-O
And the captain fell in love with a very bonny lass
And her name it was called pretty Peggy-O
There's many a bonny lass in the town of Ackerglass
There's many a bonny lassie in the cheerie-O
There's many a bonny Jean in the streets of Aberdeen
But the flower of them all is in Fife-e-O
"Come down the stairs, pretty Peggy, my dear
Come down the stairs, pretty Peggy-O
Oh, come down the stairs, comb back your yellow hair
Bid a long farewell to your mammy-O
The colonel he cried: "Mount, mount, boys, mount"
The captain he cried: "Tarry-O
Oh, tarry for a while, for another day or twa
Til I see if this bonny lass will marry-O"
Long 'ere we came to the town of Ackerglass
We had our captain to carry-O
And long 'ere we reached the streets of Aberdeen
We had our captain to bury-O
Green grow the birks on bonny Ethen-side
And low lie the lowlands of Fife-e-O
Well, the captain's name was Ned, and he died for a maid
He died for the chambermaid of Fife-e-O
Yes, but more typically:
At Home with the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and Their Families
Audio CD
Quote:
As I Roved Out Traditional
As I roved out on a May morning
On a May morning right early
I met my love upon the way
Oh, Lord but she was early
Chorus:
And she sang lilt-a-doodle, lilt-a-doodle, lilt-a-doodle-dee,-
And she hi-di-lan-di-dee, and she hi-di-lan-di-dee and she lan- day
Her boots were black and her stockings white
And her buckles shone like silver
She had a dark and a roving eye
And her ear-rings tipped her shoulder
Chorus
"What age are you my bonny wee lass
What age are you my honey?"
Right modestly she answered me
"I'll be seventeen on Sunday"
Chorus
"Where do you live my bonny wee lass
Where do you live my honey?"
"In a wee house up on the top of the hill
And I live there with my mammy"
Chorus
"If I went to the house on the top of the hill
When the moon was shining clearly
Would you arise and let me in
And your mammy not to hear you?"
Chorus
I went to the house on the top of the hill
When the moon was shining clearly
She arose to let me in
But her mammy chanced to hear her
Chorus
She caught her by the hair of the head
And down to the room she brought her
And with the butt of a hazel twig
She was the well-beat daughter
Chorus
"Will you marry me now my soldier lad
Will you marry me now or never?
Will you marry me now my soldier lad
For you see I'm done forever"
Chorus
"I can't marry you my bonny wee lass
I can't marry you my honey
For I have got a wife at home
And how could I disown her?"
Chorus
A pint at night is my delight
And a gallon in the morning
The old women are my heartbreak
But the young ones is my darling
"What's the news? What's the news? O my bold Sheimalier
With your long-barrelled gun of the sea?
Say what wind from the south brings this messenger here,
With a hymn of the dawn for the free?"
"Goodly news, goodly news, do I bring youth of Forth
Goodly news shall you hear, Bargy man
For the boys march at morn from the South to the North,
Led by Kelly, the Boy from Killane."
"Tell me who is that giant with the gold curling hair
He who rides at the head of your band?
Seven feet is his height with some inches to spare.
And he looks like a king in command"
"Ay, my lads, that's the pride of the bold Shelmaliers,
Among our greatest of heroes,a man!
Fling your beavers aloft and give three ringing cheers
For John Kelly, the Boy from Killane.
Enniscorthy's in flames and old Wexford is won,
And the Barrow to-morrow we cross
On a hill o'er the town we have planted a gun
That will batter the gateway of Ross
All the Forth men and Bargy men marched over the heath,
With brave Harvey to lead on the van;
But the foremost of all in the grim gap of death
Will be Kelly, the Boy from Killane.
But the gold sun of freedom grew darkened at Ross,
And it set by the Slaney's red waves;
And poor Wexford, stripped naked, hung high on a cross,
And her heart pierced by traitors and slaves!
Glory oh! glory oh! to her brave sons who died,
For the cause of long down-trodden man!
Glory oh! to Mount Leinster's own darling and pride
Dauntless Kelly, the Boy from Killane
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