In 1878, New York opened an asylum in Newark with a very particular admissions policy. It took only women of childbearing age, and the moment a woman hit menopause, she was bounced. The paperwork called these women feeble-minded. As far as the state was concerned, their real condition was that they could still have children.
A question on the census
In 1840, the United States Census asked something new: how many people in your household are idiots or insane? Out of 17 million people counted, 17,456 landed in that column. The question was there because social reformers had pushed for it. They wanted more asylums, they wanted the government to pay for them, and they needed hard numbers to pry the money loose. It worked. By 1890, every state in the country had at least one publicly supported asylum.
Moron, idiot, imbecile, lunatic: insults now, real diagnoses then. Feeble-minded was the mildest of the bunch. It described a person who functioned fairly well but was supposedly defective by inheritance and best discouraged from having children. Psychiatry was in its infancy. Nobody knew about brain chemistry or trauma, so doctors blamed heredity, social class, environment, immorality and, naturally, being a woman. Melancholy, trouble learning or disobeying a husband could be enough for a diagnosis of insanity.
Before the asylum boom, the mad were treated like circus lions that needed taming, with beatings, ice water baths, bloodletting and narrow cages. Or they wound up in jail or the poorhouse, which on paper was a charity shelter for the poor. In practice it was a filthy prison where the people in charge pocketed the food money and the residents starved.
Built to prevent children
The Newark asylum began as an offshoot of the Syracuse State Institution for Feeble-Minded Children, which had a problem: its girls were aging out. A social reformer named Josephine Shaw Lowell warned that feeble-minded women had no regard for morality, couldn't practice sexual restraint and would have illegitimate children who'd become a burden on the state. "Is that what you want?" she demanded. With the New York Board of Charities behind her, she got her asylum. Its administrators didn't bother hiding the mission: "The purpose of the institution being to segregate women of the childbearing period." In 1885 the legislature made it a separate institution, built for 853 inmates and about 100 employees. The waiting list was long from the start.
Families with money sent their troubled relatives to private asylums, with afternoon tea and watercolors on the lawn. The poor, along with people of the "wrong" race or ethnicity, were committed against their will to public institutions. The reason might be psychosis. It might also be drinking, masturbation, promiscuity or skipping school. Once inside, a woman might not get out for decades.
The ferrule and the fall
In under eight years, charges of cruelty forced a state investigation, and the findings came out on May 2, 1893. Josephine Blessing lay in bed with pneumonia and refused her medicine. Staff spanked her twice that day with a ferrule, a hardwood rod: once the second assistant matron, then the matron. Three months later she was dead. A doctor brought Teresa Clinton, an epileptic, to the matron and said she was sick. The matron said she knew better, called Teresa ugly and beat her with the ferrule. Within a day or two Teresa was in bed with meningitis, and ten days later she was dead. Mary Moore was strapped into a straitjacket with a cord tied around her ankles and beaten, first by the matron and then by the assistant matron. A witness said a towel was wrapped around her head, but that it did not stifle her screams.
The matron had told her assistants they could hit patients whenever they liked, with no permission needed and nothing to report. The superintendent had come up with a punishment of his own: tripping women from behind so they fell on their backs. He claimed he eased the fall by grabbing the dress at the neck, which amounted to choking them, and sometimes he didn't bother. Some women were thrown down, ordered up and thrown down again. He called the punishment "very effective." The superintendent, Dr. Walter L. Willett, resigned. So did the matron, Kate R. Willett, who was his wife. Nothing else happened to either of them.
The State Custodial Asylum for Feeble-Minded Women took women only between 15 and 45 and discharged them at menopause. It wasn't treating an illness. Its job was to stop poor women from having children, under a diagnosis that was more opinion than medicine.
A very good girl
Lillie Patch was born in 1878, the year the asylum opened. At 18, a court in Saratoga Springs charged her as a common prostitute and a vagrant. She was sent to the House of Refuge for Women in Hudson, New York's only state prison for women, a harsh place with solitary confinement and even a dungeon. Her intake papers called her illiterate, yet she wrote to her mother often and spent her free time reading and knitting. When the prison tried to release her to her mother, the State Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children blocked it. The society said Lily's father had committed incest, her mother had trafficked her, and the family lived in a tenement that rented to "thieves and prostitutes and Italians of lower class."
In 1900 came the application to move her to Newark. It listed crossed eyes, uneven shoulders, a speech impediment and a history of fits, and it noted: "Her face is peculiar and carries her head more than erect." None of that is a mental illness. The same form called her good-tempered, and her prison record was nearly spotless ("A very good girl," one report said). Her diagnosis came from her history instead: trafficked as a child, then syphilis and a baby by 16. The application's verdict was blunt: "The girl is feeble-minded." She entered Newark in January 1901.
Six months later, her sister wrote to the superintendent, signing her married name, Coleman. Their mother had mailed a letter to Lily, and it came back unopened. "And mother is dead now and buried and she said for me to look after Lily." Nobody ever wrote back.
Graves marked by numbers
In 1912, New York passed a law allowing forced sterilization of people held in state hospitals, prisons and charitable institutions. A year later, officials estimated the state had 30,000 feeble-minded people and complained that half of them were "at large," as if they were escaped criminals. They claimed feeble-minded young people were three times more of a menace to the community than the chronic insane, and that feeble-minded women were twice as prolific as other women. The law was struck down as unconstitutional in 1918 and repealed in 1920. By then, 42 people had been sterilized. Forty-one of them were women, though none came from Newark.
Lily may well be one of the nearly 6,000 people buried in unmarked graves at the asylum, which was renamed the Newark State School for Mental Defectives in 1916. Today its condemned buildings sit among working businesses and parked minivans. Former staff and neighbors cleared the overgrown cemetery, and an Eagle Scout named Tucker Crawford and his dad put in 300 hours of work there. Up in the attic, crammed together, were the suitcases the women had brought with them.
