Unforgotten: Twenty-Five Years After Willowbrook (1996) - full transcript

It was a nightmare that shocked not only New York, but all of America. The public outcry about the Willowbrook State School for people with developmental disabilities resulted from Geraldo Rivera's expose on WABC after he had entered Willowbrook with a film crew in 1972, using a stolen key.

[music playing]

[music playing]

I was 33 years old.

I always wanted a son,
and God blessed me

with a beautiful boy.

He was born, looked normal,
and I was so happy to have him.

I was also friendly with
a general practitioner

doctor friend of mine.

He looked at me, he
said, Sal, he says,

I think your son is retarded.

I was crushed.



I didn't know-- I was numb, I
didn't know what was going on.

I didn't know.

I can't believe it.

[music playing]

Because I was so young,
I didn't understand

what was the matter with Patty.

She looked normal to me.

I had no idea that there
was something wrong.

She kind of resembled
a Raggedy Ann doll.

She was cute.

She had cute eyes.

She had the cutest
feet I ever saw.

And she was really
like a playmate to me.

I look back now and realize
that it was because she really



hadn't developed appropriately.

But to a child that
age, that didn't matter.

[music playing]

Finally the doctor
told me that Marguerite

is mentally retarded,
which I didn't

understand what that was.

But then after they sit
down and explain it to me,

the doctor said to me, she
will live with your love.

So what I did, I just wrapped
Marguerite in her blanket

and says that from this day
forward, my life is hers

and her life is mine.

[music playing]

The seizures apparently
became greater in number.

It was strongly suggested
and recommended to my parents

that Louie be
institutionalized and put away.

[music playing]

If I was able to keep him
home, he would've been home.

But he was so hard to handle,
I felt more or less helpless.

[music playing]

In the '50s and stuff,
this is where you, you know,

you didn't keep them at home.

You sent them away.

You know, the family encouraged
it, your priest encouraged it.

The doctor told you to do it.

[music playing]

Finally as soon as
there was a vacancy,

we got him into Willowbrook.

So I says, thank God.

I was very happy that
he was in Willowbrook.

I figured it was a good
place for him to be.

He'd be safe there,
and maybe they

could do something for him.

[music playing]

With clarity, I remember
that day that Louie was taken

to Willowbrook State School.

My parents went home, and
each went into a separate room

and just cried.

We had, in a manner
of speaking, sort

of lost a member of our family.

[music playing]

Every one of these people
share a common experience--

a Staten Island institution
known as Willowbrook.

The horror stories of
Willowbrook State School

are now history, but many of
the survivors and their families

are very much alive today.

And I asked my mother actually
if she ever remembered telling

me that I had another sister
who was disabled or retarded,

and she said, no, we
probably never said that.

Somehow we would make the
trips out to Willowbrook,

and I would go with the family.

And that was just somebody
that they said was my sister,

but I didn't know her.

It was a stranger.

I was sad because Louie
was being taken away from us,

and it wasn't as though he was
going for a trip to a hospital

and--

with the expectation
of coming back.

Louie was being taken
away from us forever.

I was sad because he was someone
that we'd grown accustomed to

and was someone that
I think, you know,

really required a lot of us.

You always saw the same
people, but nobody ever talked.

And we'd all, like,
kind of herd ourselves

and get onto to a public bus,
and it was the Willowbrook bus.

It would take us to Willowbrook.

And yet, all these
people who had so much

pain in-- in common, so much--

so much insight to
share with each other,

never talked to each other
because of the shame.

You'd have a polite
glance to-- to somebody

else, a nod of the head, a
sympathetic kind of look.

But even as a kid,
we didn't play

with the other kids
that were there,

and the parents never
talked to each other.

And then visiting time
was over, that was it.

And you brought Patty back, and
that was the end of the visit

until the next time.

The moment you walked into
the-- into the buildings,

and specific the
building my brother

was in, a strong smell
of urine would hit you,

a strong smell of--

of feces.

You'd hear them moaning and
the sounds of people echoing,

like, through the--
through the hallways.

It was a bizarre--
but you wouldn't

see any of these people.

They were sort of
hidden away somewhere.

And you'd walk up these long
roads to Patty's building,

and it was always very quiet.

And then the air would be
suddenly punctuated by a scream

that would just curl--

curl your hair, and you
didn't see where it came from

and you didn't know where it
went to, the kind of moaning

and screams.

And then this tremendous
quiet would be, you know,

overwhelm you again.

And you'd walk and you'd
walk, and then finally you

got to the building.

And the front of
the building was--

I remember as being
very palatial-looking,

almost welcoming in a
sense, and you got inside.

And something that always
used to strike me, as--

as you'd walk down the
path to get to the doorway,

you'd look up and there
was always, always,

always somebody at the
window saying, mommy,

mommy, calling for someone.

And-- and you always
saw them in silhouette,

and you didn't never
knew who they were.

All those years, you never
knew who these people were.

Each family I felt had
to do what it had to do

for its own sake and survival.

My family chose to take a
more active involvement,

and in the process,
drag us along with them.

It was a struggle, and
it was a painful struggle

because it was as
though we had no rights

when that individual was put
in that state institution.

Simply because he's not at home
with us anymore doesn't mean

we don't care.

Simply because he's not able to
speak doesn't mean he can't--

he can't-- he doesn't
have anything to say.

Some people may vaguely
recall the name Willowbrook

in connection with some kind
of a scandal in the early

'70s that was exposed
by the investigative

reporting of Geraldo Rivera.

But for those who lived there,
it was a day-to-day struggle

to survive.

[music playing]

Life at Willowbrook
held no expectations.

It was endless days of
emptiness with nothing

to do and no one to talk to.

With over 5,000 residents, it
was the largest institution

of its kind in the world.

It was called a school,
but fewer than 20%

attended classes.

In 1969, because of
cutbacks, New York State

instituted a hiring freeze and
Willowbrook lost 600 employees.

Then in 1972, the
legislature cut

the mental hygiene department
budget to 600 million.

The governor then cut
it to 580 million.

Willowbrook lost an
additional 200 employees.

The resident-to-staff ratio
that should have been 4 to 1

dropped to 30 or 40 to 1.

At times, there were
two or three people

to take care of 70
residents, residents

who shared the same toilet and
contracted the same diseases.

The average feeding time
allocated for each individual,

what should have been
20 or 30 minutes,

dropped to a horrifying
two to three minutes.

Residents weren't capable
of feeding themselves a meal

simply because there was
no one who showed them how.

Within six months of
admission, most residents

suffered from parasites
and pneumonia,

and the incidence of
hepatitis was 100%.

Emotional trauma resulting from
being left together unattended

was widespread.

We would go there once, and
we found his fingers crushed.

He got-- caught
them in the door.

We come there another time,
we found his leg broken.

How did that happen?

They don't-- nobody
knew nothing.

They were short
of staff, and they

had other clients to bring in.

So they gave them a
time limit to eat.

Now you take a profoundly
retarded client--

children and you want
them to eat by themselves.

They don't know how to eat.

Half the stuff was on the floor.

They've eaten off the floor.

It was just one holy mess.

And I says, oh god, I've got
to get this kid out of here,

but where am I going
to go with him?

My mom would immediately
start to, upon Luis's arrival,

examine his body for
marks, for signs.

That was her way of finding out
how Luis was being cared for.

I, being the oldest, was always
sort of thrown in the forefront

and expected to ask
all the questions.

I remember questioning a doctor
one time in the state school.

Here I was, this 13-year-old
Puerto Rican kid, asking this--

I don't know how old-- white
doctor about my brother

and how and why he could be
slapped or abused like that.

Basically, the doctor
looked down toward me

and told me to shut up.

He told me to shut up.

I had to cut her hair
because at Willowbrook, they--

they didn't take care of my
child's hair, so it was matted.

It was all stuck
together, so I had

to clip her hair off in order
for them to keep it clean.

Also, her toes and
fingers was stuck

together from not being oiled.

And she accumulated a certain
type of odor within her body,

and I think that come from a
neglect of not being bathed

often and not being clean.

They brought
Patty to Willowbrook

and they couldn't visit
for another six months

because that was, you
know, that was good.

In those days, it was felt
that was OK because you

had to get the separation.

And my mother said
when she went back,

it was the worst
day of her life.

But she went back and
saw her baby, you know?

[crying softly]

You think of how hard it must
be for a parent to give up

their babies and say,
no, somebody else

has to take care of them.

And the day they walk away and
they have to give over that--

their child, it's so sad.

Well, I visited the
state institutions

for the mentally retarded,
and I think particularly

at Willowbrook that
we have a situation

that borders on a snake pit.

It's been more than six years
since Robert Kennedy walked out

of one of the wards
here at Willowbrook

and told newsman of the
horror he'd seen inside.

He pleaded then for an
overhaul of a system

that allowed retarded children
to live in a snake pit.

But that was way back in 1965,
and somehow we'd all forgotten.

For me, Willowbrook really
was a watershed in terms

of emotional catharsis.

It was, you know, I was a very
experienced local reporter by

the time I went to Willowbrook.

I had seen people dead by
gunshots and dead by fire

and dead by riot and all
the other urban mayhem.

So in that sense, I thought
I had experienced the depths

of the human experience.

Willowbrook, though, was so much
worse than anything I had seen.

A friend of mine,
Dr. Michael Wilkins,

called me and said he
was quitting Willowbrook

because the conditions were so
abysmal that he could no longer

tolerate, no longer in
good conscience stay there

and that children were being
abused behind the walls

of the wards there.

I said, that's interesting,
Mike, but there

are laws protecting the
privacy of the people

in those institutions,
and they're locked.

He said, well, the
laws are preventing

people from seeing a horror,
and I can get you a key.

When I stepped into
that ward and threw open

that door with my
stolen key, it was

the defining moment of my life.

[children crying and moaning]

You know, I--

I can't-- I can't think of
that 25 years later without

remembering it in a way that--

you know, I said at the time,
a quarter century ago, I said,

this is what it looked like,
this is what it sounded like,

but how can I tell you
about the way it smelled?

It smelled of filth.

It smelled of disease.

It smelled of death.

You can't treat humans
like dogs in a kennel.

There is no place where you can
mass produce care, compassion,

and concern for people.

There is-- it is impossible.

It is fundamentally unsound.

The assembly line
works for cars,

it does not work for people.

People need humanity.

They need the spirit
of compassion.

They need to be loved.

They need to be able to
fulfill their potential,

whatever their potential is.

However limited or infinite
their potential might be,

they need an option.

They need the-- the opportunity
to realize human potential.

How long have you
been at Willowbrook?

18 years.

How long were you given
physical therapy and school?

Five years.

Are you still going to school?

No.

Why?

I'm over-- over age.

You're too old?

Yes.

Would you like to
go back to school?

Yes, I do.

What would you want to learn
if you went back to school?

Learn [inaudible]
my reading more.

Learn how to read?

Yes.

How-- how is--

how is it living on
the ward that you live?

Disgrace.

Some of the residents
of Willowbrook

weren't even
supposed to be there.

At the age of three,
Bernard was misdiagnosed

as being mentally retarded
and was placed at Willowbrook.

He remained there for
18 years before it

was discovered that he, in fact,
suffered from cerebral palsy.

He was physically, not
mentally, handicapped.

It's hard to
express myself at that

time because I was
never encouraged

[inaudible] yourself.

You're a bright man or you--

you're very intelligent.

And it was frustrating because
it was like living in hell.

There was no privacy.

It was like we were in
a constant [inaudible]..

I've been beaten so many times
when I lived at Willowbrook.

I got beaten with
sticks, key chains, keys.

They kicked my head
through the wall.

I mean, you name it, I had it.

I always thought I was
going to die in the--

in the institution because
none of my family came--

came to see me that often.

They came about
every 5, 10 years.

And the saddest thing is on
Sundays when parents would come

visit their kids and I'd
look out the window to see

who will come and see me.

And when the clock struck
3 o'clock in the afternoon,

it was disappointing because
nobody came to visit me

and brought me
cookies, ice cream,

or toys and stuff like that.

Yeah.

[music playing]

Many people assume that the
human stories from Willowbrook

ended when the institution
was forced to close its doors.

In fact, that was
only the beginning.

[music playing]

It's a very hard
type of thing to have

somebody who's developmentally
disabled in your family.

I know when I was younger, I
knew Patty looked different,

but I didn't really
think too much about it.

But I couldn't figure
out, I couldn't quite

put my finger on what it was.

And I remember one day
being in the butcher's

in the neighborhood,
and I looked

up and on the counter at the
butcher shop was this canister.

And on the canister was
a picture of a child,

and it said donations
for Mongoloids.

And I remember looking
up and I said, oh, gee,

Ma, they look just like Patty.

And my mother was rather
startled and kind of

tried to shush me up.

And it dawned on
me, well, gee, how

could that be that there
were other people that

looked like Patty?

And why doesn't Patty--

Patty looks like us, but she
doesn't truly look like us.

And I guess that
was the first time

that I had a name to
this terrible thing that

removed Patty from the family.

You give birth to a
child that doesn't

meet society's
standard, already that

places a burden on the parent.

To be the sibling,
I represent maybe

society's answer to the standard
becomes kind of a burden also.

You know, why-- why is it Patty
and, thank god, it's not me?

Should I be doing
something else?

Do I have an
accountability here?

Should there be
something else I'm doing?

You know, when can you put
that type of burden down?

I tried not to think about
it, but it was always hard,

you know?

I never wanted to
leave her behind.

I always wanted to
take her home with us.

I was so frightened that there
was something wrong with Patty

and she got put away.

You know, so what
happens to me, you know?

And-- and as a kid, having
these great fears about--

about doing something
bad and being

put away, not being
able to understand

the experience as a child.

When we were being raised
that a lot of times

when we were in
school, our mother

would make that trip herself on
Wednesdays out to Willowbrook

without telling anyone.

And the doorway would open
just a crack, just a crack,

and our sister Patty
would burst out and barrel

right into my mother with a big
hug and stuff And that was it.

She was really strong, and it
must have taken a really strong

person to leave [audio out].

She took it a lot better than
my father was able to handle it.

KATIE MESKELL (VOICEOVER):
We never got to discuss that.

We never talked about it.

It's just something
we knew, that it

was hard for our father
to talk about it,

to spend his time with Patty.

Most men feel a child
who's not, quote unquote,

"normal" is a
reflection, I think, on--

on their ability as a--

as a man.

And, I mean, even though
we know it's not true,

but it was hard for him
to accept, you know?

He loved her dearly,
and she meant everything

to him and vice versa.

Everything was always Daddy.

She'd come home and
she'd visit, and he'd

be sitting in his favorite
chair all the time.

And he always had a
flat-top crew cut,

and every time she'd
come over to him

at the-- at the chair and
[inaudible],, right, to Daddy?

To Daddy's hair?

All the time.

That was always her--

the way she expressed
her affection to him.

She was really attached to him.

I think one of the most
profound things I saw

was when my father died and we
had discussed as a family what

were we going to do with Patty.

Patty always had
the unique ability

to know when somebody
had died in our family,

and that was always
very startling to us.

And we met as a
family to decide what

are we going to do with
Patty because Patty

certainly should be informed.

Patty is part of the family,
and Patty needs to know.

But how will Patty
react to this?

We made arrangements
with the group home

to bring Patty over
to the funeral home.

My mother was very nervous
about it, and I got to admit,

most of us were pretty nervous.

And Patty came in with, I
think, two of the workers

from the group home.

And everybody started to
cry, and Patty looked around.

She knew something
was terribly wrong,

but she didn't quite know what.

And I grabbed Patty by the hand,
and we went up to the casket.

And Patty, in all of her
profound retardation,

looked at my father
and said, dead.

I said, yeah, Daddy's dead.

KATIE MESKELL (VOICEOVER):
We cry about the lost times

that Patty wasn't able to share
with Daddy because she didn't

live at home, and the simple
joys that Patty got of just

having my father
tease her and stuff

made Patty's life so full.

To Patty, my father was God.

He was the one that she
focused her most attention on.

It often made him uncomfortable.

It was just very hard.

[crying softly]

Who is that?

[inaudible]

SISTER 2 (VOICEOVER): Patty
was an adorable child.

Patty, as she grew older, was
no longer adorable except maybe

in the eyes of her family.

She's just love, you know?

Just pure innocent love.

Maybe in a funny-shaped
box, right?

But it's love.

Its, you know.

When-- when I was first married,
they came up once to visit

and they brought Patty
Ann for the trip up.

And we, Katie and [inaudible],,
Patty and my mother,

we went to a apple
orchard, and I

wasn't really not that exposed
to others, other than Patty.

And when we went up there,
Patty was going around the store

and she was touching
things and making

all kinds of sounds and stuff.

And I was trying to tell her
not to touch, this and that,

and she was getting angry at me.

So she started to talk
quite loudly and carry on,

and I got so embarrassed
by her behavior

that I couldn't stay with her.

I was felt like everybody
was watching me,

you know, everybody was staring.

So I knew Katie and
[inaudible] were right nearby,

so I walked away from her.

It's all right.

[crying softly]

Because I was embarrassed.

But now, from working with
them, I would never walk away.

I've learned that
I shouldn't worry

about what other people think.

Right?

You're my sister, right?

Thank you.

Or my mother, right?

I love you, right?

[music playing]

JOSE J. RIVERA JR
(VOICEOVER): Luis

has kept the family together
because Lord knows I didn't--

I didn't want to
be as involved as I

am with a disabled brother.

I didn't want to find myself
arguing with doctors and nurses

and physical therapists
and occupational therapists

and speech therapists.

It's been a struggle for
me, even to this day,

with having to sort of undo
and deal with at the same time

the 20 or so years of
psychological and emotional

distress that my mom has gone
through, my family has gone

through, that I've gone
through and that Luis

obviously has gone through.

[music playing]

It's been good for my
mom because she's--

she's kept her sons around.

You know, it's been-- its been
difficult because I've had

to make a lot of sacrifices.

He feels pain and happiness,
just like everybody else.

I'd say it's by miracle of
God that he's still with us,

but also, also, I'd like
to think that a little--

a little of that credit is also
because of the involvement of--

of a family.

I have yet to form
a family of my own,

and hopefully someday I will.

But I'll tell you, time
is-- time is running by.

Not that I'm using Luis
as an excuse, but--

but there is a lot that-- that--

that's required in caring
for my disabled brother.

It becomes a 24-hour
responsibility 365 days a year.

I rely on my mom
because my mom is

able to have that extra sense
of a mother in knowing when

something's wrong with Louie.

I don't have that sense.

[laughs]

And see, Louie will laugh
because Louie is well aware

of what his brothers can do for
him or his family member can do

and what his mother can do.

I tip my hat to Louie
because Louie has adapted

to his surroundings and has
adapted to his limited--

his limitations.

And in place of
those things, Luis

has developed that
smile to hopefully warm

you over if you're a stranger.

And in place of his
limitations, Luis

has developed his sounds,
the gleam in his eye,

the worried look
that he puts when

something is not to his liking.

Luis is manipulative.

Luis is very manipulate.

Oh, you want a [inaudible].

Soon as sees his mom come in,
he'll start giving directives,

and Mom will accommodate.

Mom will accommodate, sometimes
so that I have to tell Mom,

Mom, Luis is manipulating
you, manipulating us,

we have to keep an eye on that
because it's so-- at times,

I get the sense--
- You want this?

[inaudible]

OK.

There may be no
satisfying Louie.

Louie may just get
a kick out of being

manipulative and
seeing the-- the cause

and effects of his actions.

So in a certain
way, that's his way

of controlling the environment.

He was also had a certain,
I guess, fresh side to him.

He obviously knew and
was aware and attracted

to the opposite sex, so he
would kick his way over to the--

by-- next to the woman or
the lady visiting my mom

and gradually his hand would
work its way up the dress.

What you want next?

Feeding?

Hat?

Shoes?

What next?

Woman?

You want woman?

A woman over there?

Come on.

[laughs]

You see?

[laughs]

I would visit
Louie on Sundays.

Louie was kicking and
Louie was, you know,

aaahhh, he was going off and
he was expressing-- his way

of expressing happiness.

Louie was kicking, and
he was-- he was excited

about his visits, his visitors.

And I was happy to see the
reaction I was getting--

I was getting from my brother.

I-- he was glad to see me.

I grabbed Louie
from the attendant,

and then I wheeled
him around the corner.

And as we rounded the
corner, Luis's happiness

and actual excitement
suddenly died.

Luis became very
somber and quiet.

It suddenly hit me Luis
was hoping to see his mom

and not me.

So it was like,
you know, you bum,

I came out here to
visit you, and this

is the greeting I get simply
because Mom isn't around?

But at the same time, struggling
with the guilt about it's

not his fault that he is
responding the way he is.

It's not his fault. It's as
a result of his limitations.

It's as a result of being
removed from his mom,

from his dad, and--

and only seeing them for
three hours every seventh day.

You know, there have been
moments where we've--

I felt jealous, I
felt angry, and I've

tried to, in certain ways,
express that to my mom

because I think it's
something she doesn't realize,

takes for granted.

I think she expects
us to understand.

And so with that expectation,
it's-- it's a non-issue

as far as she's concerned.

She assumes we all understand.

But I think at times I
try to point out to my mom

that, yes, Luis does require
a lot from all of us,

but it should not necessarily
mean that we should neglect

or ignore the fact that we
all, as-- as her children,

require also some
attention as well.

And we're all, in certain ways,
there's a little selfish side

to all of us.

But I think all of us--

Jimmy, my sister, myself--

put things in perspective
because the bottom line

is that we have the ability
to express ourselves and--

and advocate for ourselves,
whereas Louie doesn't.

From that, we draw
understanding hopefully.

You know, I love my--

all my sons, but I know this--

I put a special [inaudible]
because he's different.

He can't walk, he can't
talk, he can't eat,

and it's [spanish speech].

She says she feels a
special love with him

with a certain degree of--

of pity.

I remember also
when I put him in--

in Willowbrook, you
know, he passed too much.

[spanish speech]

When he was in Willowbrook--

INTERVIEWER: He suffered a lot.

Yes, that's what happened.

My other kids all the
time with me, and--

and he passed too much.

That's I put, but I love all--

all my kids.

I don't want nobody
jealous because he passed

too much when he this small.

I remember when he's with
me, he live with me for year.

I remember my-- my son in--

in my big apartment
walking in the--

walk chair.

The walker.

Walker and walk all
these and very, very--

[spanish speech]

Active.

Active.

And when I put my son
in Willowbrook for what?

For that.

So that's what happened with me.

I put a special attention.

Somebody kicked by son
because he can't eat fast.

My son can't eat fast.

He had the feeding tube.

Why?

Because he can't eat fast.

And that's what happened.

That's what happened.

I come every day here
because I don't trust nobody

now because I passed too much.

Sorry my son, but
I love all my sons.

But that's what
happened with me.

The last 25 years have
brought a lot of changes.

Many institutions
such as Willowbrook

have, through public pressure,
litigation, and government

reform, been phased out in
favor of home care, group

homes, alternative
forms of education,

and social integration.

Here we are, you want
me to put blush on?

Yeah.

All right, you face me.

Turn around.

Turn around.

KATIE MESKELL: Ah!

20 years younger.

All right, now.

UNA MESKELL-BYRNE
(VOICEOVER): I don't think

there's enough words to really
express the fact that Patty

finally has a life and doing
real well, having a boyfriend,

getting into the
normal fights people

get into, having the last
word, which she always had even

in Willowbrook, but having
normal relationships.

And that's really terrific
to be around other people

and have a quality of life.

In Willowbrook, Patty
could have nothing

and she had no wall
to put anything up on.

There was no bureau.

There were no closets for her.

But now this is a big step.

You know, the fact that
she has pictures up

on her wall and a picture
of the family up here

and she has her stuffed
animals and her trophies there,

it's really now her home.

PATTI-ANN MESKELL: Home.
- Right, Patty?

Yeah.

And she keeps it so
neatly, too, right?

Patty Ann keeps her own room.

She keeps it nice and neat.

The bed.

Do you make your own bed?

Yeah.

Yeah?

KATIE MESKELL: And you
help with the dishwasher?

Yeah.

Yep.

You help the
secretary downstairs?

All right.

Yeah, what are you
going to show us?

Ah, back to
answering the phones.

Yes.

Well, that was
the other thing.

In Willowbrook, Patty could
never make a phone call home.

There were no phones, and
the residents weren't allowed

to make phone calls home.

But now she can use
the phone anytime she'd

like and call
whoever she'd like,

and God knows who
she's boring to death.

[laughter]

Now it's-- it's good.

In-- [spanish speech].

Comparison.

In compares with
they other place.

Sometimes I have my problem,
but this was better.

Oh, sure.

Here Luis is dealt with as
an individual, as a person.

Here Luis is cared for.

The family plays a
very active role.

We are no longer
isolated, removed.

We're not just kind of
simply looked at as visitors.

[music playing]

Let's go.

[loud footsteps]

[inaudible] Hey!

I'm not sure--
oh, there we go.

Look!
Look!

Look!

JOSE J. RIVERA JR: Come on, Lu!

Look!

[music playing]

DANNY AIELLO (VOICEOVER):
Eventually, Bernard

was released from Willowbrook.

Subsequently, he was appointed
to a consumer advisory board

whose job it was to
monitor the problems

and improvements at
institutions like Willowbrook.

I could've had a
real good education.

I could've been a lawyer today.

I've always wanted to be
a civil rights attorney.

If I [inaudible],, I would
not be a good contribute

to our society.

No, I-- I got to go on with
life left behind me 'cause it--

it gets a lot better from here.

INTERVIEWER: Now after all
that you've gone through,

do you think that
you deserve the best?

You're damn right
I deserve the best.

Yes.

I earned it.

Yeah.

We all do, now
only me, everybody.

Everybody deserves the best.

[cheering]

[interposing voices]

DANNY AIELLO
(VOICEOVER): Undoubtedly,

the public consciousness
has been raised

over the past several decades.

The Special Olympics,
with representatives

from over 70 countries
around the world,

is a testament, a
powerful demonstration

of renewed priorities.

[music playing]

JOSE J. RIVERA JR
(VOICEOVER): Anyone, anyone

who has life in them
is a human being

with all sorts of potential.

Willowbrook taught me that
first they are human beings,

and then disabled.

[cheering]

WOMAN: Very good!

[scattered applause]

[cheering]

We'll have people who
are disabled all the time,

and somebody will come
up with the bright idea

that maybe it's good if we
put a lot of people together

and maybe a lot of folks who are
disabled together in one place

and that'll save a lot of money.

And the circle will be begun
again of a place called

Willowbrook, and I see
it as a personal mission

to make sure that
that doesn't happen.

People with
disabilities in general

are no different than
you and I. They just

need a little more attention.

Everybody's not the same.

Everybody's different.

People have to
have-- is entitled

to different treatments,
different types of food,

different way of
dressing, different ways

of approaching the individual.

My focus is always
being treat the people

like they individuals.

Patty is just
like the rest of us.

She may look different,
but she has the same needs,

the same rights, the same
wants as everybody here,

and that's an important lesson
for all of us to-- to learn.

You know, Patty's no different.

KATIE MESKELL
(VOICEOVER): Many people

say, no, you can't
put that group

home here, not in my backyard.

We have to make sure
that as community members

that we accept group
homes in our neighborhoods

and keep them part
of the community

as opposed to when
Patty was born,

keeping them away
from the community.

Every time that we want to
open up one of these group

homes in their
community, people shy

away from them like they got--

like they have Lord
knows what they have

and we don't want them here,
we don't want them here.

They don't know that it could
happen to their kids too

or their grandchildren, see?

And I just want to
have some compassion

because so far those people
haven't hurt anybody.

I've never heard of
a retarded person

rape anybody, hurt anybody.

If not, they're the ones
that are the victims.

The integration of the
developmentally disabled

into mainstream society, I
think that is the triumph

of the Willowbrook saga.

Here we are 25
years later, and that

which was not possible,
not even thought of,

is now very much possible.

I think the future
holds a lot of promise,

but there's still a lot
that we have to go through.

There's still a lot of
resentment, opposition, lack

of understanding, and in
turn, lack of acceptance.

Willowbrook was much
more than an institution.

It was an attitude.

It was an attitude of
disrespect to people

with handicapped
conditions, and that

can very easily happen
again if any of us

turn our backs on these folks.

If you put people in an
artificial environment,

they will not evolve
in a normal way.

It is so basic that I can't
imagine how all those schools

of psychiatry, all those
schools of psychology, all

those medical schools,
how they missed the point

these many, many decades.

It is shocking to me that
the average Joe or Jane

in the street knew
more about what

was right for the
developmentally

disabled than all the
experts on the planet.

I just wish the
public could see my son.

We'd never want to
see this happen again.

And I hope for the future that
they'll never be forgotten.

People like Marguerite
was entitled to live.

That was my main thing.

She had to live.

I felt that she had to live
before she die and enjoy life

before she die.

She's brought me more joy
than I think I brought to her,

and I won't let
nothing or anyone

separate me and my child.

Luis has gone a-- a long
way and will go a long way.

I don't think I want to be
around when he's not around,

let's put it that way.

He does mean a lot to all of us.

My future is bright.

I mean, I'm-- I'm looking--

I'm looking for
[inaudible] for myself.

I mean, I'm 46 years
old, for God's sake.

This is just the beginning.

KATIE MESKELL (VOICEOVER):
I think that the indignities

that the families and Patty
and the people who live there

and the staff who
worked there suffered

should never have happened.

Absolutely.

And it was worse--

I really believe it
was worse than death

because when somebody dies,
you can mourn their passing

and move on.

But Willowbrook was
and is for many people

a perpetual mourning.

The mourning never stops for--

for the missed opportunities the
families had of being together,

of-- of families broken up,
parents not talking about it.

UNA MESKELL-BYRNE:
Often during the visits

that we had at
Willowbrook, we would

have this man sitting with us,
a religious gentleman, Jewish.

Wore a hat.

Had the [inaudible] locks.

He was the gentlest
man I ever knew,

and I didn't really
think too much about him.

Years later after
Willowbrook closed,

I reminded my mother
of this gentleman,

and she told me the saddest
story that I had ever heard,

which was that this gentleman,
when his son was born,

it was apparent that
he had Downs syndrome,

and he told his wife
that the child had died.

To his family, that
child was dead,

and he was the
only living person

that knew that the son existed.

And he would walk from someplace
in Brooklyn to the ferry,

take the ferry over
to Staten Island,

visit with this child for maybe
an hour, and go back home.

I often think about
that man because he

always seemed old to me then.

And I guess at this point
he probably is dead,

and his son is nobody's
child at this point.

[music playing]

BROTHER (VOICEOVER): Louie
gets the greatest pleasure

from a bird flying in the air,
the breeze hitting his skin,

the honking of the
cars as they drive by

and he sees them go by.

So I've gotten a better
appreciation of the senses

and how important human
contact is for Luis,

how important a tone of voice
is to someone like Luis,

the pressure of a touch.

Because see, these are all
of the things that my brother

would, in his way,
figure out from a person

because it was that person who
his life was dependent upon.

The legacy of
Willowbrook will live on,

but for the survivors
and their families,

the continuing struggle
and persistent courage

needed to live day by
day is never forgotten.

Patty, Luis, and thousands of
others are not our burdens.

They represent the
best part of ourselves,

The part of us that
instinctively knows

the importance of
shared responsibility

and the part of us
that needs to learn

from those that can truly teach
us about the miracle of living.

[music playing]