HOLIDAY STORY: PICK A STAR * COMING EVENTS * ONE OF MANY * Bill's Coffeeshop Newsletter * Vol. 13 * Dec. 21, 2012
HERE'S OUR CALENDAR
FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Monday, Dec. 24
Christmas Eve. Closing early! Open 10 am to 2 pm. (Reopen for AA meeting at 5 pm)
Tuesday, Dec. 25
Christmas Day. Open 10 am to 2 pm. Potluck holiday dinner at noon.
Wednesday, Dec. 26
Open 11 am to 2 pm. No Spoken Word this week.
Thursday, Dec. 27
Open 11 am to 2 pm. No Open Mic this week.
Friday, Dec. 28
Open 11 am to 2 pm.
Saturday, Dec. 29
Open 9 am to 9 pm. Saturday Night Music at 7 pm: Iowa singer/songwriter B. John Burns.
Monday, Dec. 31
New Year's Eve. Open 11 am to 2 pm. (Reopen for AA meeting at 6 pm)
Tuesday, Jan. 1
New Year's Day. Open 11 am to 2 pm. Potluck dinner at noon.
Wednesday, Jan. 2
New hours begin. Open 11 am. Spoken Word at 7 pm. Co-sponsored by Little Village magazine.
Thursday, Jan. 3
Open 11 am. Artvaark (art activities) at 6 pm. Open Mic at 7 pm.
PICK A STAR AND IMAGINE
IT'S YOUR LOST FRIEND
THIS HAD been a good night at the coffee house. Good music -- the kind which makes you glad to be a host on a local stage. Good conversation -- the kind which makes you glad to have a hand in building community.
Now the doors were closed and the lights were off -- except for those onstage where I was sitting. It was quiet.
But then I heard a knocking on the front door. Probably just imagining things, I thought. Or the wind is rattling the door again. But then I heard it again, clearly someone was knocking.
I went to the door and opened it. In popped a young woman. "Oh thanks," she said. "It's so cold out there.
"I'm Peggy. I was going to come earlier. But I couldn't drag myself out of the house; I was so depressed.
"My friend Laura, your friend, too, I think, said I should come talk to you. So here I am. Say, do you have any coffee left? Wait, I hear you have really weird soda, like sweet corn and pumpkin pie."
She went on like this for several minutes, throwing whole paragraphs at me like a character in a James Joyce novel. Then suddenly she stopped. "Oh sorry, you haven't said if I can come in or if I could talk to you. May I? Can I?"
I told her to come in and pointed to the stage. "I'm sitting up there, Why don't you join me?"
I got a soda pop called S'mores and two glasses. She poured the pop and tried it first. "Weird" was her assessment.
"SO WHAT'S UP?" I asked.
First, she responded with more speed paragraphing -- from northwest Iowa, younger brother, parents split, here in college, no place really to go anymore for holidays.
She paused and then said: I'm here because I've lost one of my best friends. And it hurts. And it's lonely. And it's Christmas.
"Laura said you'd be good to talk to about this. But I don't know, you're old -- ah, well, I mean you're a lot older than me. You've probably had the same friends since third grade and I'll bet your family isn't all screwed up like mine."
"Well," I said. "That's a lot to talk about. I think I'll go make some coffee. Be back in a bit."
I walked into the kitchen and made the coffee. And wondered just exactly what I might be getting into.
'WHAT took you so long?" Peggy said when I came back to the stage. "You were gone forever. I was about ready to put your face on a milk carton."
"I don't think I was gone that long," I responded. "Anyway, I'm back, and you were telling me..."
Peggy resumed her story. She really wanted to go to her dad's house for Christmas. But she wasn't welcome anymore -- something about calling her stepmother a "witch." And she didn't really know where her mom was.
BUT ALL that was okay because she had been planning to spend Christmas with Cathy. Cathy was her friend -- her best friend. "Did you ever have any best friends?" she asked. But she didn't wait for any answer. She hurtled right into another paragraph.
"Now, I'm just so sad," Peggy said. "Cathy moved away last summer. We had promised we would stay in touch. And get together at Christmas. But I haven't heard a word from her since she left. Not a text, not a call, not an email, not even a letter. And she even took down her Facebook page....
There was a pause. Then she said: "And now it's Christmas and it hurts, hurts so much.
"I don't want to do anything, I don't want to see anybody. And I certainly don't want to be part of any 'ho, ho, ho,' stuff."
"You want me to turn off the Christmas music?" I asked.
"No," Peggy replied. What you're playing is okay."
There was another few moments of silence. Then Peggy said: "Do you think I'm crazy? Is there something wrong with me? The people at my work say I should just 'get over it.' But I'm not going to."
"No, I don't think you're crazy," I said. "You're sad. My friend Kate used to say that at times like these we're in a 'slough of despond.' "
"A slough," Peggy said. "I like that. So what do I do."
"I'm not sure," I said. "You've actually caught me at a time when I'm missing one of my best friends, too."
"Was that Kate?," Peggy asked. "Did she die? Oh, I'm sorry, I guess that was rude."
"Well, yes, Kate was a very good friend of mine. And, yes, she died -- several years ago. And I do miss her. We worked together at community newspapers a long time ago. And then we each went out and started a newspaper of our own.
"But actually I was thinking of someone much more recent. You meet a lot of people along the way in life. A number of them become your friends. A few, a very few, become best friends. You get very close; you trust each other; you lean on each other. Best friends, I think, put little footprints on your heart.
"It's a best friend like that that I am missing this Christmas. One who, like yours, seems to have vanished. Same as you, not a call, an email or a text. And I thought we were very close. So I guess I know a little of what you are talking about.
"So what do we do?" Peggy asked. "Can we make this hurt go away -- or at least not hurt so much?"
"Probably not," I replied. "That's the thing about best friends; we want them to be with us for the good times and especially for holidays. When they're not, well...
"Anyway I don't think there's anything wrong with feeling sad."
"Ha," Peggy said, "so here we are wallowing in a stye of despond."
I laughed. "That would be a slough of despond."
"Okay, a slough. But why does it hurt so much?"
"I don't know for sure. But I think it has something to do with not being able to say goodbye. We imagine that when people leave, we'll be able to say goodbye. Like at the end of the story of Stuart Little.
"But the truth is, you don't get to say goodbye a lot of the time, perhaps most of the time. And then you're left with a sackful of memories and a whole lot of doubts and questions like 'What did I do?' And the more you cared about that friend, the harder it is.
Someone once told me that losing a best friend feels like a cheese grater is being dragged across your heart. "
"You're not helping me at all," Peggy said. "Now I'm feeling worse. But a cookie might help temporarily."
"Okay, okay, sorry," I said. "Have a cookie, have two cookies.
"Then let me read you a story. It's one of the ways I have soothed the sadness inside me." Then I read her a children's book called "I miss you every day" by Simms Taback. It's the story of Emily Ann whose best friend has moved away. She misses her friend so much that she decides she must go and see her. So she decides to send herself by mail to her friend.
"Nice, nice story," Peggy said when I was finished. "That helps a little. Wish I could do that; wish you could, too. But neither of us has the address of our lost friend.
"Hey," she said, "I've got an idea. What if we told each other stories about our best friend. I think I'd feel better if I could tell a few stories -- and hear a few from you, too."
So we told stories, stories of road trips with our friends, stories of visits to art galleries and museums, stories of shared concerts and favorite restaurants.
"Hey, what was the best movie you and your friend saw together?" I asked.
"Julie and Julia," Peggy said.
"No kidding, " I said. "I would have thought that film was for someone 'old' like me."
"It was really good," she responded, "especially the dialogue. We repeated lines from that show over and over.
"How about you?"
"I don't know if this was the best film, but it certainly was the one which sparked the best conversation I've ever had about a film?"
"Are you going to tell me the name?" Peggy said, "or do I have to guess?"
"Twilight."
"You must be kidding. You? Twilight. I'm surprised you even went to see the film. So what did you talk about?"
We both laughed.
"Feminism," I said. "In fact, that was the best discussion about feminism I have been a part of since I saw Gloria Steinem with two friends about ten years ago.
"Twilight? Feminism? You really are weird," Peggy said.
"But I know what you mean about great conversations -- like the ones which go on nearly all night, ones you never wished would never come to an end."
Again, we both fell silent for a few moments.
I broke the silence. "I had this friend with a funny name, Gisela Konopka. She was very wise. Some years ago, when I 'lost' a friend, I asked her the same questions you are asking me. She said to me: 'You loved this friend, didn't you. Can you love her enough to let her go?'
"At first, I didn't like what she said. In fact, I wanted to tell her she wasn't helping at all."
"That sounds familiar," Peggy said with a smile.
"But slowly, very, very slowly I realized what she was telling me," I said. Friends are gifts; best friends are great gifts. And even if our best friends are gone forever, they left us this gift behind. They left us memories like the stories we've just been telling each other. They left us moments of great joy (and a few moments of sadness, too). They loved us and that changed us.
"I know that's not much to go on at the moment. And I still hope your friend gets back in touch -- and mine, too. You know, like in a movie, or something: we each get a text tonight from our lost friend which begins "Merry, merry" or something. And then we text back and forth until our fingers are tired.
"That's not very realistic," Peggy said. "You're beginning to sound like that Pollyanna girl. Are you her brother, Pollytom?"
"You got me there,: I replied. "But it's okay to hope. And in the meantime, or always, we can still carry this friend in our heart. Do you know the lines from that e.e. cummings poem: 'i carry your heart with me, i carry it in my heart'?"
"Hey, yes. Peggy said. "My friend and I quoted that to each other all the time."
"My friend and I did, too," I said.
"I feel a little better," she said, getting up to go.
"Good, and you're welcome to come back tomorrow and help serve Christmas dinner at the coffee house."
"Thank you," Peggy said as she pushed open the door. "I'll be here."
"One more thing," I said. "Look up in the sky tonight and pick one star. Name that star for your friend. And imagine that, night after night, that star is your lost friend following you home."
"Does that help?" Peggy asked.
"It has helped me," I said, "and it would be even better if I knew someone else was doing the same thing."
"Okay, " Peggy said. "She got on her bike, shouted "Merry Christmas" and rode off into the night.
BILL WAS JUST ONE OF MANY
IN STATE MENTAL HOSPITALS
BILL Sackter spent nearly half a century at a state mental hospital in Minnesota. He was sent there as a seven year old child in the 1920s and remained there for 46 years. Sackter, for whom Bill's Coffee Shop and Uptown Bill's are named, was a resident at Faribault State Hospital, a giant institution with roots almost as old as the state of Minnesota. Minnesota became a state in 1858; the very first session of the state legislature authorized the establishment of centers for the "training and care of citizens who suffered mental and physical disabilities and for children who were unable to care for themselves."
The "state asylum" opened in 1863. It first was a residence for the "deaf, dumb and blind." In 1879, an experimental program for "idiotic and feeble-minded children" was added. Two years later, this became a permanent program under the name of "School for Idiots and Imbeciles." Later names for the center included "Minnesota Institute for Defectives" and "School for the Feeble-Minded." In 1885, another program, the "State School for Neglected and Dependent Children," was added. It was located in the nearby community of Owatonna.
By the time Bill Sackter arrived at Faribault in the 1920s, there were hundreds of people living there from all over Minnesota. And the institution continued to grow during most of Bill's years there. By 1955, there were more than 3,300 residents at Faribault. Once sent there, few individuals ever left Faribault. After they died, they usually were buried in a cemetery on the state hospital grounds.
Minnesota was not alone in removing individuals with disabilities from mainstream society. Every state in the US had similar institutions -- and so did many other countries. These institutions were based on a philosophy that such segregation was a good idea.
An historical marker on I-35 in Minnesota explains that Faribault state hospital was "established to provide students with activities and training, while protecting them from the slights and rebuffs of the outside world." (This marker is located at the Straight River rest stop between Albert Lea and Cannon Falls.)
THERE were always parents and others who doubted the wisdom of separating individuals with disabilities from their families and communities. But it was not until the late 1950s that their voices were loud enough to be heard in the chambers of the legislatures and the meeting rooms of professional societies.
By the 1960s, conventional professional wisdom shifted to support the idea of having individuals with disabilities stay in their communities. Counties stopped sending individuals to state hospitals. Then came a series of decisions to return to communities those who had been institutionalized.
Bill Sackter returned to Minneapolis in the early 1960s. He eventually found a job working in the kitchen of the restaurant at the Minikahda Country Club. It was there he met Bev and Barry Morrow; Bev was a waitress at the restaurant.
Hundreds of other men and women left Faribault in the 1960s and returned to Minneapolis and other communities around the state. (The same process was repeated in Iowa, South Dakota and other states.) Then in 1998, the state hospital at Faribault was closed for good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bill's Coffeeshop Newsletter is a virtual extension of Wild Bill's Coffeeshop and Uptown Bill's Coffee House. Published since 2000, the Newsletter is written by Tom Gilsenan, a former manager of Wild Bill's and now director of Uptown Bill's. You can write to him at tomgilsenan@gmail.com
Wild Bill's Coffeeshop is a project of the School of Social Work at the University of Iowa. It has been a part of campus life in Iowa City for more than 35 years. Located in North Hall, the coffeeshop is open weekdays from 8 am. For more information, check the Friends of Bill's Coffeeshop page on Facebook. You can call the coffeeshop at (319) 335-1281. Donations to support the work of the coffeeshop may be sent to: Bill's Coffeeshop Fund, University of Iowa Foundation, P.O. Box 4550, Iowa City, IA 52244. Contributions are tax deductible.
Uptown Bill's is the crosstown cousin of Wild Bill's. Now in its 12th year, it includes a bookstore, performance venue and other businesses in addition to a coffeeshop. Located at 730 S. Dubuque, Uptown Bill's is open Monday through Saturday from 10 am. For more information, check the Uptown Bill's website or Facebook page. You can call Uptown Bill's at (319) 339-0804. Donations to support the work of Uptown Bill's may be sent to: Extend the Dream Foundation, Uptown Bill's, 730 S. Dubuque St., Iowa City, IA 52240. Contributions are tax deductible. You can also donate online at the Uptown Bill's website: www.uptownbills.org
FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Monday, Dec. 24
Christmas Eve. Closing early! Open 10 am to 2 pm. (Reopen for AA meeting at 5 pm)
Tuesday, Dec. 25
Christmas Day. Open 10 am to 2 pm. Potluck holiday dinner at noon.
Wednesday, Dec. 26
Open 11 am to 2 pm. No Spoken Word this week.
Thursday, Dec. 27
Open 11 am to 2 pm. No Open Mic this week.
Friday, Dec. 28
Open 11 am to 2 pm.
Saturday, Dec. 29
Open 9 am to 9 pm. Saturday Night Music at 7 pm: Iowa singer/songwriter B. John Burns.
Monday, Dec. 31
New Year's Eve. Open 11 am to 2 pm. (Reopen for AA meeting at 6 pm)
Tuesday, Jan. 1
New Year's Day. Open 11 am to 2 pm. Potluck dinner at noon.
Wednesday, Jan. 2
New hours begin. Open 11 am. Spoken Word at 7 pm. Co-sponsored by Little Village magazine.
Thursday, Jan. 3
Open 11 am. Artvaark (art activities) at 6 pm. Open Mic at 7 pm.
PICK A STAR AND IMAGINE
IT'S YOUR LOST FRIEND
THIS HAD been a good night at the coffee house. Good music -- the kind which makes you glad to be a host on a local stage. Good conversation -- the kind which makes you glad to have a hand in building community.
Now the doors were closed and the lights were off -- except for those onstage where I was sitting. It was quiet.
But then I heard a knocking on the front door. Probably just imagining things, I thought. Or the wind is rattling the door again. But then I heard it again, clearly someone was knocking.
I went to the door and opened it. In popped a young woman. "Oh thanks," she said. "It's so cold out there.
"I'm Peggy. I was going to come earlier. But I couldn't drag myself out of the house; I was so depressed.
"My friend Laura, your friend, too, I think, said I should come talk to you. So here I am. Say, do you have any coffee left? Wait, I hear you have really weird soda, like sweet corn and pumpkin pie."
She went on like this for several minutes, throwing whole paragraphs at me like a character in a James Joyce novel. Then suddenly she stopped. "Oh sorry, you haven't said if I can come in or if I could talk to you. May I? Can I?"
I told her to come in and pointed to the stage. "I'm sitting up there, Why don't you join me?"
I got a soda pop called S'mores and two glasses. She poured the pop and tried it first. "Weird" was her assessment.
"SO WHAT'S UP?" I asked.
First, she responded with more speed paragraphing -- from northwest Iowa, younger brother, parents split, here in college, no place really to go anymore for holidays.
She paused and then said: I'm here because I've lost one of my best friends. And it hurts. And it's lonely. And it's Christmas.
"Laura said you'd be good to talk to about this. But I don't know, you're old -- ah, well, I mean you're a lot older than me. You've probably had the same friends since third grade and I'll bet your family isn't all screwed up like mine."
"Well," I said. "That's a lot to talk about. I think I'll go make some coffee. Be back in a bit."
I walked into the kitchen and made the coffee. And wondered just exactly what I might be getting into.
'WHAT took you so long?" Peggy said when I came back to the stage. "You were gone forever. I was about ready to put your face on a milk carton."
"I don't think I was gone that long," I responded. "Anyway, I'm back, and you were telling me..."
Peggy resumed her story. She really wanted to go to her dad's house for Christmas. But she wasn't welcome anymore -- something about calling her stepmother a "witch." And she didn't really know where her mom was.
BUT ALL that was okay because she had been planning to spend Christmas with Cathy. Cathy was her friend -- her best friend. "Did you ever have any best friends?" she asked. But she didn't wait for any answer. She hurtled right into another paragraph.
"Now, I'm just so sad," Peggy said. "Cathy moved away last summer. We had promised we would stay in touch. And get together at Christmas. But I haven't heard a word from her since she left. Not a text, not a call, not an email, not even a letter. And she even took down her Facebook page....
There was a pause. Then she said: "And now it's Christmas and it hurts, hurts so much.
"I don't want to do anything, I don't want to see anybody. And I certainly don't want to be part of any 'ho, ho, ho,' stuff."
"You want me to turn off the Christmas music?" I asked.
"No," Peggy replied. What you're playing is okay."
There was another few moments of silence. Then Peggy said: "Do you think I'm crazy? Is there something wrong with me? The people at my work say I should just 'get over it.' But I'm not going to."
"No, I don't think you're crazy," I said. "You're sad. My friend Kate used to say that at times like these we're in a 'slough of despond.' "
"A slough," Peggy said. "I like that. So what do I do."
"I'm not sure," I said. "You've actually caught me at a time when I'm missing one of my best friends, too."
"Was that Kate?," Peggy asked. "Did she die? Oh, I'm sorry, I guess that was rude."
"Well, yes, Kate was a very good friend of mine. And, yes, she died -- several years ago. And I do miss her. We worked together at community newspapers a long time ago. And then we each went out and started a newspaper of our own.
"But actually I was thinking of someone much more recent. You meet a lot of people along the way in life. A number of them become your friends. A few, a very few, become best friends. You get very close; you trust each other; you lean on each other. Best friends, I think, put little footprints on your heart.
"It's a best friend like that that I am missing this Christmas. One who, like yours, seems to have vanished. Same as you, not a call, an email or a text. And I thought we were very close. So I guess I know a little of what you are talking about.
"So what do we do?" Peggy asked. "Can we make this hurt go away -- or at least not hurt so much?"
"Probably not," I replied. "That's the thing about best friends; we want them to be with us for the good times and especially for holidays. When they're not, well...
"Anyway I don't think there's anything wrong with feeling sad."
"Ha," Peggy said, "so here we are wallowing in a stye of despond."
I laughed. "That would be a slough of despond."
"Okay, a slough. But why does it hurt so much?"
"I don't know for sure. But I think it has something to do with not being able to say goodbye. We imagine that when people leave, we'll be able to say goodbye. Like at the end of the story of Stuart Little.
"But the truth is, you don't get to say goodbye a lot of the time, perhaps most of the time. And then you're left with a sackful of memories and a whole lot of doubts and questions like 'What did I do?' And the more you cared about that friend, the harder it is.
Someone once told me that losing a best friend feels like a cheese grater is being dragged across your heart. "
"You're not helping me at all," Peggy said. "Now I'm feeling worse. But a cookie might help temporarily."
"Okay, okay, sorry," I said. "Have a cookie, have two cookies.
"Then let me read you a story. It's one of the ways I have soothed the sadness inside me." Then I read her a children's book called "I miss you every day" by Simms Taback. It's the story of Emily Ann whose best friend has moved away. She misses her friend so much that she decides she must go and see her. So she decides to send herself by mail to her friend.
"Nice, nice story," Peggy said when I was finished. "That helps a little. Wish I could do that; wish you could, too. But neither of us has the address of our lost friend.
"Hey," she said, "I've got an idea. What if we told each other stories about our best friend. I think I'd feel better if I could tell a few stories -- and hear a few from you, too."
So we told stories, stories of road trips with our friends, stories of visits to art galleries and museums, stories of shared concerts and favorite restaurants.
"Hey, what was the best movie you and your friend saw together?" I asked.
"Julie and Julia," Peggy said.
"No kidding, " I said. "I would have thought that film was for someone 'old' like me."
"It was really good," she responded, "especially the dialogue. We repeated lines from that show over and over.
"How about you?"
"I don't know if this was the best film, but it certainly was the one which sparked the best conversation I've ever had about a film?"
"Are you going to tell me the name?" Peggy said, "or do I have to guess?"
"Twilight."
"You must be kidding. You? Twilight. I'm surprised you even went to see the film. So what did you talk about?"
We both laughed.
"Feminism," I said. "In fact, that was the best discussion about feminism I have been a part of since I saw Gloria Steinem with two friends about ten years ago.
"Twilight? Feminism? You really are weird," Peggy said.
"But I know what you mean about great conversations -- like the ones which go on nearly all night, ones you never wished would never come to an end."
Again, we both fell silent for a few moments.
I broke the silence. "I had this friend with a funny name, Gisela Konopka. She was very wise. Some years ago, when I 'lost' a friend, I asked her the same questions you are asking me. She said to me: 'You loved this friend, didn't you. Can you love her enough to let her go?'
"At first, I didn't like what she said. In fact, I wanted to tell her she wasn't helping at all."
"That sounds familiar," Peggy said with a smile.
"But slowly, very, very slowly I realized what she was telling me," I said. Friends are gifts; best friends are great gifts. And even if our best friends are gone forever, they left us this gift behind. They left us memories like the stories we've just been telling each other. They left us moments of great joy (and a few moments of sadness, too). They loved us and that changed us.
"I know that's not much to go on at the moment. And I still hope your friend gets back in touch -- and mine, too. You know, like in a movie, or something: we each get a text tonight from our lost friend which begins "Merry, merry" or something. And then we text back and forth until our fingers are tired.
"That's not very realistic," Peggy said. "You're beginning to sound like that Pollyanna girl. Are you her brother, Pollytom?"
"You got me there,: I replied. "But it's okay to hope. And in the meantime, or always, we can still carry this friend in our heart. Do you know the lines from that e.e. cummings poem: 'i carry your heart with me, i carry it in my heart'?"
"Hey, yes. Peggy said. "My friend and I quoted that to each other all the time."
"My friend and I did, too," I said.
"I feel a little better," she said, getting up to go.
"Good, and you're welcome to come back tomorrow and help serve Christmas dinner at the coffee house."
"Thank you," Peggy said as she pushed open the door. "I'll be here."
"One more thing," I said. "Look up in the sky tonight and pick one star. Name that star for your friend. And imagine that, night after night, that star is your lost friend following you home."
"Does that help?" Peggy asked.
"It has helped me," I said, "and it would be even better if I knew someone else was doing the same thing."
"Okay, " Peggy said. "She got on her bike, shouted "Merry Christmas" and rode off into the night.
BILL WAS JUST ONE OF MANY
IN STATE MENTAL HOSPITALS
BILL Sackter spent nearly half a century at a state mental hospital in Minnesota. He was sent there as a seven year old child in the 1920s and remained there for 46 years. Sackter, for whom Bill's Coffee Shop and Uptown Bill's are named, was a resident at Faribault State Hospital, a giant institution with roots almost as old as the state of Minnesota. Minnesota became a state in 1858; the very first session of the state legislature authorized the establishment of centers for the "training and care of citizens who suffered mental and physical disabilities and for children who were unable to care for themselves."
The "state asylum" opened in 1863. It first was a residence for the "deaf, dumb and blind." In 1879, an experimental program for "idiotic and feeble-minded children" was added. Two years later, this became a permanent program under the name of "School for Idiots and Imbeciles." Later names for the center included "Minnesota Institute for Defectives" and "School for the Feeble-Minded." In 1885, another program, the "State School for Neglected and Dependent Children," was added. It was located in the nearby community of Owatonna.
By the time Bill Sackter arrived at Faribault in the 1920s, there were hundreds of people living there from all over Minnesota. And the institution continued to grow during most of Bill's years there. By 1955, there were more than 3,300 residents at Faribault. Once sent there, few individuals ever left Faribault. After they died, they usually were buried in a cemetery on the state hospital grounds.
Minnesota was not alone in removing individuals with disabilities from mainstream society. Every state in the US had similar institutions -- and so did many other countries. These institutions were based on a philosophy that such segregation was a good idea.
An historical marker on I-35 in Minnesota explains that Faribault state hospital was "established to provide students with activities and training, while protecting them from the slights and rebuffs of the outside world." (This marker is located at the Straight River rest stop between Albert Lea and Cannon Falls.)
THERE were always parents and others who doubted the wisdom of separating individuals with disabilities from their families and communities. But it was not until the late 1950s that their voices were loud enough to be heard in the chambers of the legislatures and the meeting rooms of professional societies.
By the 1960s, conventional professional wisdom shifted to support the idea of having individuals with disabilities stay in their communities. Counties stopped sending individuals to state hospitals. Then came a series of decisions to return to communities those who had been institutionalized.
Bill Sackter returned to Minneapolis in the early 1960s. He eventually found a job working in the kitchen of the restaurant at the Minikahda Country Club. It was there he met Bev and Barry Morrow; Bev was a waitress at the restaurant.
Hundreds of other men and women left Faribault in the 1960s and returned to Minneapolis and other communities around the state. (The same process was repeated in Iowa, South Dakota and other states.) Then in 1998, the state hospital at Faribault was closed for good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bill's Coffeeshop Newsletter is a virtual extension of Wild Bill's Coffeeshop and Uptown Bill's Coffee House. Published since 2000, the Newsletter is written by Tom Gilsenan, a former manager of Wild Bill's and now director of Uptown Bill's. You can write to him at tomgilsenan@gmail.com
Wild Bill's Coffeeshop is a project of the School of Social Work at the University of Iowa. It has been a part of campus life in Iowa City for more than 35 years. Located in North Hall, the coffeeshop is open weekdays from 8 am. For more information, check the Friends of Bill's Coffeeshop page on Facebook. You can call the coffeeshop at (319) 335-1281. Donations to support the work of the coffeeshop may be sent to: Bill's Coffeeshop Fund, University of Iowa Foundation, P.O. Box 4550, Iowa City, IA 52244. Contributions are tax deductible.
Uptown Bill's is the crosstown cousin of Wild Bill's. Now in its 12th year, it includes a bookstore, performance venue and other businesses in addition to a coffeeshop. Located at 730 S. Dubuque, Uptown Bill's is open Monday through Saturday from 10 am. For more information, check the Uptown Bill's website or Facebook page. You can call Uptown Bill's at (319) 339-0804. Donations to support the work of Uptown Bill's may be sent to: Extend the Dream Foundation, Uptown Bill's, 730 S. Dubuque St., Iowa City, IA 52240. Contributions are tax deductible. You can also donate online at the Uptown Bill's website: www.uptownbills.org
posted by Tom Gilsenan @ 6:17 PM
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