To the Asylum You Go
The Great Depression of 1929 was on America's doorstep and James Cherry was under immense pressure from the rail companies to produce more coal from the successful mine he grew out of farming lands of northern Illinois. In order to alleviate some stress the owners of the Chicago Milwaukee and St. Paul Rail Road placed on him, he decided to unload his biggest burdenof the last 9 years. Little did he realize that his son’s removal would happen in dramatic fashion.
The burly orderly punched Clyde squarely in the face. The blunt force of the strike was concentrated on his nose. The other orderly, who was lanky, was standing off to the side of the flailing body and only moved towards Clyde after his body settled on the hardwood floor. He reached down, grasped Clyde’s right arm and pulled his torso up, while pushing his shoulder to the side. The burly orderly grabbed Clyde’s ankles and they both flipped him on his stomach.
“Beside you, grab the jacket,” the lanky orderly ordered. His voice trembling and his breathing was labored. He was unprepared for the larger orderly’s punch to Clyde's face which surprised him however no more surprised than Clyde. The burly orderly crossed Clyde's ankles, bent his legs back at the knees, and rested his heavy body on them to prevent Clyde from flailing. The straightjacket was still clasped and not properly prepared for use.
“Which way does it go?” The lanky orderly asked, unsure which part of the jacket he was holding.
“I think front to back. Undo the snaps. Hurry because he’s getting squirmy.”
At 6’ 3”, 275 lbs. the burly orderly was planning on using every inch of leverage and inflict some serious pain on Clyde. Stretching his torso while he was anchoring his hips down. Clyde yelped in pain. Unsure of what he was doing the lanky orderly clumsily fumbled with the jacket trying to determine the best method of getting it on quickly.
Clyde was in agony. His body was awkwardly twisted and contoured into positions that he never experienced before today.
The lanky orderly frantically scanned the jacket and began undoing anything that had a clasp on it. In no particular order he managed to undo all the straps and unsnap the buttons. He struggled to get the jacket over Clyde but once he did he awkwardly buckled the rear clasping sleeves.
All three of them were exasperated. They laid on the floor beside each other recovering from the arduous ordeal they all experienced. After a few minutes the burley orderly looked over at Clyde.
“You good?” The burly orderly was asking in what seemed to be a brief moment of humanity.
“Yes,” Clyde barely said.
“You good?”
The lanky orderly lifted his head up.
“I didn’t think being an intern was so difficult.”
The burly orderly stood up. Adjusted his clothing. Wiped his pants down. Grabbed a portion of the straightjacket and pulled Clyde up to the seated position. Blood dripped from Clyde’s nostrils. A thin cut was at the bridge of his nose.
“You can't learn this in some book.” He looked down at Clyde and said, “We aren’t done yet. To the asylum you will go.” He then began to manhandle him.
“Are we being too rough on him,” the lanky orderly asked.
“His dad said by any means necessary. He resisted.” He then proceeded to drag him up the stairs by the straightjacket. Step by step, his backside scraped along the carpeted platform, his lower back striking the ledge of the next step.
As he got to the top of the stairs, he was pulled across the black and white checkered kitchen floor. The kitchen was rather large, 26 x 24. Sounds of his limp body being forcefully dragged across the floor filled the space with a squealing sound. When his momentum finally stopped at the edge of the kitchen, the skinny orderly grabbed his ankles and spun him 180 degrees around and dropped his feet, which fell hard towards the ground and made a loud booming noise when his heals struck the surface. He realized he was on the edge of the living room. He then looked up.
In the middle of his vision of the 24-foot high ceilings and between the 10 feet exposed beams, that stretched upwards, was his father’s perfectly framed face looking back at him. His father was prepared for a final confrontation of his son.
“Son, I’m so disappointed in what you have become. A recluse, shut in, a loser,” his baritone voice rumbled. His eyeglasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose “For 31 years you have been a thorn in my side. I warned you. I told you this day would come, you're unworthy of my loins."
"Please, daddy don't say that to me. I've tried so hard to be the son you wanted,” he sobbed. The blood from his nose mixed with his tears when he wiped his eyes.
"I know you killed your mother. I know you did! Tell me. Just admit your deed. Free me from this fucking torment."
"There is no way I would kill her, daddy."
"Lies! Lies! Lies!' he ripped the eyeglasses of his face and tossed them over his shoulder. He reached down and grabbed the sleeves of the straight jacket.
"Sealing her in the room. Pumping carbon monoxide in from the flute you made in the side of the brick fireplace. You were a sick child. I spent many years rebuilding my life after those fires engulfed those tunnels. You tried to destroy it all!”
His father clutched him in close and embraced his son. "Daddy, I thought I did kill her for many years. Until, He came to me in the night. The man I killed in the mines with the pickax in order to escape my own impending death. He killed her. He told me that the widowed women of the deceased and those who lost their children summoned him from the slag hills, the makeshift graves you made when you covered their remains in those shafts.”
Their cries filled the air cresting at the ceiling then raining down upon them amplifying their pain.
After 9-years of frustration Clyde's father screamed at the top of his lungs. "Damn you to hell! You bastard." He began throwing his forearms into Clyde's body. Clyde fell over. The orderlies were unmoved and stood stoically as they watched the family drama unfold. His father pushed him to the side and began to punch wildly.
“That is enough with your delusions of grandeur. I hate you- I hate you! Take him to the sanitarium! I never want to see him again.”
An old man stepped off the Greyhound bus and meandered around people for the first time in 26 years. You wouldn't consider his age old however, the torture he’s endured over the last quarter century would have aged anyone 20 plus years. Parched from his bus ride he headed over to the soda pop counter and grabbed himself a bottle of Green River soda. After popping the top, he turned around to admire a view he had never seen before, which overwhelmed him. Chicago was a big city. He sat down on the closest bench he could find and sipped his soda while watching the people walk by.
“1955, this world sure has changed,” Clyde muttered while he people watched.
He sat back and removed his hat. He dabbed his forehead with his kerchief.
“Whoosh.” He exhaled a sigh of frustration.
Clyde continued to sip his pop. After each gulp he’d palm the bottle, swishing the lime flavor around in his mouth. That sweet tasting Green River soda tasted even sweeter now that he was free. He wishes there was a little whiskey to add better flavor to a sweet pop he only had sparingly since those childhood days. He leaned to his right and charged his hand forcefully into his left rear pocket. In that pocket there was a folded bundle of paper. Once in his hands, he opens it and over the front letterhead spelled out in large 13-point font “Chicago Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium.” Embarrassed he quickly folded it and looked around. When he realized the people around him could careless that he was even sitting there, he opened it again and proceeded to read the information in the 3-page letter.
“You are hereby granted release after a thorough evaluation by Doctor Brennan and staff...” the letter started.
The CMTS (Chicago Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium) was built on a large 160-acre property that was owned by Cook County but the facility itself was run by the City of Chicago. The sanitarium was opened in 1915 for patients with the “white plague” or tuberculosis. People ignored the plight of the incarcerated much like anyone who has ever passed a county animal shelter. We all know what happens in there, but we choose to ignore the euthanasia. But what happens behind those tightly secured buildings, which was occupied by large orderlies, ornery nurses, and doctors who ruled with iron fists is much worse than putting an animal humanly down. Men and women with severe mental problems were heavily drugged and tortured while in captivity. Doctors held them there on their orders for months, years, and some for decades. The county never looked into why patients were held on to for so long. And the city never volunteered any information. The extra financial perk the county receives for dealing with mentally ill and emotionally disturbed people who don’t have cognitive function to participate in what they felt were “normal lives” was too great to pass up.
In 1955 the federal government formed the Mental Health Study committee. Administrators of the asylum became concerned the feds would want to use their patients as part of their statistical study, so they began thinning their numbers by purging some of their more poorly treated patients. They mostly discharged the ones that were tortured and tested on.
When Clyde was finally released, he had been in CMTS’s “care” for 26 years, 19 days, 7 hours and 31 minutes. And for all that time spent in their mental facility, the city only offered him a bus ticket, $150 dollar check, and some donated clothing by Holy Trinity Church from his hometown.
From working in the mineshaft, isolation in the basement of his parents’ home, and near isolation while at CMTS, Clyde’s only friend was solitude. He never had visitors. His mom was the only person who cared about him, but she died in 1920. He never expected much from his father. His dad was a notorious workaholic who didn't have time for children. Some people in his father’s circle speculated that he reluctantly made a child for his wife to keep her company while he was away. As far as Mr. Cherry was concerned when his wife died so did the heir to his fortune.
Clyde looked up from his paperwork when he heard the sounds of children giggling. He was wrought with fear and leapt to his feet. In doing so he dropped his soda pop bottle causing it to fizz and self-propel into a spin once it hit the ground. His body trembled. He looked around feverishly assuming death beckoned.
"I'm sorry! Please, please I'm sorry. What a bastard you are,” Clyde said out loud.
Tears streamed down his face because of the emotional toll placed on him from all his torturous years in the asylum. The water dripped off his cheeks and onto his discharge paperwork. His emotional state was so intense he hid his face with the paperwork out of embarrassment.
“Let it go. Let it go, damn it!” He said while pressing the paperwork harder against his face, desperately trying to muffle his emotions. When he realized he was standing in the soda water he let out a yelp! “It’s soda! It’s soda,” he pleaded while moving away from the puddle. “These are only tears on this paper,” pressing the discharge paperwork harder against his face.
After a couple of deep breaths he uncovered his face. He looked towards the sky and slowly glanced down, while simultaneously moving the hand that was holding the paperwork along the front of his body. His palm followed along the buttons of the shirt, down to his groin area. He slowly wiped his pants checking to see if he had taken a leak on himself. He was dry. A woman pushing her child in a stroller witnessed Clyde’s brief fondle and looked at him appalled. “57 years-old,” he told her “you never know when and where you’ll go.” “You’re disgusting.” She said and quickly moved passed him.
Clyde nodded at her then reached down and picked up the bottle. He sat back down, took a quick glance around and placed it beside him. He found reassurance once he realized the laughter was coming from overzealous children who were excited about their bus trip. Clyde cleaned his face with his bandana, gathered his composure and continued to read his discharge paperwork that detailed his treatment. “This was no treatment, only experimentation.”
Clyde did have a tortured soul. He never understood why he was born into such a difficult life. After decades of abuse, he was too far-gone to remember what happiness was like. He desperately tried to forget about the little town where he grew up since the day his father expelled him from the family basement. But he missed his mother dearly
Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry was a strong independent woman herself and a prominent figure in the Chicago High Society Club. A place where high profile women could associate which was a huge deal in the beginning of the 19th century. Domestication did not suit her. Clyde was not a burden that his father declared he would be since the day he was born. She realized having a child opened up other social agendas. She worked tirelessly at them and never failed to demonstrate her power of being a independent married woman with a baby. James rarely challenged her. There seemed to be a little jealousy on behalf of James towards Clyde and the affection his mother held for him. He rarely showed love for his boy the way he coveted money. And when a new venture presented itself the shrewd business man got what he wanted.
“I’ve settled in, James. The Chicago Women’s club just accepted me. I really want to serve on a committee and make a difference here.”
“Fish is going to get my permits approved so I can build that mine to get coals to his trains. It’s our chance to make lots more money.”
“I really don’t want to do this to, Clyde, James.”
“Do it for us Elizabeth. Not for a 7-year-old boy who has no idea what is going on! We will have a town in our name. A legacy for all of us especially for, Clyde.” "You mean a town named after your family." "Do not act like you cannot leave a mark for your own legacy." "Moving me away from the city is not what is best for me right now."
Clydes father was wrong that Clyde wouldn’t remember. All he had was vivid memories of his childhood because the horror of the rest of his life compressed it into a small memory bank. He may be enjoying the taste of Green Mountains sweet freedom but Clyde understood there was something greater brewing now that he was free and the sweetness would soon be tart.
Signs
Being released from the sanatorium was whirlwind of a day that began at 6 AM. Frankly, he thought they would murder him before letting him free after what the staff inflected on him but what must have been done out of some kind of compassion for his son, the estate would still fund the sanatarium contingent on keeping him alive. He sat at the bus bench nearly all day since there was no place for him to go. He felt reborn because everything he saw was new to him. One thing in particular caught his eye. A metal, self-serve newspapers stand. He walked over and read the newspaper headline scrolled over the top of The Chicago American header. There was a name that caught his eye, George Eddy, Jr..
Clyde dug out 7 cents and dropped it into the box, removed a newspaper, and read the first few lines of the article.
“My series on my little mining town of Cherry, Ill. fond memories I had as a child resonate more with my own children…” the article began.
Clyde finished the article, folded the newspaper in half, and sandwiched his discharge paperwork between the folded halves. Nothing good could come out of Clyde going back to the town of Cherry. A town where in 1909 a mine fire killed 259 men and children as young as 10. He was used more for experimentation rather than treatment. Clyde's mind was muddled with memories of heavy smoke, flames and dying men and children. Some days in the mental asylum they had to sedate him over his constant claims that he could still taste the soot and the claim that the feel of the heat singed his hair.
Voices in My Head