Winter Break

While a cold wind is blowing over Europe, football players as well as brown bears hold their annual winter sleep, Christmas trees are being burned and many are trying to lose some weight after the New Year celebrations, the Public Disability History blog will be silent for some weeks. From the beginning of February we will be back with more refreshing reflections on the many connections that can be made between disability, history and the public. Do not hesitate, however, to contact us in the mean-time in case you would like to contribute. We’ll add you to our annual schedule and reserve one of our precious slots!


Euthanasia enthusiasm

by Jan Grue

I was never a great admirer of D.H. Lawrence, even as a teenager. I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover, probably expecting some sort of frisson, some Vitalist thrill, even though the book could hardly carry the same impact in the 1990s as it had on its original publication. That thrill, however, depends entirely on one’s capacity for literary identification – with Lady Chatterley’s erotic awakening, or with Mellors the gamekeeper’s forceful physicality.

Unfortunately I was a wheelchair user, and so instead I couldn’t help identifying, on some level, with Clifford Chatterley. Unlike any other character I’d encountered in the Western canon, he even used a power wheelchair – inexpertly built and prone to breakdowns, but clearly a distant ancestor of the Permobil Trax chair I used – and still use – every day.

Clifford Chatterley is not what literary scholars would call a round character. He is perhaps best understood as a cobbled-together set of neuroses, hostility, and bitterness, the very model of what Tobin Siebers critiqued as the Freudian caricature of a disabled person: Wrapped up in narcissistic anxiety over an equally damaged body and soul.

I reacted to Lady Chatterley’s Lover more or less instinctively, with visceral unease, while reading it in my teens. On the level of comprehension and analysis, things fell rather more solidly into place a few years later, when I came across John Carey’s book The Intellectuals and the Masses. There, Carey quotes the following words from Lawrence’s letters (written in 1908, a full two decades before the publication of Lady Chatterley’s Lover):
"If I had my way, I would build a lethal chamber as big as the Crystal Palace, with a military band playing softly, and a Cinematograph working brightly; then I’d go out in the back streets and main streets and bring them in, all the sick, the halt, and the maimed; I would lead them gently, and they would smile me a weary thanks; and the band would softly bubble out the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’."
Historical colour lithograph of the Crystal Palace in London,
overlooking a vast park with picknicking groups.
There it is: An uplifting, well-orchestrated take on eugenically motivated genocide. Clifford Chatterley, it seems, got off easy. It may be because he was injured in the war, not burdened with a congenital impairment.

John Carey’s point is not that D.H. Lawrence was unique in holding murderously eugenicist views, it is rather that he was fairly representative of his time and milieu. A blog post is not a sufficient format for discussing that history in detail; here, I will merely draw some attention to the enthusiasm of his position, the softly bubbling music that accompanies the march toward the death chambers. And will point this out because of a recent spate of media stories with a similarly enthusiastic view of the deaths of people with impairments and serious illnesses.

Many of these stories have already been subject to some controversy, with disability activists and advocates of euthanasia or assisted suicide joining the debate. The two stories I will refer to here are readable in different ways, depending on one’s politics. My interest in them is chiefly centered on the intersection of aesthetics and morality – in how a certain kind of death is presented in the media as both beautiful and just, and therefore perhaps also necessary.

The first story can be read here: http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation-now/2016/09/22/following-last-dance-prom-wisconsin-teen-jerika-bolen-dies/90855656/

Jerika Bolen, a 14-year old girl “followed through on her decision to enter hospice and end an arduous, lifelong fight against Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type 2, an incurable and progressive disease that racked her body and brought continual pain”. It should be noted that SMA type 2, Bolen’s diagnosis, is generally consistent with a life expectancy well beyond late middle age.

In the article linked to, as in multiple other interviews and media texts, Bolen is presented as a rational agent making a rational choice – death over life – because of circumstances that, ultimately, cannot be changed. In the media optics, social and economic factors belong to these immutable circumstances. The “fight” cannot be won by living, only by dying. A celebratory tone ran through many of the news items that covered Bolen’s last few months. The stress was put on her “bravery” and on her autonomy.

Another story, perhaps even more striking because of the accompanying images, can be read here: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/ct-final-party-assisted-suicide-20160811-story.html

Betsy Davis, a “41-year-old artist with ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease, held the gathering to say goodbye before becoming one of the first Californians to take a lethal dose of drugs under the state's new doctor-assisted suicide law for the terminally ill.” The images showing her saying her goodbyes, surrounded by friends and family, are in their way even more striking than the portraits of Jerika Bolen. Death not only represents a victory, but a cause for celebration.

This is how the case for assisted suicide is put in the age of individual rights: As a triumph of autonomy, a celebration of self-chosen death. There are myriad differences between Bolen and Davis, between their conditions, their decisions, ultimately, of course, between their lives. In the media, however, a number of distinctions and differences collapse. The story remains the same, however, and can be paraphrased as follows: In the struggle against disability and disease, death can be a victory.

Euthanasia and assisted suicide are not, currently, framed by their advocates as state responsibilities or as arenas for state agencies. There will be no lethal chambers as big as the Crystal Palace. Death is a private matter, subject to the autonomous decisions of private citizens. In a word, it has been privatized.

There are distinctly national and regional approaches to the matter of voluntary death, ranging from the libertarian assisted-suicide approaches of the Western United States to the more paternalistic, euthanasia-inflected approach of Belgium. Generally, however, arguments in favor of the facilitation of such death are contingent upon an atomistic conception of “voluntary” – divorced from political structures, economic conditions, and social attachments. Divorced, in short, from nearly everything that shapes the reality of living with impairment or illness. While the band is softly bubbling the Hallelujah chorus, benefits are being cut and safety nets removed all over the developed world. There is every reason for disability scholars, advocates, activists, and for disabled people, to be wary of the current media enthusiasm for euthanasia and assisted suicide.

Recommended Citation:
Jan Grue (2016): Euthanasia enthusiasm. In: Public Disability History 1 (2016) 22.


Dreamscapes for Public Disability History: How (and Why, and Where, and With Whom) We Collaborate

by Penny Richards and Susan Burch

Historians and collaborators Penny Richards and Susan Burch decided to use this blog space for an extended virtual conversation on public disability history. They invite you to join in the discussion.

PR: So, when people ask you about disability history and ‘the public’, how do you answer?

Black and white photo of Junius Wilson 
on the day he moved into his cottage at Cherry Hospital.
Wearing his favorite Washington football team’s baseball cap,
the elderly black deaf man sits in a wheelchair at the entrance
to the house, looking slightly upward to the photographer 
while holding another baseball cap in his left hand.  

Photo courtesy of John Wasson.
SB: The word that comes to mind is ‘accountability.’ Learning about Junius Wilson’s story, and now many stories of families and Native peoples impacted by institutionalization (including Canton Asylum, a US federal psychiatric institution in South Dakota) clarifies that our work can have significant human impact. My academic training engaged ethical issues narrowly. I don’t recall ever having direct conversations about what it meant to interpret people’s lives: to consider that our historical subjects--however long ago they lived--may have kin or others potentially reading our work now. A conversation with Faith O’Neil (who granted permission to share this) stays with me. Faith’s grandmother, Elizabeth Alexis Fairbault (Sisseton Wahpeton Sioux Tribe) was incarcerated at the Canton Asylum. Faith’s own research uncovered a published Asylum history. It was wounding. Pathological, racist labels from archival sources were left unquestioned, reinforcing stigmatizing depictions of Faith’s ancestor. The book’s public/published presence intensified the hurt. It gives me pause to think about the sprawling distance between “insane patient” and “grandmother” (and Elizabeth Fairbault’s other names, the names that acknowledge her full humanity).

I’m not suggesting that scholars shouldn’t express their own interpretations or avoid tough subjects. To the contrary. But actively considering how our work may--or may not--contribute positively to the communities we study is necessary, too. In its best moments this approach actively engages with broader social justice work, and in so doing creates more thoughtful historical projects.

PR: Accountability is an important ethical standard for disability historians. Even with mostly nineteenth-century projects, I sometimes encounter relations who are interested in the people I describe, because they have a personal connection. Most of my projects involve subjects who wouldn’t have had direct descendants--they’re the spinster aunts and bachelor uncles that don’t always come with stories in the usual local history sources. But if they do have family-generated stories, that’s really exciting. If we can fill in some blanks for each other, that’s an exchange that exemplifies why responsible interaction with community and family histories is so worthwhile.

SB: This seems directly connected to the ‘place’ where your work often appears: open-access, online sites. How does accountability show up for you in this context?

PR: When I write disability history articles on Wikipedia, I think of being accountable to the public who might come looking for stories out of need or curiosity. If a parent is just learning their baby is blind, for example, they may seek biographies to give them a sense of what the future might hold (and not just the hero stories), or articles to help them comprehend the array of programs, organizations and laws they’re encountering. I imagine the student who wants to write a school paper that includes histories related to their own experience of chronic illness. They need accurate and clear language, and links to good and accessible sources for more information. They’re the public I imagine being accountable to, on Wikipedia.

SB: That resonates loudly with me. Generating disability history that’s accessible to a broad public has interlocking benefits: changing the dominant story of disability and disabled people; offering more inclusive models for historical work generally; and inviting more people to come into this work. Accessibility extends beyond how the content is crafted, which is partly why I’m drawn to your engagements with Wikipedia. Sharing the work in accessible formats reduces common barriers that seriously limit the current reach of disability history.

In a somewhat related way, I’m wondering what you think about collaboration in disability history: you’ve collaborated on many different kinds of collaboration (editing other people’s work, co-authoring, synthesizing current works by others, participating in blog-fests etc).

PR: Ah, well, like this very collaboration, I think for me the hardest part is opening up my work life --which is also my home life. Collaborating with me means writing days rained out by seizures, or school calendars, or marching band practice, and that’s stuff I don’t love imposing on other people. But, on the other hand, I likely wouldn’t be so interested in disability history if not for this particular home life, which is also my work life. I guess that’s one of the “hazards” of collaborating across the campus wall--life out here is a little messier and noisier!

An oval-framed photo from about 1903, 
in sepia tones, of an older woman, 
Marion Brown, white hair parted in the center,
 wearing a black cap and dress; the 
photographer's cardboard frame adds 
a red border and the words "Jenner & Co."
I like working with people who have first-hand knowledge or connection to the subject--because I often don’t bring that to the project (I don’t identify as disabled, and I know other privileges can keep me from noticing what I should). I like being able to ask, “What does it seem like she’s really saying here?” and getting an unexpected answer. This happened with the Marion Brown project. I shared it with a group of participants in an MS (multiple sclerosis) program, and they had so many cool insights I couldn’t have reached solely from my own experience. They were animated to find a familiar story in a historical setting--because how often do the words and feelings of people with chronic illness feature in historical narratives, especially ones meant for a general readership? Now that the project has a blog, I get comments from knitters and cheese experts too, all contributing to my understanding of Marion Brown’s life.

Wikipedia is all collaborative. Anyone can rewrite your work, but much of the collaboration happens outside the articles themselves, in WikiProjects that create worklists to focus attention on a specific topic. I’m happy when folks come through and add tags and fix formatting and ask questions. That kind of collaboration has been helpful to me, because I know a group of like-minded volunteers is watching, reading and refining what I write, as soon as I write it--not a year later, when it maybe finally turns up in a print journal, too late to be changed. In general, I like the immediacy of collaboration online (like the format we used to generate this conversation!).

SB: I especially like our collaborations because there’s a strong level of trust (and fun, and activist experience, and shared love of dance). It supports making mistakes as part of the process. How many drafts have we workshopped, re-routing research and writing paths because our conversations revealed some key point?...

The immediate understanding that our work impacts us as people matters, too. Bearing witness to deeply human experiences--tender, lusty, funny, baffling, brutal, and mundane--imprints how and who we are. But it’s rare that (‘academic’) historians breach this topic, at least in public spaces. It’s in quiet hotel corners, living rooms, porches, and Skype chats I’m asked how feel about studying stories often involving significant violence and trauma. Friendship and support accompany the questions. But so do other yearnings: to navigate compassionately these kinds of complicated pasts and also navigate compassionately our own lives in the present. I imagine this as part of a dreamscape of public disability history that’s fully ‘being’ public disability history. Tell me more about how you imagine this--

PR: Both welcoming in and reaching out are important. For the reaching way out, I think there’s a pervasive cultural idea that working with people who have cognitive disabilities is something different from working with any other group, with children or older folks or across language obstacles; but it’s not a “special case”. Pedagogy is pedagogy, collaboration is collaboration, we look for common ground, we find starting places, we ask for help when we’re stumped. If written language and specialized vocabulary aren’t the best mode of exchange, maybe we gather in material culture, museum professionals, even visual artists and sound designers, to make disability history accessible. And we’d best approach both welcoming and outreach aspects of public disability history as opportunities for mutual exchange--not as a one-way interaction.

I’ve been glad to see disability as a theme in the StoryCorps project, and disability history too, through the Disability Visibility Project. The project at Swansea about disability in a mining society did some extensive and creative outreach too.

Can we have disability history booths at resource fairs? At equipment expos? At playdates at accessible playgrounds? Not here and there, but as one of the usual things that disability historians do? That’s my dreamscape.

SB: [Nodding enthusiastically]. A dreamscape that holds space for wide sharing of information and local in-person interactions: yes! And inviting more people to recognize disabled people’s active presence in big and small lived histories. The challenges of resources, of inaccessible environments, of contexts that work against these kinds of public connections..to return to a self-reflective process (and perhaps public disability community reflective process) of considering ‘who’s not here’ and why…

PR: Well, we’re on a blog, so we should maybe use the possibilities of the format here to invite others into the conversation now. As historians, I guess we’re always up for stories from real life. In comments, readers, we’d love to know your ideas for a public disability history dreamscape, for your experiences of collaborations across the campus wall, and the mutual exchanges that were successful (or at least lesson-filled). What are the barriers you’ve encountered? What rewards made it worth the effort?

Recommended Citation:
Penny Richards & Susan Burch (2016): Dreamscapes for Public Disability History: How (and Why, and Where, and With Whom) We Collaborate. In: Public Disability History 1 (2016) 21.


A Wall’s Heritage: Making Mad People’s History Public

By Geoffrey Reaume

“None found”.1 This was how mad people who built a 19th century brick boundary wall were described in a 1996 City of Toronto Heritage Report. The architect was extolled in this report but the unpaid labourers who actually constructed these walls were literally non-existent. The same year and only a few blocks away from where this report was issued, I found easily available documents in the Archives of Ontario which clearly state who toiled on the wall. This post will discuss efforts to first of all include and engage people with disabilities in public histories, while also bringing to a wider audience disabled people's historical experiences. Secondly, these efforts will also be discussed as a way to challenge prejudiced attitudes towards people with disabilities today by making accessible pasts relevant to contemporary experiences. Finally, it will be emphasized that bringing this history quite literally to the street corner is a way of using publicly accessible spaces to both involve and engage a community of people who have seldom been consulted about how to interpret, preserve and commemorate our own past. This article explores this effort located at Ontario’s oldest continuously operating mental health facility.

It was at this site, from the mid 19th century, that insane asylum inmates toiled for no pay under the guise of “moral therapy”. Ostensibly aimed to improve the mental health of mad people with light work and recreation, “moral therapy” ended up becoming a system of economic exploitation of asylum inmates whereby “therapy” was a cover for using public inmates to build, clean and maintain mental institutions. Asylum operators in 19th century Ontario made no secret of how much money they saved public works by having insane asylum inmates do work for no cost. Indeed, when eastern and western portions of the boundary walls were reconstructed in 1888-89, Toronto Asylum Superintendent, Daniel Clark wrote that the use of inmates in building these walls saved “ten of thousands of dollars” for the provincial government.2 The Toronto Asylum at 999 Queen St. West was originally opened in 1850 where to this day a mental health facility – the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) – continues to operate in what is now a very heavily populated area of the city just west of the downtown core. Asylum inmates built the first stone wall surrounding 50 acres of the asylum property in 1860. However, the east and west walls had to be torn down and re-built in 1888-89 as urbanization encroached on the once pastoral setting so that the property was reduced to 26 acres, the dimensions which still exist today.3

Between 1970-75 the old asylum buildings and the entire north boundary wall were demolished to make way for the new buildings, which eventually had their official opening in 1979.4 All that exists today of the old 19th century Toronto Asylum is the east, west and south boundary walls, along with two brick workshop/storage buildings in the back (south side) of the property. By the early 2000s, there were plans to redevelop the entire site again during which there was talk of tearing down the boundary walls, particularly the most visible and well preserved wall along the east side of this property – the Shaw Street Wall. By this time, I had discovered in my research for my doctoral dissertation, published as a book in 2000, that the boundary walls had been built by asylum inmates, as noted above. Previous to this, the emphasis on preserving the walls, as in the 1970s, had been because they represented the work of a well-known Toronto architect, Kivas Tully.

Thus, while local historical preservationists had advocated saving the wall since the 1970s – and were successful in doing so during the reconstruction done on this site during that decade – this was done by their emphasis on the architectural history of this structure designed by a well known local architect rather than its worth as evidence of the social history of patients who built it and who lived and died behind it. By the time the next major reconstruction yet again threatened the existence of the wall, the emphasis shifted significantly. This shift was due to the active involvement of activists in the mad community in preservation and interpretative efforts, now backed up by primary source research that provided a very different interpretation of the wall’s history.5

Instead of focusing on an architect, the historical importance of this site was re-oriented to being one of the last remaining physical symbols of unpaid patient labour from the Toronto Asylum era. This was a particularly evocative symbol in that patients were made to build the very walls behind which they were confined.6 The 1860 south wall is also notable, for not only is it the oldest part of the provincial asylum at 999 Queen Street West still in existence, it also is the oldest example of psychiatric inmates’ labour anywhere in Ontario.7

Since 1998, public history events within the psychiatric survivor and mad community in Toronto have included using the patient built wall as a site of both commemoration and public education. The first efforts to publicize the labour history of the wall were in the form of a play which was performed at various times between 1998 – 2000, at two venues right next to the property where the wall is situated, as well as at the psychiatric facility itself. This play, “Angels of 999” was written, produced and acted almost entirely (though not exclusively) by psychiatric survivors in the Friendly Spike Theatre Band, including people who were current and former patients at this psychiatric facility. It was based on research from my PhD thesis and the play used the words and experiences of historical patients as was revealed by archival records.8 The patient-built wall was the central motif in the play around which the actors performed, with unpaid labour being a major theme of the play. The building of the wall with unpaid labour was thus publicly acknowledged for the first time and began a public re-interpretation of its past which has continued since then. One psychiatric survivor who was then a member of the Queen Street Patients Council, told me after seeing the play that she had never thought much about the wall before but now she looks at it quite differently and with some pride knowing that patients were the ones who built it. It was with this sense of pride, and also righteous indignation that this history had been so willfully ignored for so long, along with the exploitation it represents of unpaid labour and contempt for the contributions of mad people to our past, that this play catapulted the history of the wall into further venues for public history.

Just as the run of the play was ending, another form of getting the word out about this history in a participatory way, was beginning – wall tours. From 2000 until 2016 when this blog is being written, 142 tours led by myself of the patient built wall have taken place, first as part of Psychiatric Survivor/Mad Pride week events and then reaching out into the wider community. For several years beginning in 2011 mad actors in the Friendly Spike Theatre Band also led public walls tours with singing and acting out historical scenes from this structure’s history. Lasting from one to two hours, depending on the occasion, the wall tours proceed along the entire perimeter of the patient built 19th century boundary walls on the east, west and south sides of the current CAMH property, during which the lives and unpaid work of the men and women who were patients at the old asylum are described near the places they toiled as represented by the wall they built, lived and worked behind. The point of these tours is to both commemorate people whose history has been previously ignored and to draw a direct link with present day prejudices towards people with psychiatric histories, particularly the high unemployment rates and related prejudice that people with psychiatric diagnoses are unreliable and violent – both of which are widely damaging myths.9 The point here is to challenge prejudice by also telling people if they ever hear anyone repeating stereotypes about the “unreliability” of mad people, to tell them to come down to Queen and Shaw (a major street corner most people in Toronto know about) and take a look at, and feel this wall. It is intended that this sort of concrete lesson will resonate with people after the wall tour ends. Some participants have said that they didn’t realize the wall was built by patient labourers prior to the tour.10

These efforts at public commemoration also led to work by myself and others in the Psychiatric Survivor Archives of Toronto (founded in 2001) to install public plaques commemorating the labour of psychiatric patients on this site, with the support of members of the CAMH Archives and the wider mad and local community. After nearly a decade of advocating for these plaques, including wall tours, fundraising and public meetings, the plaques were unveiled in September 2010. The best way to end this account of mad people’s history as public history is to include the wording that is on the main descriptive plaque at the front of the CAMH grounds by the east wall, along a highly visible location on a busy street corner (chosen for just this reason). Along with eight other plaques scattered about the grounds, the plaques serve as a permanent public marker of a history that is now available for all to learn about. It took years of work to get these plaques installed which include carefully chosen words reflecting a critical understanding of mad people’s history as can be found on the first plaque, “Memorial Wall Plaques Dedicated to Patient Labourers”:

Ground plan of the original site and text description
Memorial Wall Plaques Dedicated to Patient Labourers.
Ground plan of the original site and text description.
Photo: Geoffrey Reaume
These patient-built walls are a testament to the abilities of the people whose unpaid labour was central to the operation of asylums in the province of Ontario during the 19th and 20th centuries. The asylum on Queen Street first opened in 1850 and was overcrowded within a few years. The initial idea of work as therapy gave way to the reality of work intended to save the provincial government money through unpaid patient labour. Men worked outdoors on construction, maintenance and farm work, including building and repairing many of the structures behind which they were confined, including the still existing boundary walls on the south side of this property, built in 1860 and the east and west boundary walls built in 1888-89. Women worked primarily inside, doing the sewing, knitting and laundry for the asylum, while also working as domestic servants in both the nurses’ and doctors’ residences not far from this spot. Both men and women also worked in their own sex-segregated wards doing domestic chores such as cleaning, washing and scrubbing floors. Patients also worked in the male (west side) and female (east side) infirmaries, where they helped to care for those of their fellow patients who were sick and dying. Seen by many as the physical representation of prejudiced attitudes towards people with a psychiatric diagnosis, the walls which still stand today are historical monuments to the exploited labour of all psychiatric patients who lived, worked and died on these grounds since 1850.11

Recommended Citation:
Geoffrey Reaume (2016): A Wall’s Heritage: Making Mad People’s History Public. In: Public Disability History 1 (2016) 20.

[1] City of Toronto By-Law No. 1997-0085, Schedule “B”, Heritage Property Report, Recording Date, September 1996, p. 3.
[2] Annual Report, 1890, 42-3, as quoted in Geoffrey Reaume, Remembrance of Patients Past: Patient Life at the Toronto Hospital for the Insane (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 147. For a discussion of patient labour in 19th century Ontario see: Geoffrey Reaume, “Patients at Work: Insane Asylum Inmate Labour in Ontario, 1841-1900,” in J. Moran and D. Wright, eds., Mental Health and Canadian Society: Historical Perspectives. Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen's University Press, 2006: 69-96. Historical studies on the exploitation of labour of people confined in asylums has only recently been discussed as a significant topic worthy of consideration in itself, rather than integrated briefly into wider asylum histories. In addition to the above, see also: Lee-Ann Monk, “Exploiting patient labour at Kew Cottages, Australia, 1887-1950”, British Journal of Learning Disabilities 38:2 (2010): 86-94. See also the varied interpretations of psychiatric patients’ labour in the following collection: Waltraud Ernst (Editor). Work, psychiatry and society, c. 1750–2015 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016).
[3] Reaume, “Patients at Work”, p. 74, 85.
[4] John Court, “From 999 to 1001 Queen Street: A Consistently Vital Resource,” in E. Hudson, ed. The Provincial Asylum in Toronto: Reflections on Social and Architectural History (Toronto: Toronto Region Architectural Conservancy, 2000), p. 194-96.
[5] Terms used to self-identify as psychiatric survivor, consumer, mad, patients, ex-patient, client and other terms are diverse and contentious within the community of people who choose one or another of these identifiers. In order to respect the choices people make, this article will use terms that are used by most of the individuals involved in this history with whom the author is familiar, the most common being psychiatric survivor or mad person.
[6] Reaume, Remembrance of Patients Past, p. 147.
[7] The next oldest surviving example in the province of a building built by insane asylum inmates is from 1861 in Amherstburg, Ontario at the former Malden Asylum Reaume. See: Reaume, “Patients at Work”, p. 76.
[8] I wrote the initial drafts of this play which were then dramaturged by Ruth Stackhouse and Ken Innes of Friendly Spike Theatre Band, and additional script contributions were made by members of the theatre troupe. It was workshopped over a weekend of performances in June 1998, and then performed for 10 days in May 1999 and for two weeks in April 2000, along with several shows at different venues during this time, the last performance being in July 2000. The book launch for Remembrance of Patients Past in April 2000 was centered around the play and, before the play, we went out of the theatre to the nearby west wall where we toasted the wall and all the patients who built it and who lived and died behind it.
[9] Otto F. Wahl, Media Madness: Public Images of Mental Illness (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1995).
[10] Geoffrey Reaume, “Psychiatric Patient Built Wall Tours at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH), Toronto, 2000 – 2010”, Left History, 15:1 (Fall/Winter 2010-2011): 127-146.
[11] The wording for this introductory plaque, along with the other plaques which have fewer words, is taken directly from PSAT’s original draft of August 2005, submitted with the support of CAMH Archives to the CAMH Administration in February 2006, and re-submitted in May 2008 after another consultation on the plaques. On July 15, 2008 further dialogue arose out of a presentation I made the day before at CAMH sponsored by the Empowerment Council for Mad Pride week events entitled: “Hugging Our History: Why Psychiatric Survivors Need to ‘Own’ Our Mad Past”. This event was attended by about 30 people, including from the CAMH administration, during which discussion of the wall plaques came up leading to further discussion between CAMH and myself the following day as a direct result of a question a CAMH patient asked me: “What is happening with the wall plaques?” As a result, this final wording, with the crucial word “exploitation”, was agreed upon in July 2008, though in April 2010 one more revision was made when the following wording was added into the final line at the suggestion of CAMH and approved by PSAT: “Seen by many as the physical representation of prejudiced attitudes towards people with a psychiatric diagnosis” with the rest of the wording in this line and on this plaque having been written by myself as a member of PSAT.