Get to Know: Tammy Laurent (Part 2)

In the following Tammy takes us back to the early 1990s, when she visited two institutions that, at the time, warehoused individuals with mental illness and intellectual disabilities. These institutions, now closed, represented a dark chapter in the history of care for those with disabilities.

Tammy’s accounts are both disturbing and essential. She bears witness to the horrors experienced by the people who lived within those walls—people who were often stripped of dignity, autonomy, and humanity. Her stories are not easy to hear, but they are a necessary reminder of how far we’ve come, thanks to the tireless efforts of families, advocates, and pioneers of community-based services who refused to accept institutionalization as an option.

As we look to the future, it is critical that we never forget this history. Many of the individuals we now support in community settings survived these institutions, carrying with them scars and stories that must not be erased. And yet, for a new generation of caregivers and Nonotuck staff, the reality of institutional life has faded into obscurity. This makes it all the more vital to remember and reflect, to ensure that the mistakes of the past are never repeated.

Tammy’s experiences shine a light on the resilience of those who lived through these times and the power of advocacy in driving systemic change. Her stories call on us to remain vigilant, compassionate, and committed to upholding the values of community, love, and respect. We encourage you to engage with her reflections fully and carry the lessons forward in your work and in your hearts.

How would you like to continue to grow in the Care Manager position?

I’ve always wanted to be a trainer—I want to train coworkers, staff, caregivers, people served, anyone who needs the training. We have so many training options, but something is lost when caregivers are just asked to watch a YouTube video. My next project is to create a combined human rights and mandated reporting training for caregivers and offer it to take that responsibility off other Care Managers’ shoulders. I’d like to hold two hybrid classes per year, where caregivers can come here to train in person or join via Zoom/Teams. Just reading the workbook doesn’t compare to having in-person discussions.

I have a lot of stories from my experiences—like my visits to Belchertown State School and Northampton Hospital—stories and examples that would enrich in-person training, especially here in the Berkshires. 

What’s an example of a story like that?

I was the house manager at one of the group homes, where one of the women was in crisis. She was self-injuring, aggressive, hurting others and herself. We had to restrain her constantly. She needed psychiatric hospitalization, and the only place with an open bed was Northampton State Hospital. I had to ride in the front seat during transport. She was in four-point restraints when we arrived. When we entered, I asked the staff if I could take her to the bathroom since she hadn’t gone in a long time. As soon as they released her restraints, she started banging her head.

Four, five, maybe six people jumped on her, put her on a bed, and tied her down. I started crying, and they asked, “Why are you crying? Is she your sister?” I said, “No, I work with her.” They responded, “You’re just staff, and you’re crying?” That was in the early to mid-90s, and the ignorance, intolerance, and disregard for people with intellectual disabilities or mental health issues were appalling. The other people on the floor were mostly in straitjackets. That experience was an eye-opener; I’d never seen anything like it. It was the first time being labeled “just a” strengthened my stance that nobody is ever “just a…” anything. I am a Care Manager—I am not “just” a Care Manager. I’m a mom; I’m a grandma. I can’t stand it when someone says, “You’re just a…”

When we visited Belchertown State School, {Former Nonotuck COO} Rich French went with me. There weren’t many people left living there, and those who remained were housed in cottages where staff lived. There were three men referred to BFAIR, and we went to meet them. Another time, we went to meet a couple of women who were set to leave that horrible place.

Have you ever seen the documentary Christmas in Purgatory? It’s about Belchertown, with pictures and stories that are truly horrifying. I remember one very distinctly—a young man wearing a fencing mask because he apparently had a tendency to bite people. They put him in a fencing mask. Fast forward to one of my trips to Belchertown—I was sitting on the floor, waiting for something, next to the door with a window in the padded room with restraints on the wall. I saw an enormous man walking down the hallway, flanked by four equally large staff members—that was the little boy in the fencing mask, grown up and coming down the hallway.

I read records from Northampton State School. The names they used to label people and the ways they were described were disturbing. One report from Northampton mentioned a woman’s teeth were in excellent condition, but four or five months later, another report said her teeth were so bad they needed to be removed. They pulled all her teeth out because she bit. I remember seeing a man I worked with labeled as “idiot white boy” in one report. The terms used were horrifying, but these stories are important to my growth and help others see how far we’ve come and how far we still need to go.

All the wards in the main building had their own day programs, spread across different areas of the hospital. In one place we visited, which used to be a ward, there were big, long rooms where you could almost envision the rows of beds. At the end of one of these rooms was a small area with a cage where the nurses stayed when they had to dispense medication—they were protected there. Walking up those staircases, you could hear the echoes of screams. They weren’t real; they weren’t actively happening, but you could hear them.

“Horrifying” is the only word I can use to describe it.

How Would You Compare Group Homes to Shared Living?

In Shared Living, someone doesn’t have to take turns with housemates to go out on an outing. It’s truly their home. No matter how well group homes are run, it just doesn’t feel like home. It’s just not the same.

In Shared Living, people are truly loved and valued as family members; they’re genuinely respected. I wouldn’t say that’s not the case in group homes, but in my experience working with them, it was discouraged for anyone to form bonds with the residents. You’re told, “You’re not their friend; you’re their staff.” Taking someone home for a holiday was seen as inappropriate.….but people are people