Storrs CT, 2022

Written by: Jess Gallagher

It was a Monday afternoon in the beginning of my senior year at the University of Connecticut (UConn). On this specific September day, I walked across campus to the Philip E. Austin building that housed many of UConn’s English professors and staff members. Like many of the buildings across our campus, the English building was named after former President Philip E. Austin who served from 1996 to 2007, starting his legacy just 3 years after the closure of Mansfield Training School (MTS). I never thought much of Austin or UConn’s former presidents, in fact, their existences rarely ever crossed my mind. As academics, we often get so wrapped up in the present that we begin to forget our past.

Names on buildings blur together.

Broken and run-down spaces become objects of haunting.

Outdated research and photos become files buried in archives.

We didn’t know how my university came to be and felt that many of us may not realize what has occurred behind the walls of the places we spend most of our time.

On this specific day though, I ditched my daily walk across campus to meet with my thesis advisor, Dr. Brenda Brueggemann. Brenda and I had recently created our very own book club for the independent study project I worked on with her called “Access @ UConn,” a project designed to shape UConn’s policies surrounding accessibility that views access as diversity. In our reading series, we read countless books from scholars in the field of Disability Studies. On this day, we decided to read Jay Dolmage’s Academic Ableism.

As I made my way across campus to meet Brenda in her office at Austin, I mentally ran through a list of everything I wanted to tell her: how spaces are an act of persuasion; where we could see the ‘design apartheid’ that excludes disabled people in design decisions at UConn; and how we could think more about accessibility versus accommodation. But, most importantly, did disability have deeper roots in UConn?

When I got to Brenda’s office, we had our usual conversation: “how’s your day going?” and “what did you think of our book this week?” Normally when I see Brenda, I always take my time to think about what I want to say long before I even utter a word. Yet, for some reason, I was speechless at first. But Brenda spoke up and redirected us to a line that ultimately stuck out for both of us—one that prompted us to investigate UConn’s history with disability.

In Dolmage’s text he states, “While land-grant universities were popping up in rural spaces, asylums were popping up in other, nearby rural settings—on old farms and abandoned land. Yet the two institutions were often tightly hinged or merged together” (49). Nearby rural settings, huh? Okay. UConn was founded in 1881, so it’s old enough and the entire town of Mansfield is pretty much known for its farmland and ‘rural’ status.

“Jess, do you know about the Depot Campus?”

“Um. Yeah, I think so.”

I had a feeling that Brenda could sense my slight confusion and she began quickly tapping across her keyboard. Turning the screen towards me, she showed the Mansfield Town website, which read:

“The UConn Depot campus is the site of the former Mansfield Training School and Hospital, which closed in 1993. The property was transferred to the University at that time without appropriate resources to improve deteriorating building and site conditions.

Located at the western gateway to Mansfield, the Depot campus is two miles from the main UConn campus, includes 240 acres, and is connected by shuttle service. Less than half of the campus is used today and primarily for small programs and administrative or operational support functions.”

This was the first time I heard the words “The Mansfield Training School.” At this point in my academic career, I didn’t know much. New to the Disability Studies scene, I had a small repertoire of knowledge at my disposal.

Brenda and I just stared at each other. Brenda and I have driven past the institution countless times. Of course, we didn’t think too much of it. The old, broken-down brick buildings never had any signs or indication as to what they were. And, from the road at least, you’d have to be in the passenger seat coming up Route 44 to even get a good look at the buildings. Transferred to UConn in 1993, the only information available to us at this moment was the name “Mansfield Training School and Hospital.” All other records surrounding the institution, besides a handful of annual reports and articles on its ‘haunted’ nature, were nonexistent. Erased.          

I wish I could say I didn’t think much of it, but I did. That night, I started researching “Mansfield Training School.” After hours of scrolling through random forums and articles from the Mansfield Historical Society, I knew that locating the history of MTS would be much harder than I had imagined. Nothing except old student reports and some unfinished blogs appeared.

I figured that maybe because it’s been open for such a long time, perhaps the paper documents got lost in the move? However, if this really was a state-funded hospital or school, their archival records should have at least been stored at a library. I then turned my attention to The Thomas J. Dodd Research Center that houses a majority of UConn’s archives and other collections from around the world—that’s where I found my first clue. My trips to the archives occurred almost every week. I wrote, I took notes, I scanned documents, and I learned. I learned that Jay was right. If we looked closer at UConn, maybe we could find some trace of affiliation, a partnership, or just a crumb that would show that they were connected.