Riding home from campus on my bike the other day, I passed by a house that is a residence for adults with developmental disabilities. In social work parlance, it is a group home. Two residents were each pushing lawn mowers down the street while a third talked to a neighbor. These residents had a caretaker with them who was kindly walking along keeping the three on task. This across-the-street neighbor was kidding the men, all in their late 40s or older, because he had seen them out at a local restaurant the other night. He was needling them for all the BBQ ribs they ate. The good-natured chiding, the laughter, the warm feelings: it may have been a work crew finishing a long week together or a bowling team after a tournament. Guys having fun. Guys sharing a laugh with one of the guys.
I found the sight heartwarming.
I know one of the residents by name, Tom. He is quite the Notre Dame Football fan, as I am. I owned a few ND shirts I didn’t want anymore and made it a point of dropping them by his residence several years back. He
still lights up when he sees me. This was during the darker years of ND Football when the Faithful (Subway Alums or graduates alike) needed to rally to the cause. Tom was right there.
This particular residence has 4 or 5 adults. It’s a stable group. I think Tom’s lived there for about 15 years, a few of his housemates about the same. Every workday, a bus gathers them up, drives three blocks to a second group home and gathers another 4 or 5 adults, and off they all go, lunch boxes in hand, to productive work in a sheltered workshop or another business here in Marshall.
As a homeowner, I appreciate these group homes because their lawns are
cut, their siding, windows, and roofs are in good shape. I don’t want to cast aspersions at any other neighbors in these tough economic times, but the two nearby group homes look far better than several houses around here. And at first glance you would never suspect these homes are in fact used for institutional purposes.
I know at SMSU every few weeks, yet a third group of adults with
disabilities comes up to collect recycling. This particular group is not as high
functioning. But their caretaker moves them along and they complete their task in a satisfactory manner.
When we were first married, Marianne worked for an agency with the long-outdated name of “Council for the Retarded.” In charge of this agency’s PR, Marianne’s first task was changing the name to Logan, because their buildings were on Logan Street in South Bend, Indiana, and their campus had become known as“Logan Center.”
Of course, “retarded” was the term of choice when this agency first started about thirty years before Marianne joined Logan. Retarded was a polite euphemism that became the vogue in the 1950s. At that time, the parents of the children this agency initially served were proud of the name, Council for the Retarded, because few agencies or groups were doing much for their special-needs children. Back in the early 50s, the correct medical terms and psychological titles for children and adults with these disabilities were idiot, moron, and imbecile. If I had a child which the state and the medical community labeled as “moron” or “imbecile,” I’d feel that “retarded”was a much softer, friendlier label. “Oh, my son’s not an idiot;
he’s just slow or retarded.”
How times have changed.
About the time Marianne worked at Logan, the last of the Indiana state
hospitals for such adults were being closed. These institutions had shunted children and adults with disabilities out of plain view, often out of parents’
homes. In the 80s, group homes like the two in our neighborhood were becoming more and more common. Two social forces met and agreed on this: the cost-cutters who never loved any state agency and the social activists who saw warehousing high-functioning adults as cruel. Warehousing is also self-fulfilling. It suggests that “these morons can’t do anything else,” so well-meaning bureaucrats set up a system where the developmentally disabled could not do anything else. But when given the chance, oh, how
these young men and women shine. We see it every day.
Logan ran about six group homes when Marianne worked there. I remember filling in for the caretaker staff one night to make sure the six residents were fed dinner. I hadn’t barbequed on their grill before, but I gave it my best shot. Well, the men loved my burnt chicken. Loved? They devoured it.
A few of them were workers at a South Bend steel finishing works. They did all the labor of the regular crew. In fact, a study of their work productivity showed they actually out performed some of the longtime workers there. These guys were on time each day. They were scrupulous about their break time and lunch time. They punched in and out accurately. They didn’t sneak off to smoke on the company’s time.
When Logan bought its seventh group home, however, the neighbors raised a stink. All of Logan’s group homes had to meet stringent State of Indiana regulations. So many bedrooms so there was no overcrowding; so many bathrooms; and an adequate suite for the live-in caretaker. Logan did not want to saturate any one neighborhood, so for the seventh home, it went into a higher-end location. This upper-middle class neighborhood had families with good sized broods of children, thus the houses were larger, well suited for Logan’s needs.
It was only here that Logan ruffled some feathers. However, at a public meeting, the confrontational neighbors were embarrassed to hear themselves essentially saying they didn’t want “those kind of people” as their neighbors, saying that “those kind of people” weren’t welcomed. As these complaining
future neighbors heard themselves speaking out, they grew humiliated and humbled by their own heartlessness and mean-spirited attitudes.
But what good neighbors the group home residents turned out to be. The group home residents cut their own lawn. When the guys realized there were two widows on either side, those lawns were cut also. And what guy can
resist a powerful snow blower? Plus, South Bend is in the Great Lakes’ Snow Belt. So, three driveways got cleaned up early every morning it snowed. Baked cookies soon replaced complaints as reluctant neighbors realized what great new neighbors they had.
Marianne’s second task at Logan was getting the PR ready for the International Summer Special Olympics which were being held at the Notre Dame campus. By the time the Games were held, my new teaching position across state had moved us away from South Bend and her job at Logan, but the experience has stuck with us.
Special Olympics. Group homes in residential neighborhoods. The
clerk at a local supermarket here in Marshall helping me load my bags of
groceries in my car. The visible and normal lives of our fellow citizens with special needs. No longer labeled as morons, no longer warehoused out-of-sight, no longer shunned.
They’re carrying their lunchboxes, going to work, and every once in a while packing away the BBQ ribs like one of the guys.
I found the sight heartwarming.
I know one of the residents by name, Tom. He is quite the Notre Dame Football fan, as I am. I owned a few ND shirts I didn’t want anymore and made it a point of dropping them by his residence several years back. He
still lights up when he sees me. This was during the darker years of ND Football when the Faithful (Subway Alums or graduates alike) needed to rally to the cause. Tom was right there.
This particular residence has 4 or 5 adults. It’s a stable group. I think Tom’s lived there for about 15 years, a few of his housemates about the same. Every workday, a bus gathers them up, drives three blocks to a second group home and gathers another 4 or 5 adults, and off they all go, lunch boxes in hand, to productive work in a sheltered workshop or another business here in Marshall.
As a homeowner, I appreciate these group homes because their lawns are
cut, their siding, windows, and roofs are in good shape. I don’t want to cast aspersions at any other neighbors in these tough economic times, but the two nearby group homes look far better than several houses around here. And at first glance you would never suspect these homes are in fact used for institutional purposes.
I know at SMSU every few weeks, yet a third group of adults with
disabilities comes up to collect recycling. This particular group is not as high
functioning. But their caretaker moves them along and they complete their task in a satisfactory manner.
When we were first married, Marianne worked for an agency with the long-outdated name of “Council for the Retarded.” In charge of this agency’s PR, Marianne’s first task was changing the name to Logan, because their buildings were on Logan Street in South Bend, Indiana, and their campus had become known as“Logan Center.”
Of course, “retarded” was the term of choice when this agency first started about thirty years before Marianne joined Logan. Retarded was a polite euphemism that became the vogue in the 1950s. At that time, the parents of the children this agency initially served were proud of the name, Council for the Retarded, because few agencies or groups were doing much for their special-needs children. Back in the early 50s, the correct medical terms and psychological titles for children and adults with these disabilities were idiot, moron, and imbecile. If I had a child which the state and the medical community labeled as “moron” or “imbecile,” I’d feel that “retarded”was a much softer, friendlier label. “Oh, my son’s not an idiot;
he’s just slow or retarded.”
How times have changed.
About the time Marianne worked at Logan, the last of the Indiana state
hospitals for such adults were being closed. These institutions had shunted children and adults with disabilities out of plain view, often out of parents’
homes. In the 80s, group homes like the two in our neighborhood were becoming more and more common. Two social forces met and agreed on this: the cost-cutters who never loved any state agency and the social activists who saw warehousing high-functioning adults as cruel. Warehousing is also self-fulfilling. It suggests that “these morons can’t do anything else,” so well-meaning bureaucrats set up a system where the developmentally disabled could not do anything else. But when given the chance, oh, how
these young men and women shine. We see it every day.
Logan ran about six group homes when Marianne worked there. I remember filling in for the caretaker staff one night to make sure the six residents were fed dinner. I hadn’t barbequed on their grill before, but I gave it my best shot. Well, the men loved my burnt chicken. Loved? They devoured it.
A few of them were workers at a South Bend steel finishing works. They did all the labor of the regular crew. In fact, a study of their work productivity showed they actually out performed some of the longtime workers there. These guys were on time each day. They were scrupulous about their break time and lunch time. They punched in and out accurately. They didn’t sneak off to smoke on the company’s time.
When Logan bought its seventh group home, however, the neighbors raised a stink. All of Logan’s group homes had to meet stringent State of Indiana regulations. So many bedrooms so there was no overcrowding; so many bathrooms; and an adequate suite for the live-in caretaker. Logan did not want to saturate any one neighborhood, so for the seventh home, it went into a higher-end location. This upper-middle class neighborhood had families with good sized broods of children, thus the houses were larger, well suited for Logan’s needs.
It was only here that Logan ruffled some feathers. However, at a public meeting, the confrontational neighbors were embarrassed to hear themselves essentially saying they didn’t want “those kind of people” as their neighbors, saying that “those kind of people” weren’t welcomed. As these complaining
future neighbors heard themselves speaking out, they grew humiliated and humbled by their own heartlessness and mean-spirited attitudes.
But what good neighbors the group home residents turned out to be. The group home residents cut their own lawn. When the guys realized there were two widows on either side, those lawns were cut also. And what guy can
resist a powerful snow blower? Plus, South Bend is in the Great Lakes’ Snow Belt. So, three driveways got cleaned up early every morning it snowed. Baked cookies soon replaced complaints as reluctant neighbors realized what great new neighbors they had.
Marianne’s second task at Logan was getting the PR ready for the International Summer Special Olympics which were being held at the Notre Dame campus. By the time the Games were held, my new teaching position across state had moved us away from South Bend and her job at Logan, but the experience has stuck with us.
Special Olympics. Group homes in residential neighborhoods. The
clerk at a local supermarket here in Marshall helping me load my bags of
groceries in my car. The visible and normal lives of our fellow citizens with special needs. No longer labeled as morons, no longer warehoused out-of-sight, no longer shunned.
They’re carrying their lunchboxes, going to work, and every once in a while packing away the BBQ ribs like one of the guys.
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