Click here to book a time in our new Escape Room!

Category: Blog

Blog posts released by the Westport Museum for History & Culture.

American Infamy

by Alex Filippides

The Legacy of Japanese American Incarceration Following the Attacks on Pearl Harbor

By Alexander Filippides 

Imagine, for a moment, the year is 1941, you’re an American citizen, as are your parents, but your grandparents, who have passed away, were born in the Japanese Empire more than half a century ago. Following the December 7th attacks on Pearl Harbor your life is flipped on its head. Neighbors who greeted you with kindness now refuse to look at you, the news and radio refer to you using racial slurs, and soon you’ll be forcibly imprisoned by the American government because of your race.  

Over 100,000 Japanese and Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were American citizens, experienced this treatment after President Franklin D. Roosevelt (FDR) signed Executive Order 9066 on February 19th, 1942. The infamous order authorized the forced removal of those who, in the eyes of the Secretary of War and later the War Relocation Authority, were a threat to national security. While this did include a limited number of Italians and Germans, the order was overwhelming used to prosecute those of Japanese ethnicity. Racism against the Japanese, and Asians at large, was nothing new for the United States; a myriad of ordinances had already been put in place to explicitly discriminate against Chinese, Japanese, and other East Asians; but this was something different. This wasn’t the government restricting immigration or enacting unjust employment, housing and education laws— instead the Federal government was imprisoning American citizens due to their ethnicity. 

The reactions of those unjustly imprisoned varied widely. Some would never fully recover from the mental anguish; evidence suggests that those incarcerated would suffer disproportionately from a variety of mental health issues, including higher suicide and drug usage rates. Children and youth, who were early in their development, were likely also deeply impacted by the imprisonment. The average age of Nisei, or first generation of Japanese Americans born in the US, at the time of Executive Order 9066 was 18. Despite the extraordinarily oppressive, disruptive, and traumatic nature of the incarceration, some were able to overcome impossible odds and build incredible lives both during and after the Second World War. 

Black and white photograph of an Asian American woman posing in front of small drawings and paintings.
Miné Okubo, Nisei greeting friends at a tea in her honor at the opening of an exhibit of her drawings and paintings of center life at the American Common, Mar. 6, 1945, New York, New York. Courtesy of the Online Archive of California, accessed via Densho.org.

Miné Okubo

One of the most celebrated figures in the Japanese American community to arise out of this period was Miné Okubo, an artist, activist, and author who would establish herself during incarceration as one of the greatest activist-artists of her era. Okubo continued to live in New York after incarceration and had a unique connection to Westport, designing annual Christmas cards for the Robert Duffus, a celebrated writer and editor who would call Westport home for many years. 

Originally born in Riverside, California, in 1912, Okubo was seemingly destined for a career in illustration well-before Order 9066 was signed by FDR. In fact, Okubo was on an art fellowship in Europe when the Germans crossed the Polish border. At first, the artist fled to neutral Switzerland to await permission to gather her belongings in Paris, but upon being informed that her mother was seriously ill she took what she had on hand and boarded one of the last ships leaving Bordeaux, France.1

Once Japan attacked the United States in 1941, Okubo became acutely aware of the rising anti-Japanese racism that gripped newspapers, radio, and in the American public more broadly. Concerning fears of so-called “evacuation” to prison camps, Okubo would write: 

Drawing of Asian American woman leaning over an open newspaper with anti-Asian slogans written around the top edge.
Okubo with open newspaper, surrounded by anti-Japanese slogans, Berkeley, California, 1941. Courtesy of the Japanese American National Museum.

We had not believed at first that evacuation would affect the Nisei, American citizens of Japanese ancestry, but thought perhaps the Issei, Japanese-born mothers and fathers who were denied naturalization by American law, would be interned in case of war between Japan and the United States. It was a real blow when everyone, regardless of citizenship, was ordered to evacuate. 

While detained at these camps, those of Japanese descent were not allowed to document their experiences using cameras or audio recordings. Undeterred, Okubo would produce around 200 line-drawings that depicted daily life during incarceration between 1942 and 1944. Okubo was granted permission to depart for New York in 1944 where she would go to work as an illustrator for Fortune magazine. The incarceration-era art created by Miné Okubo would be first published in 1946, when anti-Japanese sentiment remained high even after the recent nuclear bombings, and subsequent surrender, of Japan in August 1945. Citizen 13660, the book that would combine Okubo’s sketches with her musings, memories, and observations, remains perhaps the best firsthand account of life in an American concentration camp. 

Daniel Rhodes assists Minnie Negoro with the pottery wheel at Heart Mountain Relocation Center, Heart Mountain, Wyoming. Courtesy of Department of the Interior, War Relocation Authority, accessed via Wikimedia Commons.

Minnie Negoro

Okubo, however, wasn’t the only notable artist who would settle in the Northeast after bearing witness to Japanese and Japanese American incarceration. Minnie Negoro was another Japanese American artist who would find her early career defined by imprisonment. A skilled ceramic artist who specialized in crafting pots, Negoro’s art later be held in many major institutions, such as the Smithsonian, was a vital member of the artistic community in Connecticut. In the Spring of 1942, she founded the ceramics department at the University of Connecticut.  While interred, Negoro used her craft as an escape from camp conditions, created beauty and utility during a dark and desolate chapter of American history. Negoro remembered incarceration: 

It was a frightening place, with guard towers and MPs who were told to shoot anyone going outside or over the gate. It was a concentration camp. I just wanted to get the heck out of there and to get as far away from the West Coast as possible. 

Negoro didn’t only create pottery for her own sake, but helped teach classes to allow a reprieve for her fellow prisoners. In 1944, she was finally able to leave Heart Mountain, Wyoming, where she had been held, to attend Alfred University as a graduate student on the recommendation of her mentor Daniel Rhodes, a notable ceramic potter himself. Not only would Minne Negoro finish her education with a Master of Arts, but she would also go on to found her own ceramics program at the University of Connecticut, Storrs. 

Gene Takahashi

No story of Japanese incarceration touches Westport more closely than that of Gene Takahashi. Raised in El Centro, California, Takahashi would call Westport home for many, many, years later in life. Takahashi was only fourteen at the time Order 9066 was issued. Despite his young age, Gene later recalled his emotions while entering Poston Relocation Center with clarity saying “It was quite a shock to us, getting off the two-and-a-half-ton truck to see there were actually guards, barbed wire, and we were actually in a prison.” 

The young Gene Takahashi was, at last, permitted to leave camp with his family in 1944. Settling down in Cleveland, Ohio, the now-sixteen-year-old Takahashi could not escape the feeling of wanting to prove himself a “loyal American.” To this end, he enlisted in the American army, inspired by the all-Japanese American regiment the 442nd, at the ripe age of seventeen, requiring his parents’ permission to enlist.

Joining at the very tail-end of World War II, Takahashi would be stationed in Korea as part of the American force occupying Japan and former Japanese colonial territories. Despite the utility of speaking Japanese in Korea, a country which had suppressed the Korean language since Japanese entry in 1910, he felt unfairly targeted by his commanding officer due to his youth and Japanese ethnicity. However, Takahashi remembers this period fondly, stating that the intense scrutiny he was under contributed positively to his development at such a young age. 

Black and white photograph of a young Asian American man in military uniform.
Gene J. Takahashi upon completion of Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia [10/31/1946]. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

After completing his contract, Takahashi returned home but agreed to stay in the army reserve. Upon returning to Cleveland, he married his fiancé Violette and began a family before receiving an unexpected letter from President Truman, asking him to return to Korea to fight in the escalating Korean War. Now intimately familiar with Korea, Takahashi was a vital part of the slow desegregation of the American Armed Forces, being placed as the lieutenant of an all-black troop.

As the Chinese joined the conflict, Takahashi found himself narrowly evading capture, and likely execution, after his unit was overrun. The lieutenant would rally his troops again to slow the Chinese onslaught approaching Seoul, an action which would win Lt. Takahashi the Combat Infantry Badge and the Purple Heart. Soon after this, however, he would be shot by a Chinese machine gun and forced to return home. Takahashi would go on to have a large family and became a key figure in IBM’s litigation team, before finally settling in Westport as he approached the twilight of his career. 

Could This Happen Again?

Takahashi’s legacy, like those of Negoro and Okubo, is profoundly influenced by the trials and tribulations presented by the unjust incarceration of so many Japanese and Japanese Americans. It is impossible to read the stories of these figures without wondering how different things may have been if, instead of spending multiple foundational years of life in a concertation camp, they had been permitted the same opportunities and rights of their non-Japanese counterparts. If these people, who undoubtably led exceptional lives, had been born White, would their names be more widely remembered? Its undeniable racism against Asians and Japanese Americans didn’t end with the end of incarceration, nor would it end with the Japanese surrender and occupation. Okubo would reflect in the intro of the 1983 edition of Citizen 13660: 

I am often asked why I am not bitter and could this happen again? I am a realist with a creative mind, interested in people, so my thoughts are constructive. I am not bitter. I hope things can be learned from this tragic episode, for I believe it could happen again. 

Could this happen again? The recent election win of President-elect Donald Trump has put question marks over the heads of undocumented immigrants nationwide. Stephen Miller, a Trump advisor, has proposed building “mass deportation camps” as part of a goal to, as a separate campaign spokesperson stated, “marshal every federal and state power necessary to institute the largest deportation operation in American history.” Unfortunately, this is no new practice in modern American politics. Since the Obama administration, there has been a massive increase in family detention camps in a similar effort to curb illegal immigration. However, the blatantly hostile rhetoric towards immigrants by the incoming administration means that the nation may be looking at a situation that could quickly spiral out of control. 

What is the legacy of Japanese and Japanese American incarceration? Is it the legacy the 442nd, the legendary Japanese American regiment that fought in Europe, and, later, Gene Takahashi? Is it the artists, like Okubo and  Negoro, who’s art would capture this horrifying chapter of American history with powerful memories of oppression and elegant moments of escape? Perhaps, even, it is the tens of thousands whose stories remain untold; those who suffered not just in the camps but for a lifetime afterwards in silence.  

The most sobering legacy must be the continual acceptance of anti-Asian racism in our country. One must look no further than the rise in anti-Asian hate crime that followed the outbreak of the COVID pandemic to see how, even with reparations and time, lessons are not learned if they are not remembered. 

Offline materials: 

  1. Okubo, Miné. Citizen 13660 (Seattle, Washington: University of Washington Press, 1946).  

They’re Still Here

by Nicole Carpenter

Giving space and thanks for the cultural gift of our Native communities.

By Ramin Ganeshram

From the window of my office at the Museum, I can see the tops of the trees near the Saugatuck River a little over a block away. When the Bradley-Wheeler House was built, over two-hundred years ago, the riverbank was closer, curving in toward Main Street where Parker-Harding plaza now stands. Gazing from this vantage, you would have seen small shops with docks jutting out behind them into the water.  

Cast your mind back further another two centuries and you’d see old growth forests crowding the river front, featuring trees and other fauna long ago extinct.  Up and down the embankment, all the way to the mouth of the Long Island Sound, the native Paugussett Nation camped in small clearings during the warm weather, taking advantage of the rich oyster, clam and fishing grounds. Later, when the autumn chill set in they would return inland to protected valleys and forests to settle in for the winter. 

Book engraving of Falls Mountain gorge on the Housatonic River in present-day New Milford Connecticut. Site of a seventeenth century Paugussett Native American fishing village/site.
Falls Mountain Gorge on the Housatonic River was the site of a Paugussett fishing village. Courtesy Archive.org

Their unceded lands, never legally given away, were centered in what is today Orange/Milford and extended south to what is, today, Greenwich and north through Eastern Litchfield to the Massachusetts border. The Paugussett people—and forty million other indigenous people who called North America home before European contact—are much on my mind this Indigenous History month. I find myself mulling the story of the First Thanksgiving, its mythology and its less-pretty truths which we explored in the first episode of our podcast Buried In Our Past. 

The story we hear about that first harvest celebration is a Eurocentric one. Period accounts of tribal people adhere to a European world view.  In a letter describing the first Thanksgiving in Plimoth in 1621, Edward Winslow wrote:

…it hath pleased God so to possess the Indians with a fear of us, and love unto us, that not only the greatest king amongst them called Massasoit, but also all the princes and peoples round about us, have either made suit unto us, or been glad of any occasion to make peace with us

Winslow goes on to say that the presence of the English also influenced native people to put aside tribal conflict in favor of uniting under the English king. His inaccurate missive was not so different from Columbus’ 130 years before who wrote that the “timid” “guileless” and “fearful” nature of the native people he encountered in the Caribbean would make them easy to conquer.   

If we are to take the word of European “settlers”, the indigenous people of New England and elsewhere were largely in awe of them—their clothing, their tools, their boats, their appearance. Allegedly eager to please, native people were quick to engage Europeans and learn their “superior” ways. In this version of the story, those from the Old World were bringing their advanced culture to the “new” one. 

But what if the colonists world view is actually the simplistic one? The one that is “timid” and as Columbus first wrote “full of terror” about perceiving and accepting new things? What if we look at the whole exchange from a different angle? 

What if we started from the premise that the international sophisticates in this scenario were the native people whose worldliness and tolerance allowed the myopic settlers to make their dream of a new England become a reality? 

To do this we have to understand that Indigenous people of the Western Hemisphere—in what is now North, Central and South America—are not a monolith. Theirs are unique cultures thousands of years old. Each of these cultures embraced a cosmology that was expansive and, in various degrees, understood a world of possibility fashioned by a Creator.  

This meant that the concept of other human beings, living other types of lives, would not have been surprising to them. They saw this among their respective nations—different clothing, different ways of eating, different languages, different family systems, and different ways of farming, hunting, gathering, eating and drinking.  What Europeans perceived as fear, or awe, was more likely often the circumspect observation of something unknown and prudent caution. 

Land usage for these communities was based upon accepted cultural norms—and these, too, differed by tribe or nation. While the sense that no human being owned the land was fairly universal, rules outlining the rights to use the land certainly existed. 

Accounts by Columbus and others tell us that when those first Europeans arrived in their massive ships, indigenous people often rowed out in canoes to meet them. Was this “guilelessness” or was it the natural curiosity of culturally advanced people who understood there was more to the universe than their realm? Native Caribbeans had mastered sea travel in their own small canoes (in fact the word “canoe” is Kalinago/Carib). No doubt they would have recognized a ship as a much larger version of a watercraft. 

And their well-documented willingness to share food and goods with colonizers—was this a desire to please or, as it was in their own communities, an overture of understanding—the opening salvo to diplomatic engagement that was mis-read by Europeans who had come from a proscribed world view?  

Within and among tribes, negotiation and diplomacy were well established tenets—hence the restraint of many First Peoples when encountering Europeans, choosing not to use force but to approach with an open mind. This world view enabled native people to quickly adapt to their new forced reality with Europeans, not just through trade but self-defense when required or by colonizer’s rules. 

Embroidered patch depicting a deer with antlers walking towards a wigwam or summer dwelling.
The Tribal Seal of the Golden Hill Paugussett. Courtesy the Golden hill Paugussett Tribe.

Here in Connecticut, tribal people attempted to use English law to secure their homelands. In a savvy appeal to the self-stated European world order, native leaders petitioned the colony’s general court in 1659 in what would be the first of such attempts to litigate alleged land sales and protect native usage rights.  

In what is now a well-documented story of hypocrisy, that first suit was denied, instead granting the Paugussett’s an 80-acre tract that eventually dwindled down to a mere quarter acre over time. Similar proceedings throughout colonial America would end much the same way. You can read about the Mohegans 1789 petition to the Connecticut General Assembly in Connecticut Explored. And, check out the Worlds Turned Upside Down podcast from our colleagues at George Mason University, for an excellent deep-dive into the complexity of tribal alliances, legal proceedings and rules of engagement—especially how they influenced commanders and politicians during both the French & Indian and Revolutionary Wars. 

What followed Columbus, the Pilgrims and others misguided sense of superiority is undisputed: Decimation of the tribes through European colonization through war and disease. Those who accept historical fact also accept that the First People of the Americas were the ultimate victims to European greed, followed closely by Africans enslaved to develop their stolen resources.  

Photograph of three Paugussett Tribal Leaders.
Left to Right: Paugussett Chairwoman Michele Piper Mitchell, War Chief Quanah Kicking Bear Piper and Clan Mother Shoran Waupatukuay Piper.

But, what is less known to many here in Westport—and hundreds of other small New England towns—is that they are still here, limited in number but holding on to their culture, their language, and maintaining connections to their tribal homelands. At the Museum, we give space to this cultural continuance. It is one of the many reasons we begin our programs with a land acknowledgment—out of respect for those who are still here. And in thanks for the sustaining gift of their presence against all odds. You can learn more about the tribe in Charles Brilvitch’s History of Connecticut’s Golden Hill Paugusset Tribe available in the Museum’s gift shop.

Join us this November and throughout the year as we continue to explore the original traditions of this land. On Tuesday, November 5th we’ll be hosting Golden Hill Paugussett Clan Mother Shoran Waupatukuay Piper for a Native Healing Workshop where you will learn how to create a soothing salve ointment through this rare hands-on experience.  On November 23rd, join us for a program to dedicate outdoor interpretive signage sharing a larger history of the tribe. Learn about Native winter observations at our 2nd Annual Cultural Fellowship Night on December 12th.  

This 1970s Cult Inspired Abusive Teen Rehabilitation Methods Still Used Today

by Nicole Carpenter

Researched and written by Nicole Carpenter, this article was originally published in Teen Vogue on January 8th, 2024. 

The news has been filled with exposés about aggressive rehabilitation programs using “tough love” to treat everything from addiction to “converting” LGBTQ+ people to a straight lifestyle. But the roots of these “tough love” treatments go back to the 1950s, and an organization called Synanon. 

Nationally lauded for its allegedly successful treatment programs, the public turned against Synanon in October 1978, when its supporters’ put a 4-foot rattlesnake in the mailbox of Paul Morantz, a California attorney and investigative reporter. Morantz had been pushing for investigations of Synanon—which by then had declared itself a religion and gained nonprofit status. Morantz accused the group of abusing members and advocating violence against its “enemies.” Prior to the attack, the Synanon program had been praised for its groundbreaking treatment of drug addicts and alcoholics as well as the treatment of troubled youth. The public attack on Morantz outed the Synanon for what it really was: a violent cult. 

Tender Loving Care Club 

Movie poster for the film "Synanon" fictional stories of drug addicts in a rehabilitation center
The 1965 movie Synanon dramatized the group which would later become widely known as a cult. Among its stars was Weston-resident Eartha Kitt.

Created in 1958 by Charles Dederich, a former Alcoholics Anonymous member and speaker, Synanon purported to help those suffering from addiction to rehabilitate themselves through “self-reliance and making the person responsible for his own actions.” The program first began as a small community in Venice, California calling itself the Tender Loving Care Club. Members met in a small storefront to play “The Game,” a verbal exercise where anyone was allowed to say anything to debunk excuses given by addicts for their addictions. “Anything” could include mockery and degradation. Only threats and physical violence were not tolerated. 

Dederich envisioned Synanon as a two-year residential program. Attendance grew rapidly and, to accommodate its swelling ranks, Dederich moved the operation from the Venice Beach storefront to a house in Santa Monica in 1962. Neighbors quickly protested having a drug rehabilitation facility in their backyard. The conflict ended with Dederich’ arrest because he didn’t have a health license. 

In what was a cunning publicity move, Dederich chose to serve jail time for the violation while still refusing to move his facility. The highly publicized case drew the attention of some high-profile people who praised Dederich’s “revolutionary” program. Soon, public outcry on behalf of Synanon was significant enough that California Governor Edmund Brown, Sr. actually signed a bill exempting the group from health licensing laws. Donors nationwide began to support the group, supplementing the financial payments already being received by those in the program. 

As Synanon’s star rose, Hollywood A-listers including actors Leonard Nimoy, Robert Wagner, and Ben Gazzara would stop by the house to play “The Game.” In 1965, Columbia Pictures released a film partially written by Charles Dederich entitled “Synanon,” starring Eartha Kitt and Chuck Conners. 

Westport’s Synanon 

Synanon’s publicity and financial windfall allowed the group to expand again. Setting his sights on the East Coast, Dederich purchased an 18-room Victorian Mansion located on four acres in Westport, Connecticut in February 19631. 

At first, everything seemed rosy for Synanon’s foray into the other side of the country. With ample local support, plans to use Westport as a stepping stone into the Northeast were underway. Connecticut’s United States Senator Thomas Dodd championed Synanon calling it, “one of the most dynamic and vital programs that I have experienced.”2 

Black and white photograph of a Victorian mansion with a grassy lawn, stone wall and gate.
Called the “Old Bedford House”, Synanon’s Westport location may have been the former residence of F.T. Bedford in Greens Farms. (Westport Museum Collection)

Residents in Westport and the neighboring towns of Norwalk and Bridgeport supported the non-profit with donations of food, supplies, and fundraising. The Sponsors of Synanon, a group founded by Westport resident Betty Sobol, helped underwrite and champion the organization. But not everyone on the East Coast was happy about Synanon’s growing presence. Residents complained “[Synanon] is in the wrong place”3 and balked “at the spectacle of criminals and addicts living in ‘respectable’ communities.”4 

By January of 1966, the Westport facility faced legal trouble that reached the Connecticut Supreme Court because the building was zoned for single-family residential use only. Synanon claimed its 30 residents were a “family” since they were all united in the single pursuit of remaining clean and sober. The Court disagreed and a month later ordered the non-profit to vacate the property. 

Boiling Point 

The year after Synanon departed from Westport, Synanon began to change dramatically – converting from rehabilitation to a fully-fledged cult. Members were no longer allowed to “graduate” from the program because Dederich had become convinced that, without the pressure of the community, they would relapse. Couples were now separated, and children were raised communally, with infants living in what was called “the hatchery.” Despite this, juvenile agencies and the California court system continued to send teenagers labeled “juvenile delinquents” to Synanon’s “Malibu Re-Education Camp” throughout the 1970s. At this detention center, teenage attendees were called the “Punk Squad.” 

Organizers soon found that Synanon’s hallmark methods, including participation in “The Game” had little effect on the Punk Squad teens who, unlike willing adult participants, had not consented to rehabilitation. Meanwhile, violence began to be a hallmark feature of Synanon at large. In 1973, in what some members would cite as a seminal moment, a session of The Game ended with Dederich pouring root beer over the head of a member. In 1973, teenagers were required to take part in The Game and became subject to escalating physical abuse. 

Soon young people began to escape from the cult. Alvin Gambonini, a neighboring rancher to Synanon’s Point Reyes facility, sheltered many who had managed to escape. In retaliation, cult members beat Gambonini in front of his family. 

By the time Synanon sought religious status in 1974, with Dederich as its leader, the organization numbered 1,300 members and had more than $30 million in assets. It was the largest property owner in Santa Monica and had a chain of gas stations and an airstrip by 1976. Dederich had fully abandoned nonviolence within Synanon and created the “Imperial Marines” to maintain order—within and outside of the community. Members were brainwashed, mentally tortured, and barred from leaving. Those who escaped were physically attacked if recaptured. In 1977, former member Phil Ritter was nearly beaten to death when his skull was fractured in retaliation for trying to free his child from the cult. 

By October 1978, Dederich’s mania and Synanon’s violent tactics reached a boiling point with the rattlesnake attack on attorney Paul Morantz. Although Morantz survived, he sustained long-lasting injuries from the highly venomous bites. Dederich was arrested on December 2nd, 1978 in connection with the attack as well as multiple other violent crimes. He avoided jail time by pleading guilty to conspiracy to commit murder and agreed to step away from Synanon entirely. As a result of the incident, Synanon’s non-profit status was revoked and the cult slowly collapsed before filing for bankruptcy in 1991. 

The Lasting Legacy of “Tough Love”

While Synanon may be gone, the group’s “tough love” approach of scaring or shaming individuals into rehabilitation, inspired programs that continue today. One such program is the infamous Élan school in Maine, which modeled its “general meetings” after Synanon’s “game,” with teens yelling at one another for any real or fabricated slight against anyone in the Élan house. 

Élan also took inspiration from the work assignments Synanon put in place for residents. Adolescents in Synanon were observed working in “the medical laboratory, in the kitchen, in the news office, in the law office, on the ranch, and in the warehouse.” Likewise, teenagers were responsible for everything from cleaning to cooking to enforcing and policing their dormitory. In both cases, adults – who were former members themselves – were meant to oversee the teens but were rarely present. Additionally, Élan allowed physical abuse in the form of a boxing ring between teens. The “treatment center” closed in 2011 amidst charges of abuse. 

Joe Ricci–Élan’s founder–attended Daytop Village, a rehabilitation program funded by former Synanon supporter Daniel Harold Casriel. Daytop staff included Synanon members and the program still operates today, though distancing itself from abuse allegations. According to a 1982 training textbook assembled for the National College of Juvenile Justice, Daytop Village and other similar centers including, Topic House, Phoenix House, Harmonie House, Odyssey House, Gateway incorporated Synanon principles. 

Despite reports like these, there remain rehabilitation organizations which have continued to use “tough love” methodologies created by Synanon to allegedly cure addiction, deter undesirable behavior, or force LGBTQ+ individuals into heteronormativity.

In a 2007 hearing about residential treatment programs where teenagers had died, the Forensic Audits and Special Investigations Unit in the Government Accountability Office (GAO) found many of these programs had “staff with little or no relevant training,” and engaged in manipulative and “misleading marketing practices” and “negligent and reckless operating practices.” The GAO further elaborated on the complexity of potentially abusive teen rehabilitation programs, noting that since the early 1990s the increasing number of residential treatment programs across the country operated without federal regulation. The investigation noted, “common names for these programs include boot camps, boarding schools and wilderness programs…which are typically in the mountains, the forest or the desert…All of these programs offer in some way to reform the lives of very troubled youth.” 

Despite reports like these, there remain rehabilitation organizations which have continued to use “tough love” methodologies created by Synanon to allegedly cure addiction, deter undesirable behavior, or force LGBTQ+ individuals into heteronormativity. Little action was taken until recently toward federal regulation of these programs and protecting the youth who find themselves inside them—in part because of the profit created by these institutions for the private equity firms that own them. 

In April of 2023 the Stop Institutional Child Abuse Act was introduced to the Senate by Senator Jeff Merkley [D-OR]. Exposing these programs and ensuring open communication about their practices is a key step toward providing better and safer mental health services for America’s troubled youth.

1 “Narcotics Aid Home Stirs Westport Zoning Question,” Bridgeport Post, February 12, 1963, 35.

2 “Dodd Urges Westporters: Give Synanon a Chance,” Bridgeport Post, February 24, 1963, 6. 

3 “Synanon at Home In Westport, And Not An Addict In the PLace,” Hartford Courant, July 21, 1963, 16. 

4 Yabionsky, Lewis, “Synanon, Vehicle for Addicts,” Bridgeport Post, February 14, 1965, 46. 

To learn more about public health in Westport explore our digital exhibition Taking the Cure.

Where Are the Period Rooms?

by Nicole Carpenter

New staff member, Sasha Arellano, remembrances of the museum and why the historically themed spaces were retired.

When I applied to work at the Westport Museum for History & Culture in May of this year, I didn’t even realize it was no longer called the “Historical Society.” I remembered having fond memories at 25 Avery Place as early as 2004 (anyone remember the Teddy Bear Tea Parties?), but I hadn’t stepped foot inside the Bradley Wheeler house since I volunteered at the museum in college. I couldn’t even figure out as to why I hadn’t visited in so long.  

I was offered the job in June and was eager to start, but on my first day, I was stunned by how much had changed. I missed the homey feel and nostalgia of the period rooms.

In the programs gallery, I was met with a big panel of text that discussed the Paugussett people- the indigenous community of the area we now call Westport. As I am writing this, the word Paugussett is underlined as a misspelling by my computer. The community that is native to this area isn’t even recognized as a word.  

I moved on to the next panel, which states the museum’s mission. In short, the Westport Museum aims to “make history whole” by representing ALL voices in Westport’s history.  

As I went through our main exhibit, Playful Pastimes, I could see the mission statement was not just for show—its essence was weaved into each picture and piece of text I came across. The exhibit focuses on the “Golden Age of Leisure” in the early 20th century—think sports, games, and community events. While the overall theme was fun and colorful, the text was quick to acknowledge the downfalls of this period as well.  

Museum exhibit displaying a replica trolley and bathing suit.
Playful Pastimes 1890-1910, a temporary exhibition, explores the golden age of leisure in Westport.

Baseball, the classic American pastime, proved to be a game of discrimination for Black players, and became fully segregated until 1947. Biking, another favored activity, was looked down upon for women. World fairs, while showcasing mostly new inventions and gadgets, also displayed people of color from Africa, the Philippines, as well as indigenous Americans as “exhibitions.” While these are tough topics to discuss, we need to address them in order to see the entire view of our community’s history. Understanding the past lets us really understand why things are the way they are now—so we can ensure inclusion and respect for everyone in the future.  

Having walked through the Museum, I felt great about starting my new job—confident that I was part of an organization that was making a difference by sharing the truth. Sitting at the front desk, I was eager to share all we did with visitors. 

A lot of people come in as excited as we are to see what we’re doing. But then, there are others who are only focused on one thing: 

“Where are the periods rooms!?”  

“I don’t understand why you took them out.”  

“I bet you’d get more visitors if you brought them back.” 

So, Why Did the Period Rooms Have to Go?

As someone who grew up frequenting the museum, I LOVED the period rooms. Something about them made me feel so at home, despite being born at the turn of the 21st century. I understood our visitors’ sadness that they were no longer. However, once I started working at the museum, it became clear to me why the period rooms were not sustainable.   

The period rooms only showed a small glimpse into Westport’s history and did not align with our mission of inclusivity and telling the whole story. How can we understand Westport’s history when we are only being shown a minuscule portion of it?

Visitors were kept from entering every room with large iron gates, and some guests were weary of our mannequins.
Displayed for nearly 40 years, this friendship quilt is partially bleached due to light exposure.

It also became clear to me why I hadn’t visited for so long. When there is one main exhibit that never changes, people just don’t return that often to see the same thing. Without high visitation numbers, maintaining a museum becomes unsustainable. Many of the people who inquire about the period rooms follow up with “I haven’t been here in years, I was looking forward to seeing them!”  

Many of the people who inquire about the period rooms follow up with “I haven’t been here in years, I was looking forward to seeing them!” 


We hear you—but we also hear that you haven’t visited in a decade or so. Since we are an independent organization, admission fees are a huge part of what keeps the museum up and running. Rotating exhibits on different topics let us keep the public interested and piece together Westport’s history as it relates to the nation to tell as complete a story as possible. Plus, because we get to share a lot of super-interesting stories on a regular basis, we can aim to have something for everyone—including people who loved the period rooms. 

Legacy exhibition (2023)
Liberty to Set Down exhibition (2019)
I Thee Wed exhibition (2023)

How? We include objects and costumes from our collection in our exhibits. Some of which were used to create the furnished rooms. The difference is that we provide a full and accurate interpretation of these items with lots of rich detail. Our Local History gallery tells the story of the house and the town very specifically, building on what the period rooms started all those years ago.

Now, we have the freedom to create period rooms across different eras when needed—like the 19th century parlor of the Adair family in our exhibit Legacy. Look for more of that in our 2026 programming for the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution. 

I hope that what I’ve written here has intrigued you enough to come and check out all that’s here—instead of what’s not.  

We’d love to see you soon & thank you for supporting our mission! 

Black History Month in Connecticut: Lessons About Race

by Nicole Carpenter

The fight for equality of education—and for respect in the classroom for children and teachers of color—in Connecticut towns can be traced back nearly two hundred years. Entrenched social biases had long created de-facto segregation within the state’s education system. In 1831, the citizens of New Haven successfully fought the opening a mechanical college for Black men and in 1833 Prudence Crandall, a Quaker teacher was arrested in Canterbury, Connecticut for opening a school for young Black Girls. In 1868, in response to a state Educational Law requiring open enrollment in public schools despite students’ race or color, the Hartford School system voted for “separate but equal” schools for non-White children. 

Oil portrait of Prudence Crandall seated in front of a curtain.
Prudence Crandall, the state hero, attempted to open a school to educate African American girls and was arrested.
Black and white photograph of Eleanor Roosevelt
In 1958, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, commented that it was a basic human right for children to attend school “with equal dignity without discrimination.”
19th century school class photograph where one girl--Anna Simms--an African American student is standing alone.
In this late 19th or early 20th century photo, Anna Simms, is the only Black student at Westport’s Shercrowe School.

By the twentieth century, negative attitudes toward Black students in largely White public schools—particularly in affluent neighborhoods—remained entrenched. While the active years of the Civil Rights Movement brought the legal fight against school segregation to the South, Northern communities were often overlooked for their de facto segregation of children of color from public schools.  

Project Concern

In July of 1970 a group called “Westporters for Equality in Schooling” sent a letter to Joan Schine, Westport Board of Education chair. The group asked for Project Concern, a national school integration plan which brought elementary age children of color from under-resourced areas of Bridgeport into Westport schools, to be placed on the board’s agenda. A bitter fight ensued. 

The program was overseen by Cliff Barton, a ground-breaking Black educator who was a former teacher and administrator with passion for looking after students with special needs—including those disenfranchised by racial inequality. Barton had joined the town school system in 1958—the same year former first lady Eleanor Roosevelt made public remarks about the need for human rights and human dignity to begin in “small spaces” including schools.  ”Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination,” she wrote.

Where, after all, do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home – so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person; the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm, or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination.


Eleanor Roosevelt, American political leader and activist

By December, the discussion to participate in Project Concern had moved to a vote. On the 7th the Board of Education passed the resolution to bus 25 African American students from grades 1 through 3 to Westport, with the final vote to pass being cast by chair Joan Schine herself.

The vote created community upheaval, and many protested the move, sparking the creation of the “Recall Committee”: a parent group formed to remove Mrs. Schine. On New Year’s Eve an article in the Bridgeport Post reported a petition with nearly 4,000 signatures was delivered to Town hall to request such a recall after Schine refused to hold a referendum. Local attitudes toward Project Concern can be viewed in the documentary film below. 

The City of Hartford had already opted into the program in 1966, with its own share of push back and criticism. Opponents of the vote feared that the program would lead to a “dangerous opening wedge in an undeclared campaign to bring more and more ghetto children into Westport with consequent dilution of the quality of education.”

Today in Westport, we are engaged in a situation in which the forces and agents with the most power reign temporarily in an eternal “king of the hill” struggle.


Joan Schine, Westport Board of Education Chair, 1971

Subsequently, the Westport Board of Selectman called for a special election to remove Ms. Schine. The case went to the Connecticut Superior Court and resulted in the dismissal of the proposed recall vote entirely. Schine continued in her role as Chair and remained active in the town government. In June of 1971 Joan was quoted saying, “Today in Westport, we are engaged in a situation in which the forces and agents with the most power reign temporarily in an eternal “king of the hill” struggle.”  

Where Are We Today?

Project Concern continued and expanded, evolving into Project Choice, and paved the way for programs like Open Choice and A Better Chance which continue today. Despite hard-won gains, the fight for true equity in schools continued leading one scholar to note in his article “Nineteenth Century De Jure School Segregation in Connecticut”: 

“It becomes increasingly evident that Connecticut’s response to the problem of racial isolation in its public schools has been in the past and is now characterized by flashes of decisiveness and statesmanship, interspersed with periods of anguished vacillation.” 

Today, Connecticut student body is almost equally divided between White and BIPOC students. Yet the state’s school districts remain highly segregated. White children largely attend schools with 75% other white children and BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) children attend schools with 75% other BIPOC children. In 1996 the state Supreme Court ruled on Sheff Vs. O’Neill, finding that the Hartford School District was violating the state’s anti-segregation clauses. However, with little guidance or benchmarks toward achieving desegregation by 2003, little progress had been made.  

To learn more about artists, activists, and educators who impacted Westport and our African American community visit our Remembered exhibition with the button below.

Learn more