Weird Island

3. ABANDONED: The Ladd School

Episode Summary

The Dr. Joseph H. Ladd School was built in 1907 as a state institution to serve the needs of individuals with disabilities. When the school closed, its campus became known as the place to go for urban explorers and ghost hunters. To Visit a Similar Spot: Medfield State Hospital, 45 Hospital Road, Medfield, MA 02052

Episode Notes

To Visit a Similar Spot: Medfield State Hospital, 45 Hospital Road, Medfield, MA 02052

Episode Source Material:

Episode Transcription

Transcript:

Hi, I’m Sara. And you’re listening to Weird Island. Each week, I’ll be sharing with you some of the strangest stories I can dig up from my tiny little state of Rhode Island. This week I’ll be telling you about a longtime favorite location for urban explorers and ghost hunters in Rhode Island: The Dr. Joseph H. Ladd School in Exeter.
If you tuned in last week, you might be thinking that Exeter sounds familiar. I decided to stick to the same town, and tell you about another spot that was, for a long time, an absolute favorite for urban explorers. The Joseph H. Ladd School, which went by a few different names over the course of its existence, was built in 1907 as a state institution to serve the needs of individuals with disabilities. When the school closed, its campus became known as the place to go if you wanted to sneak into an abandoned building, maybe to photograph the decay that remained, or to tiptoe through the hallways, holding your breath, listening for the whispering voices of ghosts that haunted the empty, darkened rooms. Some broke in on a dare, some chickened out and never made it inside. Some were caught by the police or the Exeter Job Corp. security that patrolled the property.
But, before you go driving down the Exeter to see for yourself, you should know that the buildings are no longer there. The last remaining structures of the school were razed in 2015. But it’s the interest in the Ladd School, the urban legends about ghosts, the online communities of photographers and adventurers interested in telling the tales of the tattered and crumbling structures--that made this a perfect choice to talk about today.
But, before I dive in, I do want to let you know that this episode might be a little difficult for some to listen to. In addition to telling you about the abandoned buildings, I’ll be sharing with you some of the history of mental health care in Rhode Island, and some troubling stories about the care provided by the Ladd School. Additionally, much of the language used at the time--even the early name of the school--was archaic and offensive. The history of labels is not a pleasant one. So, please, feel free to skip this episode if any of this makes you uncomfortable.
If you’re still with me, let’s step inside the Ladd School. Imagine it’s evening. You’ve decided night is the best time to visit, allowing you to sneak onto the property under cover of darkness. You drive up, looking for a surreptitious place to park, but before you turn the key to shut the car off, the radio flickers on, racing through stations before it lands, momentarily, on a song that sounds like it might be from the 50s. Just as suddenly, the radio shuts off. Heart racing, you quickly get out of the car--probably just a weird electrical issue--and make your way towards the imposing, cylindrical tower that was once the John Fogarty Hospital.
The big, circular building of reinforced concrete slabs and bright orange paneling stands out as a marvel in itself. It looks like something inspired by the form factor of a water tower and the design aesthetic of 60s dinnerware. You have to squeeze in through a broken and half boarded window to get inside.
Once in, your footsteps echo down the endlessly curving hallways. Vandalism has taken a toll--walls and windows are smashed, drop ceilings are coming down in chunks, some dangling as though they could fall at any moment. Layers of spray paint add splashes of color on the walls, and your feet crunch on a thick layer of dust and debris that transform the hospital floor into something almost organic, more like a forest floor than linoleum. Almost nothing remains but rusted bed frames. A level above, you hear an echoing giggle, then silence. And then footsteps, like someone is running or skipping above you, before your flashlight goes dark and someone lets out a scream. With this, you sprint back in the direction you came, rocketing out the window you used as a door, no longer concerned about remaining hidden from security.
Even though it was a well-known RI spot, I never actually made it to visit the Ladd School. But I have friends who did, and while I’m not a believer in the supernatural, I can understand why people would leave such a visit feeling thoroughly creeped out. A friend of mine went many times when he was young, and he said that you were almost never alone. There were so many explorers and ghost hunters that you were likely to hear voices, laughter, or screams echoing at any given moment. And you would probably even run into another person or group slinking down the hallways, poking their heads into abandoned and unrecognizable rooms. As a teen, he was likely hoping the voices he heard were ghosts--that would be a lot better than bumping into security or the cops, who were just as likely as anyone else to be making their way around or through the property!
What is the appeal of urban ruins? People flock to these spaces, hoping to photograph them, film them, vandalize them, or just experience the thrill of stepping into them and existing there for a moment in time. But why? To me, they feel like both a looking glass into a forgotten past and a suggestion of the future--a reminder of the impermanence of the world we’ve built.
In a 2011 piece about urban ruins in Detroit, John Patrick Leary writes, “In a country perennially plagued with a historical amnesia, ruins are rare permanent reminders of a history unsuited to the war memorials and equestrian statues that dot the national landscape.” And perhaps that rings especially true for the Ladd School and other similar institutions that represented an important piece of American history while also occupying a position of shame in the context of the history of healthcare for individuals with disabilities.
The history of mental health care in Rhode Island, and in the United States, is complicated, characterized by stigmatization of mental illness and revolving beliefs about causes and care, according to “Days of Darkness, Days of Hope,” a Rhode Island anthology on the history of mental health care in the state.
The first recorded consideration of public mental health care in the state of RI was in 1651, and the story is a foreboding introduction to the challenges the state would face. In a letter to the Providence town council, Roger Williams requested the town assume care of a woman named, Mrs. Weston, who he described as a “distracted” woman. She was placed in the care of six local men and died only a month later.
Early mental health care in Rhode Island was poor, and was largely focused on two classes of care--care for those who were seen as curable and those who were seen as incurable, and initially this strongly correlated with a duality of care for the rich and care for the poor. In the 1700s, beliefs regarding mental health were focused on supernatural or hereditary factors, and RI joined a larger movement of almshouses, that served as a catch-all for the poor and disabled. Conditions were terrible and there was little or no access to medical care.
In the early 1800s, the attitude towards mental health shifted, and the prevailing notion was that emotional and environmental factors played into mental health. These factors might have included disease, excess sexual activity (which was a bit of a recurring theme in the discussion of mental health), intemperance, overwork, and stress. This triggered the development of a system of asylums across the country. Of course, the word asylum conjures up images of mistreatment, fear, and imprisonment, but the original intention was much more hopeful. Meaning literally “a place of refuge,” these institutions were designed to shelter residents from the pressures of community life by offering controlled environments where humane and individualized treatment could be offered. If environmental factors could cause mental illness, they could also cure it.
Rhode Island opened Butler Hospital in 1847, offering, for the first time, a humane alternative to the almshouses and prisons. But, sadly, the history of mental health is plagued by a pattern of positive intentions deteriorating over time under the pressures of poor funding and overcrowding. In the late 1800s, attitudes shifted back towards a focus on heredity as massive immigration resulted in a growing population of foreign born and impoverished patients at Butler. Quality of treatment deteriorated, and the focus was increasingly placed on diagnosing large numbers of patients instead of providing individualized care.
As Butler began restricting its public patients, focusing more on private and so called “curable” patients (and FYI--the superintendent of Butler believed the newly arrived Irish immigrants were quote: “pre-eminently incurable”), RI needed more resources for care. In 1870, Rhode Island opened what was then called the “RI State Asylum for the Incurable Insane,” at Howard Farm in Cranston. It’s design was challenged from the start. The shared campus that also included the House of Correction and State Prison, resulted in both a rigid and excessively disciplined lifestyle and the stigmatization of the residents. Chronic overcrowding was cited as an issue in nearly every report on the State Hospital.
As the 1900s rolled around, the attitude towards mental illness again shifted and negative attitudes abated. There was a renewed interest in education and development of individuals who were classified at the time as “feeble-minded.” On an antiquated scale, largely based on imprecise behavioral factors, “feeble-minded” as a psychiatric term represented a wide group of high-functioning individuals. This time saw the beginning of parent organizations advocating for children with special needs, and Rhode Island led the nation--launching the first special education class in a public school system in the United States in 1896. While this is an important legacy, it’s equally as important to note that these classes grew out of “contrary roots of compassion and intolerance,” to borrow the language of “Days of Darkness, Days of Hope”. These classes were equally focused on providing focused education and separating these students out from classes. So, the intentions were… mixed.
This all brings us up to the founding of the Ladd School, originally named the “RI School for the Feeble-Minded” in 1907, after State Senator Thomas McKenna advocated for the establishment of a special institution for the feeble-minded in Rhode Island. The school's beginnings were relatively humble. Superintendent Dr. Joseph Ladd started the school as a small colony, beginning with only 8 male students. Residents initially lived in small cottages, and worked in a rural setting, doing chores, farming, making clothes and other household items. The seeds of the contemporary view of the ruins of the school, as something bordering on post-apocalyptic, were planted right from the start. A local newspaper described the school as being “a pretty isolated place, with the nearest community of any size 10 miles away. In those days, it seemed like the end of the world.” With its remote location, the early days were described as being like “frontier living.”
The original intention, affirmed in Ladd’s statements on February 2nd, 1908 the day after the school opened its doors, was that residents would be “instructed, and in the end made as far as possible self-supporting.” He would later be quoted saying, “cheap institutional care is the most expensive in the long run… Institutions should only be used as a last resort.”
But, in truth, the origins of the school weren’t all positive. Ladd was a vocal advocate of eugenics and sterilization, and while Rhode Island never approved any involuntary sterilization laws, many states did. In fact, in the decades following WWII, many countries abandoned eugenics policies, but some Western countries, including the US, did not. But while there are no records of anyone being sterilized against his or her will in Rhode Island, this didn’t stop those like Ladd and others from pushing an agenda of eugenics. In consideration of Senator Thomas McKenna’s original proposal for the school, there was a special hearing at which state officials and humanitarian spokespeople argued that the institution would stop residents from “proliferating at a higher rate than normal people.” This legacy of fear and ignorance is sadly entwined with the history of the school, which would become a home to over 4,500 people during its lifetime.
Additionally, the school had insufficient money and too many residents right from the start, corrupting the intention to provide care instead of custody. The male dormitory was built in early 1909 and was at capacity by April 1 of that year. The female wing was built later that year, and then remained unoccupied for some time due to lack of funds. The school was so understaffed that at points, residents were placed in charge of some wards. By 1928, a special legislative commission investigation found that “little education actually happened at the school.”
As the years went on, care deteriorated. In reports released in 1956, investigations by Selig Greenberg found that the state was spending considerably less than $1 a day per patient. This was the lowest per capita cost of any of Rhode Island’s institutions. And by this point, the population peaked at 1,000 residents. It was overcrowded, understaffed and underfunded--a perfect storm. The school had faced many controversies prior to the 50s, but the scrutiny that came with the 1956 reports proved too much for Ladd. He retired later that year.
In 1977, a Journal-Bulletin investigation accused the school of a number of human rights violations and medical malpractices. The report found fire protection was inadequate, residents routinely had teeth extracted, both with and without anesthetic, and doctors provided assembly-line medical examinations that failed to diagnose or provide care for a variety of injuries and illnesses. A class action lawsuit was filed against the state on behalf of the residents. When the suit was resolved, in the early 80s, the school was forced to significantly reduce its population, and by 1986, RI Governor Edward DiPrete announced a plan to close the school entirely. In 1993 the last residents were relocated to group homes, and the buildings that remained took on a second life, as contemporary ruins and snapshots of the horrors that once happened within their walls.
For many years, the floors of the abandoned school were littered with the confidential records of those who called the place home over the years. Surely, some urban explorers must have read some of those personal records. What did they make of the complicated legacy of the school? How did they feel within those walls? Being there either brought the horrors to life, or allowed space for imaginations to run wild.
Photographer Matthew Christopher, creator of “Abandoned America” wrote about visiting abandoned locations like asylums and prisons, that “In a manner of speaking, I got to stare these awful realities in the face, but in such a way that I was nevertheless shielded from them by a passage of time.” Matthew does an excellent job of tethering his photos to the stories they reflect. His site includes images of the Ladd School, before it was demolished, and with each photo is a line or two of context--elevating the history with the beauty of his photos.
But not all adventurers are as concerned with the realities of ruins, but with the feelings they evoke. Some, like John Patrick Leary, professor at Wayne State University in Detroit, worry about the nature of exploration of urban ruins. He writes, “So much ruin photography and ruin film aestheticizes poverty without inquiring of its origins, dramatizes spaces but never seeks out the people that inhabit and transform them.”
The buildings may be gone, and the stories of many of the residents have been lost throughout the years. But the history of the Ladd School can live on, informing the present and future of care for mental health. And while you can’t visit the Ladd School, if you are interested in an urban adventure, you can visit nearby Medfield State Hospital in Medfield, MA. Unlike many buildings of its kind, Medfield welcomes visitors to walk the campus during daylight hours, as long as you don’t go into the buildings. You might even feel like it looks a little familiar, thanks to movies like Shutter Island, The Box and Knives Out that were filmed there.
Thanks for listening! This was a pretty dark episode, but come back next week to hear something a little lighter, as I bring you more stories about all things weird and wonderful in the little state of Rhode Island. And if you liked what you heard, help us out by recommending it to your friends and family! Finally, if there's a topic you’d like to hear about, let us know! Leave a review (and a rating while you’re there), or you can email us at Weird Rhode Island @ Gmail.com. Until next time!