NEITHER
NOR
STRAY
THE SEARCH FOR
A STOLEN IDENTITY
Perry Snow, B.A. (Hon), M.A.
Clinical Psychologist
Copyright ©2000 by
Perry Snow. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without the express permission of the author.
Universal Publishers/uPUBLISH.com
USA • 2000 ISBN: 1-58112-758-8 Universal Publishers
For information address:
Perry Snow BA (Hons) MA
Clinical Psychologist (Retired)
#144 Harbours of Newport Retirement Residence
20
Country Village Cove NE
Calgary Alberta T3K 5T9
Phone 403 226 9515
Email: [email protected]
Frederick George Snow
(September 17, 1909 -
September 17, 1994)
My Mother loved my Father for who he was -- not for who he was. My Wife Bonnie -- my truest friend for over
40 years -- had faith in all my projects, when sometimes I did not. My Daughters Charlotte and Elizabeth
assisted as editors and supporters. My Nephew Alan Auld provided his computer
expertise. My English friend Robin -- yet unmet -- devoted three years of his
life to help me with my quest. He restored the Snow family faith in the
“kindness of strangers.” Gary, Karen, Sandy, Roger, and Wendy have made me
proud to be their Brother. To those who
helped in the search, and those who did not, “What goes around comes around.”
Give, and it shall be given unto
you; good measure, pressed
down, and shaken together, and
running over shall men give
unto your bosom. For with the same
measure that ye mete
withal it shall be measured unto
you (Luke 6:38).
Table
of Contents
Introduction 7
Part
I: A Life Without an Identity (1913-1994)
Chapter
1: The Life of a Waif in England, 1913-1925 11
Chapter
2: A British Home Child Deported to Canada, 1925 25
Chapter
3: Love at First Sight, Port Arthur, Ontario, 1934 44
Chapter
4: Honeymoon in a Tent, Ozone, Ontario, 1935 54
Chapter
5: Hard Times in the Bush, Peninsula, Ontario, 1938-1939 61
Chapter
6: St. Anthony Gold Mine, Ontario, 1939-1940 66
Chapter
7: War & Post-War, Fort William, Ontario, 1943-1949 72
Chapter
8: Middle age, Fort William, Ontario, 1949-1963 79
Chapter
9: Middle & Old Age, Thunder Bay, Ontario, 1963-1984 87
Chapter
10: The Final Years, Thunder Bay, Ontario, 1985-1994 106
Part
II: Discovering the Truth (1993-1998)
Chapter
1: An Inherited Mystery of Family Origins 111
Chapter
2: A Review of Waifs and Strays Case File # 18264 130
Chapter
3: A Kind Stranger Joins the Quest 175
Chapter
4: The Unearthing of Relatives in England 183
Chapter
5: Assembling the Pieces of the Puzzle 189
Part
III: A Stolen Identity Reclaimed
A
Hypothetical Reunion, Thunder Bay, Ontario, 1994 197
“Coming
into Care,” Croydon, Surrey, England, 1913 203
Foster
Care: Rumburgh, Halesworth, Suffolk, England, 1913-1921 207
St.
Augustine’s Home, Sevenoaks, Kent, England, 1921-1925 210
Early
Adulthood as a Waif, Canada, 1925-1935 211
Family
Life, Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada, 1935-1994 214
Part
IV: The Psychology of the Waif
The
Development of a Personal Identity 227
The
Childhood Trauma of “Coming Into Care” 236
Child
Training or Brainwashing? 238
The
Legacy: Depersonalization and Dissociation 244
Malignant
Memories of a Traumatic Childhood 248
Part
V: The Universal Rights of the Child
Appendix 271
Bibliography 273
Index 277
7
My Father was a reserved and
solitary man, who quietly stood at the fringe of conversations when others
spoke of their past or families. His family
was a mystery to him. He did not know who he was. He never had a Birth Certificate,
and for the first 33 years of his life, had nothing to verify who he was. From
the age of 33-48, he carried a tattered “To Whom it May Concern” letter
for identification. It stated his name and identified him as “of British nationality.” For the first half of his
life, he had serious doubts if his surname was really “Snow.” He wondered if
someone had simply invented it and assigned it to him. When he was 48 years
old, he obtained a Baptism Certificate that confirmed his name, and identified
his Mother, but not his Father. From the age of 48-64, this was all he had for
identification. When he was 64 years old, he received his Canadian Citizenship.
All his life, he tried to identify his Parents and Family -- and find out who
he was.
He became a ward of the Church of England
Society for Providing Homes for Waifs and Strays when he was four years old in
1913. They placed him in a foster home in a small village in England from the
age of 4-12.
They then transferred him to a Home for Boys from the age of 12-15. When he was
15, they gave him the “choice” of emigrating to Australia or Canada. No one
wanted him in England. They shipped him to Canada and sent him to work on farms
in Ontario and Quebec.
He was part of the little-known British
Child Emigration Scheme. Fifty childcare organizations emigrated 100,000
children between 1880-1930 to Canada. These children ranged in age from 6-15
years old, and were known as “The Home Children.” The organizations professed a
dominant motive of providing children with better lives than what they might
have had in England, but they had other ignoble motives.
Children worked as indentured farm labourers in
harsh conditions until they were 18 years old. They were not allowed to go to
school. They were not entitled to medical care. They had little protection
under the law. They were not paid for their farm labour of 16 hours per day and
six days per week. A third to a half of these children were neglected and
abused, because the British organizations did not provide adequate inspections
of their placements. They operated outside the control of the fledgling colony
of Canada. The British Home Children were not voluntary “migrants” who
“emigrated” to new lands. They were commodities that were deported because they
were unwanted in Britain. The organizations expelled, banished, abandoned, and
forgot them. A ‘scheme’ can be defined as a visionary plan, a foolish project,
or a self-seeking, and underhanded plot. I prefer to call it the British Child
Deportation Scheme.
8
From the age of 17-18, my Father was in a hospital
for a year after he severely mangled his arm in a conveyor belt. He worked for
a short time as a Timekeeper after they released him from hospital, but his
work did not last long. From the age of 19-20, he enlisted in the Reserve Army
Service Corps. He traveled to Western Canada to seek his fortune at the
beginning of the Great Depression. From the age of 21-22, he was one of
hundreds of thousands of single young men who rode freight trains in search of
work. He met with “Help Wanted -- English Need Not Apply” signs when he sought
work of any kind. From the age of 22-25, he lived in a highway construction
Relief Camp in North-Western Ontario. He was an exile in a foreign and
frequently inhospitable country. No one knew who he was. No one knew where he
was. No one cared about a despised British Waif.
His life was irrevocably transformed on the
Victoria Day Weekend of 1934 when he met and fell in love with my Mother. From
that day on, he was never alone again. They married in the middle of the Great
Depression in Port Arthur, Ontario. He began to live rather than subsist. For
the first time in his life, he had someone who loved him, and someone for him
to love. He had been deprived of so much love and human kindness in his life.
In spite of this, he succeeded in becoming a loving Husband to his Wife and a
devoted Father to his six children. Their early years of marriage were a
struggle just to survive. They had two children during the Great Depression,
three during World War II and one late in life in the 1950’s. Their 59 years of
marriage were a testimony of how their faith in God and their devotion to each
other helped them overcome many challenges and adversities.
My Parents celebrated their Fiftieth Wedding
Anniversary in 1985 in Thunder Bay, Ontario. The next year, my Mother wrote a
book about their lives together. My Parents believed they had a love story to
tell that might be of interest at least to their family. They had an
everlasting faith in God. They firmly believed they were never alone, and a
kind, loving God helped them along their way. In all things, they gave,
“Thanks.”
If I asked you to identify yourself, how would
you answer? Invariably, you would volunteer your name. Although many others
might have the same name, it is the first step in identifying yourself apart
from others. Next, you might tell me your date of birth, because although many
others might have an identical name, few others would have been born on the
same day. Then you might tell me your Parents’ names. Many others might have
your name. A few might have been born on the same day, but no one -- apart from
your siblings -- could have your Parents. You can only have one biological
Father and Mother, and your moment of birth is unique to you alone. You might
then specify where you were born. No one else on earth could have been born
with your name, to your Parents, at a specific time, and in a specific place.
You might produce a Birth Certificate to validate your claim to be who you say
you are.
9
My Father was riddled with
doubts every time he identified himself. All he could say was what his caretakers led
him to believe was true. When he said, “My name is Fred G. Snow,” he thought to himself, “I
think.” When he said, “I was born on Larch Road, Balham, London on September
17, 1909,” he thought, “I have no birth certificate to prove this.” When he
said, “My Parents were John George Snow and Annie Gifford/Snow,” he thought,
“at least that is what they told me.”
Your identity allows you to value yourself as a
unique person of some worth. The absence of an identity contributes to your
devaluing yourself as a useless thing. If you know who you are, you feel like a
“somebody.” If you do not know who you are, you feel like a “nobody.” The
majority of the British Home Children were labelled as worthless, and believed
they were worthless. How can you feel like a person of worth when you have
doubts that your name is really yours? How would you feel about yourself if you
believed you were an orphaned, abandoned, unwanted, illegitimate, and inferior
nobody? My Father was an intelligent and resourceful man who succeeded in
overcoming his early childhood experiences, but many others did not. They were
permanently marked by their traumatic experiences. Most lived their lives
burdened with the disparaging identities that had been assigned to them. They
were shamed throughout their childhood and lived with these feelings all their
lives. Most died not knowing who they were.
Are any of your relatives of English, Irish,
Scottish, or Welsh ancestry? Did any of them immigrate to Canada between
1880-1930? Are you certain they came with their families? Did they have Birth
Certificates? Do you know your Aunts and Uncles on both sides of your family? Your ancestors may
have been British Home Children. You may be one of their four million Canadian
descendants.
My Father died on his unconfirmed 85th birthday in
1994. Shortly after his death, I told my Mother of my limited research of the
Snow family the year before. I asked her for any information she had, and she
gave me a file of their correspondence with England. Until then, I was
completely unaware of their attempts to establish his identity over a period of
55 years. My Father’s past was rarely a topic of family discussion. It was
never a taboo subject, but rather one about which he could say so little. I
read their file and concluded the Children’s Society had given them the
“run-around.”
10
I combined information from my Parent’s book and
their correspondence file to write Part I: “A Life Without an Identity.” It
describes the life he had -- rather than could have had -- if he had known who
he was. I had not intended to write a book about my search. At the start, I
fully expected to find a few answers to his lifelong questions, and end the
search by thanking his caretakers for their efforts on his behalf. It is the
“Snow” way.
Regrettably, my research led me to much different
conclusions. The Children’s Society never gave my Father the information that
would have allowed him to know who he was, and to find his family. I could have
written this book by simply presenting my discoveries as just another
genealogical search. My Parents’ lifelong search required more than just a
summary of results. I wrote it as it unfolded, and how the secrets were
revealed. The pieces of the puzzle did not come in an orderly or sequential
fashion.
If one purpose of the
British Child Deportation Scheme to Canada was to simply rid Britain of an
unwanted element of their society, they only partially succeeded. They
underestimated the strength of needing to know who you are. I hope the
successful conclusion of my search will inspire others to persist until they
re-establish their familial ties. No one should live their lives without
knowing who they are and to whom they belong.
11
PART
I: A LIFE WITHOUT AN INDENTITY (1913-1994)
My Father had very few memories of the first
four years of his life and could only retell this unvarying story.
I was born on Larch Road,
Balham, London, England on September 17, 1909. My Mother was Annie Gifford and my Father was John
George Snow. Something must have happened to my Mother. She may have died. That
left my elderly Father to look after three young children by himself. Times
were hard and there were no services available to help people in these
situations. I remember when I was about
four years old being surrounded by ‘Bobbies,’ and taken away from my family. I
might have been lost or perhaps I had run away. I never saw any of my family
again. The Waifs and Strays Society placed me in a foster home in Rumburgh,
Halesworth, Suffolk (Snow G. 3).
Imagine you are a four-year-old child living with your family in London, England in 1913. Your world is limited to your home and family. You are just beyond the toddler stage. All you really know is that your Parents love you. They would have told you this. You believe everything your parents and other adults tell you. One day there is a knock at your door. Some Policemen and strangers enter your home. All the adults argue and shout. They frighten you. You wonder why Policemen are in your home. You ask yourself what you did wrong. You try to understand what is going on, although all you can see is adult knees.
A Policeman picks you up and carries you away. You struggle and cry out, “Mommy!” The strangers shove your family out of the way. The Policeman carries you out of your home and away from your family. The last thing you see over his shoulder is your family crying and reaching out to you with outstretched arms. He tells you to stop crying. As they take you away, the image of your home and family gets smaller and smaller. When you look around, you realize that you have never been this far away from them before. You are terrified. You are afraid you will never see them again. You will wonder for the next 80 years of your life why this happened, and why you never saw your family again.
These people take you to strange surroundings. You wet your bed. They punish you. They are mean to you. They tell you that your Parents did not want you anymore. You do not believe them. You cry for your Mother. They tell you, “She is gone!” You do not know what that means. You know she is somewhere. They tell you that your Parents abandoned you, but you know the truth. They call you a “Waif,” but you know you have Parents who love you.
12
You might be able to speculate a little how this
experience might have felt. You can imagine being frightened and alone. You can
imagine being taken forcibly away from your family at the tender age of four.
At best, you can only imagine it as a temporary experience with a happy ending
of a return to your family. Only orphaned, abandoned, and kidnapped children
can truly appreciate the actual trauma of being permanently separated from
their families at a tender age. This was the experience of thousands of British
Home Children.
Dr. Thomas John Barnardo was one of the
evangelical “Child-Savers.” He believed he could save their souls by removing
them from their families and emigrating them to Canada (Bean 42-43). He was
never affiliated with any established Church, and was a self-proclaimed Doctor
who forged his Physician’s title (Wagner 1979 307-308). He notified Parents he
deemed “respectable,” before he emigrated their children. He notified those
Parents he regarded as “not moral,” after their children had sailed. He sent
30,000 children to Canada (Wagner 1982, 147).
For the first 25 years of
the scheme, he boasted that he had conducted “Philanthropic Abductions.” He
took almost half of the children into his care on “moral grounds,” or because
he decided, they were in the care of a “not respectable” guardian. In many
cases, it was sufficient for them to label the families as “bad.” He forcibly
removed one quarter of the children in his care from their families. He
proclaimed that children would be damaged if left in circumstances of which he
disapproved. Such evangelical “Child-Savers” felt poor families reflected
only an “unintelligent and almost animal affection” for their children.
Barnardo argued that only emigration to Canada would save them from their
families’ evil influences (Parr 67). Parents took him to court over 80 times on
charges of kidnapping. When he lost a case and the courts ordered him to return
the children, he emigrated them anyway (Wagner 1982 147).
As a young child, my Father’s options were very limited. He could have believed what strangers told him about himself and his family. Alternatively, he could have believed only what he knew to be true of his first four years of life. In retrospect, I can only assume that he opted not to believe what strangers told him. Throughout his life, he always tried to make the best of the situation at hand. As a child, he must have told himself constantly that he was not an orphan, his Parents did not abandon him, and that they loved him. All he would have to hold on to were his vague memories of his Parents. He knew he was not a “Bastard.” He knew he was not inferior. He resisted others’ efforts to convince him otherwise.
13
I can only speculate how he survived his childhood traumatic experiences. I imagine he observed families and recalled memories of how his Parents treated him. This painfully reminded him of his loss, but he focused on the future when he would be free of his caretakers. He vowed to himself that someday if he ever became a Father, he would love his children as he had observed Parents displaying their love for their children. He noted how Brothers and Sisters related to each other. He imagined that if he ever had children of his own, he would make sure they would treat each other as he had noted. He knew he was on the outside looking in, so he decided that he might as well learn what he could from this. He sought solace in the Church, where he learned that God loved him and would take care of him. There was no one else.
Organizations saw the
children as only living things -- a little more intelligent than
animals. They treated them accordingly, and the children learned to regard
themselves as things. The “Waif and Stray” label reinforced these attitudes. It
is not enough to simply provide for only the physical needs of children. The
medical diagnosis, “Failure to Thrive,” describes children whose physical,
cognitive, and emotional development is drastically arrested. This is a result
of caretakers who exclusively provide for the child’s physical needs of food,
clothing, and shelter, but completely ignore the child’s emotional needs. The
literature describing the scheme rarely acknowledges the injurious effects upon
young children of separation from their Parents. Stroud offered the
rationalization that the child-care organizations did not realize that children
had emotional needs, and it would take three generations before parents became
aware of this (106).
I cannot accept the despicable assertion that no one knew children had emotional needs. The most primitive tribe knows that a child’s survival depends upon love and affection. Six centuries before the British Child Deportation Scheme, people knew that infants could die if caretakers only attended to their physical needs. In 13th Century England, a ruler conducted an experiment to assess the effects of rearing children under psychologically deprived conditions. He wanted to know what speech children would develop if no one ever spoke to them. He speculated that children might speak Hebrew, Greek, Latin, or their Parents’ language. He allowed foster mothers and caretakers to only look after infants’ physical needs. They were not allowed to talk to them. All the children died of emotional starvation (Mussen et al. 163). Their bodies slowly shrivelled as if they died of food starvation. The twinkle of life in their eyes dulled and then extinguished. Their last breaths were sighs of longing for any sign of human affection or attention. Did those employed by the child-care organizations not have children of their own? Perhaps they regarded the children in their care -- not as someone’s children -- but as pieces of ownerless property.
14
The medieval term “wayves
and streyves” described abandoned things. These things became the property of
the Lord of the Manor, if their owners did not reclaim them. Edward de Montjoie
Rudolf adopted the phrase for his child-care organization in 1881. The
selection of this name was touted as a stroke of genius, because it opened
Victorian hearts and purses (Stroud 62). They generously made donations.
Children in care were regarded as things that did not belong to anyone. It
suited the organization’s monetary motives to portray the children as
foundlings. Who could not feel pity for the abandoned orphans? The organization
did not change their name until 60 years later in 1945 to the Church of England
Children’s Society. In 1982, it changed its name to The Children’s Society, but
the children formerly in their care are still
commonly known as Waifs and
Strays.
Vital learning experiences
occur in the first three years of a child’s life. The most important lesson
children learn in the first two years is love and trust. These experiences are
transformed into long-lasting neurological patterns. They are etched upon the
mind and become part of the personality of the child -- and the adult. Parents
provide nurture, affection, protection, and love. The quality and consistency
of parenting in the first few years is critical to normal child development.
This determines whether a child learns he is deserving/undeserving of love, and
the world is a safe/frightening place. I can only hope my Father’s Parents
loved him enough to give him a tiny sense of his being worthy
and deserving of love from
others before he came into care. He was an optimistic man, who trusted himself
and others. I can only speculate that these lifelong attitudes were a result of
his early positive experiences with his family. I do not believe he learned
love and trust from his caretakers.
My Father’s caretakers never
provided him with an accurate explanation how he came under their care. When he
was a young child, they may have simply told him he was abandoned, or his
Parents were dead. His simple choice as a young child was to either believes
what he knew to be true, or to believe what they told him. Fortunately, he
chose not to believe his family abandoned him. As young as he was, he knew he
had been taken from his family. He did not believe he was an unwanted Waif or
Stray. I would like to believe that he sustained this belief in spite of how
others treated him and what they told him of his Parents. His belief in his
being worthy of love and his ability to love another must have remained dormant
during his childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. His faith and trust in
himself and God were all that he ever had.
15
These beliefs allowed him to
subsist, endure, and persevere alone for the first 25 years of his life.
Falling in love with my Mother allowed him to extend his faith and trust to
another. It must have taken tremendous personal strength for my Father to
overcome his early feelings of abandonment and rejection. As an adult, he had a
long-acquired habit of looking through and beyond a situation. To others it may
have appeared that he was simply staring off into space. I learned that it was
his method of ensuring that the immediate situation would never overwhelm him.
While doing this, he would also tilt his head back and raise his chin in a
determined way. I believe he learned this as a young child, as a method he
adopted to protect himself from the efforts of others to diminish him. He would
not speak, but rather simply raised his chin. It was enough.
16
Fred
G. Snow (4-11): Eight Years in a Foster Home, Rumburgh, Halesworth, Suffolk,
England, 1913-1921
It was unusual that my
Father had so little to say of his eight years in foster care. If there were
anything positive to say about foster care, he would have said it. Out o f
painful necessity, he repressed or blocked out many negative memories of this
time. I can only conclude that he was unable to find much to be grateful for in
this situation. His foster parents were
old and poor. His foster mother Anna
Smith was age 66 when he was placed with her.
She was 75 when he left there in 1922.
She died shortly after he left.
The next thing I remember
was having a nametag pinned to my shirt, being put on a train by myself, and
going to Rumburgh, Halesworth, Suffolk, where I was met by a Social Worker. She
drove the pony and cart to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They lived about ten
miles (16 km) from the train station. I stayed there eight years until I was 12
years old. I attended public school at Rumburgh.
I recall having to wear
ladies’ boots for some time. The Smiths were both white-haired and had no young
children of their own, as their children were married and away from home. I
used to run to the store for tobacco for Mr. Smith who always seemed to be
cranky. I attended St. John’s Church and sang in the choir at the age of six or
seven as a soprano (Snow G. 3).
Your caretakers pin a
nametag on your coat. You are too young to read, so you do not know what the
piece of paper says. You have never been on a train before. A man plunks you on
a seat. He tells you not to talk to anyone, and not to leave your seat. He
leaves you there alone. You have no idea where you are or where you are going.
You have never felt so alone. You know the train is not taking you home. You
only catch glimpses of buildings rushing by when you peek over the windowsill.
You are very tired and want to lie down on the hard seat but are afraid that
someone will punish you for that. You know it is best not to look back where
you have been, because something says you will not be going back.
You sit upright on the seat
but your feet do not reach the floor and you are jostled back and forth by the
train. You lean against the window. You pull your feet underneath you. You are
frightened and suck your thumb. You have not done that in a long time. You wet
your pants, because you do not know if there is a bathroom on the train. You
were told not to move. You find a rag tucked between the seat cushions. You use
it to dry yourself as best you can. You are cold because all you wear is short
pants and a thin shirt. The shoes they gave you are too small and pinch your
feet. You peek out the window and no longer see buildings rushing by, but only
trees and wide-open spaces. It looks very, very empty to you.
17
The train slows down and a
man tells you to get off when it stops. You tentatively step onto the train
platform. A stern woman approaches and says, “Come with me!” She looks at your
wet pants and wrinkles her nose. She shouts, “Filthy Guttersnipe!” You have no
idea what that means. She harshly takes your hand and leads you to a pony and a
cart. She puts you in the back of the cart, instead of beside her. You feel
like the bag of potatoes you sit upon. You watch the countryside with interest.
Something tells you to remember every detail of this trip. You worry that you
might never find your way back to your Mother. You ride in the cart for hours.
Already, you have learned not to ask questions of these strangers. The woman
stops the cart in a very small village. There are only a few houses. There is
so much open space around you.
She takes you to a house and
knocks on the door. An old man and woman answer the door. The woman says, “Here
is the Waif!” Does she not know your name? The white-haired couple tell you
they are your Parents now. You do not know why they say this, but you decide it
is best for you not to say anything. You live with these old people for the
next eight years of your life. They are poor. You quickly decide that you
cannot afford to feel lonely. You decide just to feel alone instead, because it
does not hurt as much. You wear shabby clothes. When your shoes wear out, they
give you women’s boots to wear that are too small for you. They cramp your
feet. Your toes grow crookedly.
There is not much food to
eat. The old people are not cruel, but they treat you no differently than the family
dog. They speak to you in the same tone. They do not really talk to you, but
just order you around. You learn to make yourself smaller when you are in their
home. You learn to make yourself invisible so you will not attract undo
attention from them. You know they do not really want you there, so you try to
stay out of their way. Seven Christmas’ come and go and you especially try your
best to become part of the shadows on these occasions. You are not expected to
participate.
Their family visits them and
they act as if you are not there. The old people surprise you when they give
you a handkerchief on your eighth Christmas there. It is not wrapped, but you
are grateful all the same. There is no one at school whom you can call a
friend. All the children were born in the little village and live close to each
other. Most are related to each other. You are the outsider who does not belong
to anyone. They know you are not related to your foster
parents. Everyone calls you
a “Waif.”
You wonder what you did
wrong to deserve this. You know you belong to someone. You know you have a
Mother and Father. Why do they not understand this? You go to Church and Sunday
school and sing in the choir. The hymns are comforting. Outside Church, you hum
these hymns very softly to yourself. You need to know that someone cares about
you.
18
You wonder all the time,
“Why doesn’t someone take me back to my Family?” As the years pass slowly, you
realize this will not happen. When you ask the old people where your Mother is,
they tell you she is dead. You do not believe them. You vow to find your Family
yourself when you grow up and are free. No one ever told you when you were born
and you never had a birthday. Every other child you knew in the village knew
when they were born and had a birthday every year.
You did not attend anyone’s
birthday, but you heard of them.
The Waifs and Strays Society
regarded village foster homes as ideal placements for their wards. They would
not place children with their relatives. As early as the 1890’s, it was obvious
that children were neglected in the foster homes. They were unwashed and wore
ragged, dirty underclothes for months. They wore boots that were too small and
permanently deformed their feet. They were infected with vermin, and years
passed between inspection visits by local clergy (Stroud 68-73). The
organizations persisted in fostering children in small villages for the next 50
years. My Father’s experience indicated that little had changed in the years he
was in foster care. The organizations were adamant that any circumstances
were better than a child living with his natural family – his evil
associations.
19
Fred
G. Snow (12-16): Four Years at St. Augustine’s Church Home for Boys, Sevenoaks,
Kent, England, 1921-1925
You live in this foster home
for eight years. You are surprised one day when the Social Worker knocks at the
door. She is the same one from many years ago who took you to the Smith foster
home. You remember seeing her only a few times before this. She says, “I’m here
to pick up the Waif.” Mrs. Smith invites her in. The Social Worker says she is
sending you to a Home, where you will be “looked after.” You could not possibly
have known that your placement in the foster home would only last until you
were 12 years old. You do not know that being taken to a Home is for the sole
purpose of holding you until you are old enough to be “emigrated” to Canada.
She tells you to pack your
tin trunk. It has been under your bed for all these years. When you pack your
meagre things, you notice there is nothing new to add. What you put in the
trunk is exactly what you took out of the trunk eight years earlier. You put on
Mrs. Smith’s boots and grimace because you are older and have trouble fitting
your misshapen toes into these boots you have worn for years. The Social Worker
says you will have new shoes in “The Home.” You pass through the doorway and
leave the only “home” you have known. Mrs. Smith says, “Good-bye.” Her face is
expressionless. Mr. Smith does not say anything. He does not even look at you.
The Social Worker tells you
to get in the cart. You rode the same one years before. She lets you sit on the
seat beside her this time. When you arrive at the train station, you remember
the terrifying train trip you had many years ago. She pins a nametag to your
shirt. This time you can read and make sure your name is on it. She tells you
someone will meet you at the next station. She leaves you there and walks away
without saying anything. You get on the train and try not to think of where it
is taking you. You wonder what “Home” you will be living in. As the train
slowly pulls out of the station, you do not look back. You learned not to do
that when you were four years old. You are a little boy who does not know where
he is, and does not know where he is going. There is nowhere for you to run.
There is no one for you to turn to. No one knows who you are. You do not know
who you are either. As you watch the scenery pass by, you know you will not
pass this way again.
As the train slows to a halt
at a London station, a Porter looks at your nametag and tells you this is where
you get off. He smiles and gives you a wink. You are not used to having someone
smile at you, so you give him a shy smile back. You do not know how to wink.
You get off the train. Another Social Worker hollers, “Here, Boy!” You assume
that is yourself. He checks your nametag and tells you to follow him through
the station, and not to say a word. He puts you on another train. As it quickly
passes through London, you wonder where your Family lives.
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You were too young to know
where you lived when they apprehended you. All the same, you tell yourself your
Family is somewhere out there. You have thoughts that now you are in London,
somehow, they will find you, or you can find them. The train stops and you get
off. You wait for someone to holler, “Here, Boy!” Someone does. He does not
need to tell you to be quiet. You are a quick learner. You follow this man. He
takes you to your new “Home.”
It is a large and imposing
stone building surrounded by high stone walls. They cut your hair off in
clumps. They “delouse” you. You want to tell them this is unnecessary, but you
know better than to speak. They give you clothes to wear that are more worn
than your clothes. They give you old boots. To you they are new. At least they
are too large instead of too small. You wonder if your bent toes might still
straighten out in time.
You notice that all the
other boys in the Home have “empty eyes.” You wonder if they are sick. They
have scabs on their faces and arms. The adults take your nametag -- and your
name away. One of the Sisters says, “You are now Boy Number 18264.” You put
your tin trunk under your bed in the dormitory, and notice the straw mattress
reeks of urine. The older boys in the dormitory do not look at you. An
eight-year-old boy sneaks a look at you. He looks like a frightened puppy. At
least the dormitory has a window, and you can see a little over the high walls.
At night, you wonder which chimney pot belongs to your Family’s home. You
wonder why the Home is so silent. It absorbs the sounds of footsteps. It is a
very strange place, full of very strange people.
The Home held 48 boys who
were 6-16 years old in six dormitories. We slept on straw mattresses. Master
Jago was quite sadistic and treated us as if we were criminals or slaves. I
helped him fix some electrical wiring and he asked me if he knew anything about
electricity. I said, ‘Not very much.’ I stood on a ladder and he told me to
grab hold of a pipe. He handed an electrical wire to me. When I touched it, the
shock nearly knocked me off. Mr. Jago laughed.
At the Local Council School
they used a form of discipline called the ‘cross’ system.’ A Head Monitor kept
daily track of
your mistakes or ‘crosses.’
The Headmaster of the Council School gave you one strap if you had eight
‘crosses’ for the day. He gave you another strap for every ‘cross’ more than
eight. You got the same number of straps again when you got back to the Home!
For serious misdemeanours, you leaned over and touched your toes while they
caned you on your bare back. If they considered the offences very bad, you had
to lie on a table with one guy holding your hands and head and another holding
your feet. They beat you with birch twigs across your bare backside. (Snow G, p
10)
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Every night after supper,
they lined us 48 kids -- big and small -- in a horseshoe formation in a big
room. They punished kids in front of the whole school. They regarded running
away, smiling, getting out of line while marching to school, and speaking back
to your Head Monitor as very bad offences. I got the cane only once after my
friend Leonard Knell and I cleaned up the big hall after a meeting of some
kind. We had a game of floor hockey using brooms as hockey sticks. Sneaky
Sister Megan caught us and we both ‘got the birch!’ Sister Pickett and Sister
Megan wore blue habits with white starched cowls. They were particularly mean.
They would do anything to get us in trouble. They enjoyed punishing us.
One boy ran away from a
Barnardo Home. They captured him and placed him in solitary confinement. They
gave him a nightshirt and locked him in a room for seven days. They fed him only
dry bread and a glass of water three times a day. When the week of solitary
confinement ended, four boys held him spread-eagled over the end of a table,
and gave him six strokes of the cane over his bare buttocks (Harrison 203). How
much money did they save by forcing children to eat mouldy food or bread and
water?
We had soccer practice three
times a week, no matter what the weather. They put us on bread and water for a
couple of days when we lost a soccer game. Can you imagine playing soccer all
day and coming home to that? If a kid ran away, they
beat him and locked him in
the ‘tower.’ They gave him only bread and water for days.
Breakfast invariably
consisted of porridge and two slices of bread with butter. There was also jam
and tea. Lunch was a bowl of soup and two slices of bread. There usually was no
dessert. If you did not eat all of your porridge at breakfast, they kept it and
made you eat it the next day. If you refused again, they would keep this up for
days until the porridge had meld on it. Still they forced you to eat it. (Snow,
G p 12)
One Home Child gave a piece
of candy to another child. Someone told the Matron. She used large tongs to
carry the young girl up a flight of stairs. She called the girl “unclean
(sinful),” threw her into a broom closet, and locked her in the dark. The rest
of the children ate their meal in silence while the girl screamed and kicked
her feet on the floor of the closet (Stroud 117).
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We did all the cleaning in
the Home. We scoured the rough-wood gym floor with a scrub brush. We got many
splinters in our hands and knees as we wore only short pants. We mopped and
scrubbed the kitchen and scullery. We scrubbed, waxed, and polished the
linoleum on the front steps and big staircase. We scrubbed the marble back steps
down to the basement. We tended the gardens. The older boys polished all the
other boys’ shoes. Every Saturday night, three of us 14-year-old boys bathed 20
of the five-year-old boys. I was a server at Church. Twice a week I went to
Communion at 6:00 a.m. On Sunday, I went four times a day for early masses,
Matins, Sunday school, and evening services. I felt safe in the Church (Snow G.
5-6).
The Waifs and Strays Society
operated on a food budget of 3s 6d per child per week (Stroud
45-46). My Father’s account indicated that the diet established in the 1880’s
had not changed for 40 years. How would you subsist on this meagre diet?
Your weekday Breakfast is
porridge, milk, and “dripping.” On alternate weekdays, it is porridge, water,
and “dripping.” On Sunday mornings, you have bread, butter, and cocoa. Monday
Dinner is soup, bread, and milk pudding. Every other Monday you have boiled
apple, or rhubarb pudding. Tuesday Dinner is Irish stew with rice and carrots,
or a “dripping crust.” Wednesday, you have boiled suet (fat) pudding with
treacle. Thursday Dinner is meat, bread, and green vegetables. Friday Dinner is
soup, bread, and milk pudding. Saturday, you have baked suet pudding with
raisins, apples, or carrots. Sunday Dinner is meat, vegetables, rice pudding,
or stewed rhubarb. You could have fruit in the summer. Your Tea (Supper) during
the week is bread, dripping, treacle, and milk. On alternate days, you had
bread, dripping, treacle, and water. The Punishment Circle follows every
Supper.
The rules of the Home were
rigid (Stroud 43-44). How would you adapt to this unvarying routine? You wake
up every weekday at 6:30 a.m., in summer and 7:00 a.m., in winter. You strip
your bed. You open the windows wide -- “a little at the top,” unless it is
raining, snowing or foggy. You kneel at your bed and say the Lord’s Prayer. You
wash your hands and face. You wash your shorn hair and “rub it perfectly dry.”
You bathe once a week. You help wash the younger children. You say Grace before
and after every meal. You say Prayers and read Scripture before breakfast. All
of this takes about an hour every morning. You have breakfast at 7:30 a.m., in
summer and 8:00 a.m., in winter. After breakfast, you make your bed. You wash
your bed-sheets every second week. You wash your blankets and quilts once a
year -- only in the summer. You work in the kitchen or laundry after breakfast.
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You attend school in the
morning and return to the Home for Dinner at 1:00 p.m. You say Grace before and
after Dinner. You attend school in the afternoon. You have Tea at 6:00 p.m., in
the summer and 5:30 p.m., in the winter. You say Grace before and after Tea.
You read Scripture and say Prayers after Tea. You gather for the daily
Punishment Circle after Supper every night. You watch other children being
caned with birch twigs. It is hard to watch the younger children being
punished, but if you close your eyes or look away, they cane you too. You
unfocused your eyes so you do not see.
Once the caning is done,
they send you all to bed. Children under eight go to bed before 7:00 p.m. Those
under nine go to bed by 8:00 p.m., and those under twelve go to bed by 8:30
p.m. You go to bed before 9:00 p.m. You kneel at your bed and say the Lord’s
Prayer. OnSaturday, you clean the Home -- “from top to bottom.” You attend
Church on Sunday morning and Sunday school in the afternoon. You can attend
evening Church -- but only in the summer. You spend as much time in Church as
you can. It allows you some respite from this place, if only for a while.
Every Friday night, they
“dosed” the children with a mixture of castor oil and liquorice powder. A
single spoon was licked by one and passed to the next. Ringworm, vermin, and
chilblains were rampant in the Homes. They allowed the children a one-day
outing per year. They did not allow them to go outside the gates of the Home
except briefly during school holidays. Children could go out on the large paved
areas that were surrounded by high walls, but there were no toys with which
they could play (Stroud 113-115).
They had to refer to
themselves by their number at all times. Perhaps there was another motive to
their numbering of children. In 1911, a Canadian eugenicist suggested all of
humanity should be numbered. He contended that if numbers replaced names, over
time everyone would develop pride in their assigned digit (McLaren 25). I do
not think many British Home Children developed pride in their digits. I am
surprised the organizations did not tattoo the children’s arms with, “Waif
Number 18264.” This might have made it easier for them to locate children,
since they lost track of so many in Canada.
The Homes strictly enforced
the Rule of Silence, especially when children were outside the Home. They could
talk quietly amongst themselves for an hour between tea and bedtime (Stroud
112-113). The Punishment Circle was held every night after Tea, so there could
not have been much time left for communication. What could they talk about
after they were forced to watch other children being caned? The organizations
justified the Rule of Silence by saying that the prevailing attitude of the
time was, “Children should be seen and not heard.” If they were seen and heard
at the wrong time and place, the organizations feared the loss of the gentry’s
goodwill -- and their financial contributions (Stroud 106-107).
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The dominant motive of the
Waifs and Strays Society was to permanently isolate children from their
families and deport them overseas. Their 1893 constitution stated their primary
mission as one of doing “all things expedient” to assist the emigration of
children (Stroud 229). They wanted to rescue children from their bad
surroundings and permanently place them in Canada to prevent them from drifting
back when they were no longer under their care. The entire emphasis was upon
breaking “old evil associations.” The Waifs and Strays Society regarded their
efforts as wasted if children re-established their associations. Admission was
made contingent upon the nearest relative handing over the child “unreservedly”
into their care (Stroud 80). The child-care organizations conducted a Holy
Crusade against poor families.
They appeared to have
modified their objectives in 1952 when they professed their first priority as
one of providing financial assistance to families so that children could remain
with them. The provision was whether they judged the homes as “reasonably
satisfactory.” Their second apparent priority was adoption, if they decided it
was “inadvisable” for children to stay in their homes. Their third priority was
to board children with foster parents, and their final option was to send
children to the Homes until they were of employable age (Stroud 230). There was
no mention of child emigration in their policies, even though they were very
much involved in the British Child Deportation Scheme to Australia until 1967.
When I imagine St.
Augustine’s Home for Boys, I see only grey. I see the sun shining overhead --
but not on this building. Inside, I see spirits frozen in the still air. They
are images of children with hurt but tearless eyes. They all wear numbers. I
see cold stone walls saturated with their muffled cries. I do not hear echoes
of children’s laughter, because this is a silent place. Instead, I feel the
vibrations of their unspoken pleas. I feel a silent, “Please help me.” I see my
Father’s dormitory, and imagine him sitting by the window, leaning on the sill,
and praying to the night sky for deliverance. I see a children’s prison.
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Chapter 2: A British Home Child Deported to Canada, 1925