October 4, 1964: The Trip

Thursday, Oct. 04, 2001 - 1:32 p.m.

Miss Throckmorton lounged in bed, embracing Morpheus. At some level, but not lucidly, she must have been aware that she was sleeping and not in school.

Professor Throckmorton came to her room, the cat, Tudor, leapt out of bed, as if a guilty creature caught in some illicit place.

Professor Throckmorton had a large leather suitcase with him and briefly instructed Miss Throckmorton, just turned 14, to "pack."

"Pack? Why?"

Miss Throckmorton was confused. Here it was 9:30 am or thereabouts; the school bus had left almost two hours earlier, she had had the almost unspeakably luxurious pleasures of a good nights sleep.

There had been no intimations.

"You're going to a mental hospital. Your mother and I think that you are a danger to yourself."

"No, no, no! What did I do? I haven't done ANYTHING. Don't do this to me."

Miss Throckmorton panicked.

"There's nothing to discuss. Pack your clothes."

What happens when you are 14, in 9th grade,and have no idea what accoutrements one brings to a mental hospital?

Miss Throckmorton was shaking with rage and helplessness for she knew that this was no joke. There was a hard, fixed expression on her father's face.

Should she bring her school books?

He popped back into her bedroom and say "For God's sake, don't wear black."

Miss Throckmorton put on a dress, denim, with big, bright red buttons. It was about the most normal thing she could think of to wear.

She brought along the book she was reading for school, "Lord of the Flies" (little would she know how a propos that would be) and dragged herself downstairs, suitcase in hand.

Her parents escorted her to the car.

"Please don't do this to me. I'll do anything. Anything. I don't want to go."

Her parents were icy, silent.

They set off on the Merritt Parkway and as they approached New York, the silence in the car seemed unbearable. Miss Throckmorton sat in the back seat, crying, trying to to let her parents know she was crying, muffling her sobs.

A mental hospital?

But she was such a good girl. Never did anything wrong. Mental Hospitals were for those high school boys who had taken so much speed that they couldn't think straight.

Mental hospitals were not for people like her---shy, but plodding along. Studying hard: her French, Latin, English, History, Typing, Biology, Gym...all the normal things that she forced herself to do. And she was doing ok. No bad grades so far, although the school year was yet young.

Why oh why?

In what seemed like a surrealistic, even a sadistic, turn of events (or was it a reprieve) Professor Throckmorton decided that the trio should make a brief visit to the World's Fair at NYC.

The Throckmortons had been there before several times: Professor Throckmorton was a self-avowed junkie of World's Fairs and Presidential Libraries.

Miss Throckmorton wandered through the Johnson Wax Pavilion, a place that her father had taken a particular shine too.

Why, oh why?

"What did I do?" she asked her mother, when her more stern father was enthralled with an exhibit.

"You wear black all the time. Nothing but black. Black tights; black skirts, black turtlenecks. The psychiatrist and the school think you must be very disturbed."

"I promise never to wear black again if you just take me home. You know why I do it---I just wanted to be a beatnik. I promise not to be a beatnik!'

Miss Throckmorton pleaded and bargained.

{NB for younger readers---beatniks were, vaguely, precursors to hippies.}

After two or three gloomy hours wandering about the World's Fair and visiting many informative and geographically enlightening pavilions, Professor Throckmorton ordered his wife and older daughter back in the car.

"It's time to get a move on."

They proceeded in silence---through Queens, all the way through Queens. Garden City. Rego Park.

Somewhere along the way Professor Throckmorton volunteered, almost cheerfully, "This is the neighborhood where Kitty Genovese was murdered."

Finally they pulled up to a gate: HILLSIDE HOSPITAL.

There was no hill, hence there was no hillside.

They proceeded along a drive to a small building that was marked "Adolescent Pavilion".

"Oh, isn't that cute!" exclaimed Mrs. Throckmorton. "It's sort of like the World's Fair. Adolescent Pavilion. Wait till I tell my friends."

"Wait...how long am I going to be here," Miss Throckmorton finally asked her parents.

For as long as it takes.....for as long as it takes.....

"But I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to my precious little brother and my darling little baby sisters."

"It's better that nobody knew you were going in advance. It's less upsetting."

"Who's going to feed the cats?"

"We'll take care of it. Now come on. Stop playing for time. We need to get you admitted."

Miss Throckmorton, with considerable trepidation, approached the Adolescent Pavilion. The door was opened, she was swept inside along with her parents.

Her parents stayed only a short while.

The officious social worker in charge of admissions had Professor Throckmorton sign a sheaf of documents.

"Permission to give Electric Short Therapy."

"Don't sign it, Daddy!"

He signed.

"Permission to administer Pelvic Exams."

"No, no, no; don't sign that one!"

He signed.

"Permission to adminster EEGS and to do brain surgery."

"NO!" she started to cry again; "Please don't sign these papers!"

She was invisible as far as they were concerned and inaudible.

After signing away all rights to his daughter's mind, body, soul, and everything else, Professor Throckmorton grimly got up, took his wife by the arm, and instructed young Throcky to "Be good."

What despair engulfed the girl. Nobody had told her what it meant to "be good" in a mental hospital. Nobody had given her preliminary lessons. Nobody had told her what to do or not to do.

The social worker introduced her to a woman, wearing a pink smock, who looked exactly and precisely like Eleanor Roosevelt. Giving Throcky a toothy grin, Eleanor Roosevelt wielded her keys, unlocked a door, and pronounced, "I'm taking you to your room to help you unpack."

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