The Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry: A History of Misery and Medicine (Landmarks) (PA)

by J. P. Webster

  Published by The History Press

  Charleston, SC 29403

  www.historypress.net

  Copyright © 2013 by J.P. Webster

  All rights reserved

  Front cover, upper: Crumbling second-floor hallway in C-4 building, 2005. Photo by author.

  First published 2013

  e-book edition 2013

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN 978.1.62584.535.1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Webster, J. P. (John Paul)

  The Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry : a history of misery and medicine / J.P. Webster.

  pages cm

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  print edition ISBN 978-1-62619-082-5

  1. Philadelphia State Hospital (Pa.) 2. Psychiatric hospitals--Pennsylvania--Byberry--History. 3. People with mental disabilities--Institutional care--Pennsylvania--Byberry. 4. Mentally ill--Care--Pennsylvania--Byberry--History. I. Title.

  RC445.P43W43 2013

  362.2’10974811--dc23

  2013015696

  Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the author or The History Press. The author and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The book you are about to read is the end result of my obsession with Philadelphia State Hospital. Compiling the following information was a labor of love for me, and it opened the doors of history to my prying mind.

  This book is dedicated to all the staff at Byberry who cared about their patients. To the employees who worked long hours for low wages and hung on through intolerable conditions because no one else would, this book is for you.

  Plot plan of the 1,100-acre property, circa 1950. Author’s collection.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  1. Mental Healthcare in the Quaker City: The Origins of Byberry

  2. The Blockley Colony at Byberry Farms: Philly’s Funny Farm

  3. Building Bedlam: The Crooked Construction Process

  4. The Philadelphia Hospital for Mental Diseases: The City Years

  5. The Philadelphia State Hospital: The State Years

  6. The New Approach: Deinstitutionalization at Byberry

  7. The End of an Era: The Closure of PSH

  8. The Rediscovery of a Discarded Past: The Years of Abandon

  Sources

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author would like to thank the following for their kind assistance: Hannah Cassilly at The History Press, Hillary Kativa at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Margery Sly at Temple University Urban Archives, Jonathan Stayer at Pennsylvania State Archives, James Bostick, Dave Brown, Josh Morris, Bill Montgomery, Luke Papa, Ed Straddling, Gary Heller and my mother, Susan Webster (Philly’s best teacher). And a special thanks to all the Byberrians—you know who you are.

  PREFACE

  The first thing I noticed was the smell. Inching my head very slowly into an open window in N-10 building, I noticed that smell of abandonment. Mold, dust, wet insulation and stagnant air were not familiar odors to me. The November air was coarse and cutting, but I was sweating. The extreme quiet also produced an extremely uncomfortable feeling. The sound of the zipper on my backpack opening to remove my flashlight was like a startling electric guitar riff. “Sshhhh!” urged my friend Jay.

  I shined my flashlight into the window, and it returned a bright flash from the glazed tile wall inside. It reminded me of my elementary school, the tile walls and echoing terrazzo floor. Turning the flashlight to the right, I saw another room through an open door. Lockers—it was a locker room. Anything could be behind those lockers, I thought, being very quiet and waiting for us to come inside. “You see anything?” Jay pressed. “Going in or what?”

  He had been inside before. It was November 4, 2002, and a few days previous had been Halloween. The discussion came up about a haunted, abandoned asylum that was too scary for even the police to enter: Byberry. The Byberry hospital was the scariest place on earth, according to Jay. Byberry. I knew that name, that place. I remembered asking my father about “those buildings” when I was young, and his response: “Byberry, that’s where they put the crazy people.” There was an immediate reconnection in my mind to the curiosity his answer had stirred. Jay had agreed to go to the dark, desolate metropolis with me. He said he would show me around, and there we were.

  It took me a couple minutes to make my way into the window—not because it was small or awkward, but because I was terrified. My feet hit the floor with a thud that echoed into thunder, at least in my ears. Jay had much less trouble entering. Those lockers, I thought, what’s in those lockers? Before I knew it, Jay was out the door and down the hallway. I followed, but my flashlight only lit the way so far. The smell was worse now, the air thick and heavy. My steps seemed like hours apart, and the fear was gripping. The repeating, echoing sounds of Jay’s footsteps and the jumpy glow of his flashlight were getting farther away. I whispered loudly, but he was off in the darkness. I tried to move faster down the hallway, but my legs just wouldn’t move. Every step I took echoed into another sound altogether—booming, scraping. Finally, my flashlight found what looked like a stairwell.

  Ascending the debris-covered steps, the evening sun did more to light my way. I saw what had to be years of graffiti in layers. Painted skulls, badly drawn pentagrams and words like “Satan” and “Metallica” brought the easing thought of contemporary youth—not so scary. But I also realized that the stairwell was encased in bars, whose layers of yellow paint were peeling in strange patterns and shapes. At roof level, a cell-like door was unlocked and ajar. It would have prevented roof access to anyone without a key. I was beginning to see how this place worked; it seemed similar to a prison.

  Out on the roof, Jay was waiting. “What took you so long?” he jokingly asked. A feeling came on that was similar to the feeling I had after finally descending the high dive as a youth or finally learning to ride a bike. The view from the roof showed a layout of buildings, twenty-seven of them, all as empty as the night sky behind them. Jay picked up a half-filled can of spray paint laying on the roof and began writing graffiti on a wall. After catching my bearings, I asked, “Why did this place close?” Concentrating on his graffiti, he seemed to half hear the question. “They were torturing people in here,” he mumbled. The answer startled me. “Huh? What do you mean?” Jay took about ten seconds to finish his tag and then he threw the empty spray paint can off the roof into the shadows. “My dad told me they used to torture the patients here,” he replied, finally acknowledging the question. “Like…the dentist would pull out patients’ teeth without Novocain, and the patients used to kill the doctors. But the guards would rape the women patients.” Noticing the look of shock and awe on my face, he shook his head in an attempt to further dramatize the story. “They found so many dead bodies out here.”

  I slowly nodded, but at that point my doubts were too strong. “Really?” I asked. He looked at me and laughed, “Yup.” But I didn’t believe him. It was all part of the story, I thought. He must have gotten that from a horror movie. “Stuf
f like that doesn’t happen in real life, dude,” I said. That took true evil, not just unpleasant procedure. “Well, it’s what my dad told me,” he answered, no longer laughing.

  After a while on the roof, the sun had gone down. We made our way back down the echoey hallway, past the lockers and out the window. Walking down the hospital roadway, I glared at the big, dark buildings as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Another building came into sight. “That’s N-9,” said Jay. “We used to party on that roof.” A lonely streetlight in the distance shone on a much larger and more imposing building. At ground level, another open window was pointed out by the streetlight—the only light I could see. We made our way to the window. I felt much more at ease and wanted to explore. I casually walked up with my flashlight and looked in the window. This time I let out a gasp. It was a dead deer, inside, on the floor. But it was black and green and red. It was covered in spray paint and had a rope around its neck. Its mouth was wide open, and I remember its white teeth. The fear came back and gripped me by the neck. It was about midnight now, and that feeling of accomplishment had been squashed. I just wanted to leave.

  We began heading for the woods when the headlights of a small SUV swept across us. A security guard was making his rounds. We made a run for the nearby woods, tripping on brush and collapsing into thorn bushes. I felt the thorns rip into me, but adrenaline kept the pain away. We slowly peeked out of the bushes. He hadn’t even seen us. Instead, the vehicle made its way over to the window revealing the deer. Under that lone streetlight, I could make out a man exiting the truck and looking into the window. I expected him to startle, as I did, but instead, he seemed to be laughing as he got back into the truck and drove away. Hmmm, must have been a deterrent, I thought, a good way to keep the neighborhood kids out. But I had never been more intrigued by a geographical location.

  The large group of threatening, dark buildings bordered closely by a busy neighborhood seemed very out-of-place indeed. Never having been afraid as a child to explore, climb, crawl and bushwhack my way into unknown territory, now at twenty-four, these buildings genuinely frightened me…and I loved it. I quickly became obsessed with Byberry—the physical character of the buildings, the placement of the windows, the graffiti everywhere, that unforgettable smell, the unsettling darkness except for where a few still-functioning street lamps beamed circles of yellowish light onto the institution’s overgrown roadway. There was so much about the place that fascinated me from the start. As fate would have it, I would come to find out much more about Byberry and about what made it one-of-a-kind.

  Chapter 1

  MENTAL HEALTHCARE IN THE QUAKER CITY

  The Origins of Byberry

  Byberry, an area of about three miles square, is a neighborhood in the northeast section of the city of Philadelphia. It is today the northernmost section of the city, and it was settled before William Penn’s proprietorship actually began. In 1667, four brothers from England arrived on Pennsylvania’s shore in the present-day city of Chester, then occupied by Swedish colonists. They set sail upriver again until they reached the mouth of the Poquessing Creek. Following the Poquessing, the brothers finally settled in what is today part of Philadelphia’s Thirty-fifth Ward, Byberry. These were the Walton brothers. They were Quakers looking for a place to live and practice their Quaker religion freely. The Waltons gave their new home the name of their old home in England: Bibury. Over the years, the spelling has evolved into “Byberry.”

  Before the onset of the French and Indian War, Byberry was part of an area that made up what was called Smithville, one of many towns in colonial America named for Captain John Smith. In the last half of the eighteenth century, Smithville became known as Moreland Township, which later split into upper and lower halves. The population of Byberry was primarily Quaker. There was a powerful underground railroad in Byberry too. It was the home of Robert Purvis, staunch abolitionist, who built Byberry Hall in 1846 and frequently held antislavery meetings there. It still stands next to Byberry Friends Meetinghouse. The Consolidation Act of 1854 absorbed Byberry into the city of Philadelphia, but its inclusion almost didn’t happen. The area consisted mostly of families who had lived there for over a century. They enjoyed small township tax rates, and they knew what would happen as a result of being absorbed by the rapidly growing city: a huge tax hike. Despite their opposition, Byberry became part of the city of Philadelphia.

  There is little doubt that Philadelphia is probably the most “American” of American cities. Its founding epitomizes the European idea of what the New World had to offer. One of the newer of the thirteen colonies, Pennsylvania was conceived and planned in England and merely laid out in America. By 1681, the layout of William Penn’s “Holy Experiment” had been imagined and drawn out. This seventeenth-century city already provided everything Americans have come to know as the “American Dream.” Its lots of property were already laid out from river to river and featured up-to-date houses constructed in the row-house layout, evenly distributed around public squares. William Penn’s new city would introduce the rest of America to a way of living that, in many aspects, still exists today.

  Like any public municipality, Philadelphia has had its share of public health problems. But unlike most, it paved the way for America’s method of dealing with these problems. The first public hospital in the United States, the Pennsylvania Hospital, was founded in 1751 and is still in operation at Seventh and Pine Streets. The colonial city was home to several pioneers in the medical field. Dr. Thomas Bond performed the first lithotomy (removal of kidney and gall stones) in the new world. He was world-renowned for his brilliant medical abilities. Dr. Philip Syng Physick earned the moniker “Father of American Surgery” for his work at the Pennsylvania Hospital.

  Benjamin Rush was born in Byberry in 1741. He was a signer of the Declaration of Independence and the “Father of American psychiatry” and was the first in the country to treat mental diseases as a medical condition. He was also fearless during the yellow fever epidemic in Philadelphia in 1790. He was one of a handful of doctors who stayed in the city and worked tirelessly at what he believed to be a cure. His method of bleeding and purging was used frequently on hundreds of patients. Rush’s belief that most diseases were blood-born caused many a patient to die as a result of bleeding and purging. Rush is still regarded, however, as a pioneer in the field of American mental health. His ideas paved the way for the American “asylum.”

  Psychiatric care in most of colonial America was practically nonexistent. Philadelphia was the largest city in the thirteen colonies, and naturally, it was full of men with big ideas. Fortunately for most Philadelphians, the idea men of their city were largely philanthropic. The Pennsylvania Hospital started as a free hospital and only charged those who could afford to pay. But as the city got bigger, so did its troubles. The hospital was forced to begin charging every patient for care, and the ward for insane patients was moved to the basement. There they had the unwanted opportunity to be strapped into Dr. Ben Rush‘s “tranquilizing chair,” where they were deprived of their senses for hours at a time.

  Another of colonial Philadelphia’s public options was the almshouse. A Quaker conception, the almshouse was a place for the poor, sick, widowed and “pitied” citizens of Philadelphia to receive shelter, food and sometimes-mediocre medical care. But that was a time when the people of the city were fewer and its undesirables easier to manage. The taxpaying colonists’ new system was working well. But the attractive city in the New World was looking good to many others in Europe and elsewhere, and the foundation would only hold for so long. By 1800, the crowded seventeenth-century almshouse was proving inadequate for the waves of poor immigrants flooding the city.

  At the close of the Revolutionary War, the city was filled with mostly middle- and lower-class revolutionaries. The wealthy Loyalists and Tories fled the city after Cornwallis’s defeat, fearing execution. The pacifist Quakers, who mostly had chosen to remain neutral in the war, now found themselves without much power in
Philadelphia. The new capital was run by men who took chances and made sacrifices. During the hustle and bustle of the years as the nation’s capital, Philadelphia saw little progress in the way of medicine or public health.

  Not until the 1830s had the Quakers regained some of their hold in the city. A brief period of considerable advancement, the decade and a half prior to the Civil War saw the fruition of Quaker ideals into physical form, such as the penitentiary and almshouse. Construction began in 1821 on the Eastern State Penitentiary, the first of its kind in the United States. The idea of reforming a prisoner through penitence and spiritual enlightenment was the prevailing conception. This was the first time prisoners were thought of as “curable” and not simply morally sinister. For most crimes—including, in many cases, murder—if a prisoner could afford to pay his fine, he was simply released. The fearful-looking new penitentiary would revolutionize the country’s attitude toward crime and punishment.

  Meanwhile, the old almshouse on Pine Street was overcrowded and completely insufficient. It was meant to offer beds only to non–able bodied patients for a short time, not house them permanently. But by 1830, the almshouse was home to almost two hundred insane males and females together with sufferers of contagious diseases, destitute homeless and orphans. It was clear the growing city needed a new almshouse for a quickly evolving population—one that would be large enough to contain sufficient space for all the classes of illness it would treat.

  In 1831, a site for the new almshouse was chosen outside the city boundary across the Skyulkyll River in Blockley Township. It afforded plenty of room for a large structure. In 1833, the Philadelphia Hospital accepted patients from the Pennsylvania Hospital and the old almshouse. By 1841, it housed over eight hundred patients. The new almshouse was seen as more of a hospital, able to treat and release patients on a steady basis. Unfortunately, it would prove to be more of a warehouse for permanent residence of thousands of lost souls who managed to filter down into it. Admission, in most cases, was a last resort for patients who had proved uncontainable in other hospitals. The Philadelphia Hospital, its official name, would become known simply as “Blockley,” and its reputation would become infamous.