week 3

Incorrigible

Author(s) Demerson, Velma

Imprint Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2004

Extent 172 p.

ISBN 0889204446

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M y week at the jail is up and I’m again put into the Black

Maria for my return trip to the courthouse. The date is

May 10, 1939, which will be seared in my mind forever. I’m brought

into court and stand in the same place. The judge says, “You are charged

with being ‘incorrigible’ and I sentence you to one year in the Belmont

Home.”

I walk back and forth in this barred enclosure, stunned! How could

it be that a judge, knowing I was pregnant, would refuse to allow me to

marry the father of my child?

Yet it’s so obvious — why hadn’t I thought of it before? I know that

Chinese are not allowed to bring their families to Canada. Chinese

babies are undesirable. What could be worse than a white woman will-

ing to challenge government policy designed to “protect” her?

I know that nationality is determined by the heritage of one’s father.

I hated it in school when I had to identify myself as Greek on the school

register when my mother was respectably English and all my friends

were British.

� I’m put into the back seat of a police car and taken to a large house that resembles a rectory in a residential neighbourhood. After official docu-

ments are signed and the police have left, Miss Pollock, the superin-

tendent, takes me upstairs and shows me my sleeping quarters. I’m in

a room with six beds at the back of the building.

Then she takes me to the basement and shows me the toilet cubi-

cles and tells me which ones to use, and not to use the one for a girl

with venereal disease.

After that, I’m deposited in a large room with several occupants.

Although I’m suspicious of my surroundings, being released from behind

CHAPTER 6

51

bars comes as a surprise. I sit edgily on a hard chair and feel my arm.

It still hurts from the firm grasp of the policeman.

A young woman approaches and speaks to me. I ignore her. My

being here is a mistake, an injustice. I’m fully aware of racial discrim-

ination. The others are here for breaking the law. I can’t believe any-

one else would be here who hasn’t been stealing or doing violent things.

Bad girls are shrill and coarse, but I’ve never even spoken back to my

parents.

My eyes are drawn to the only activity in the room. A tall gangly

girl is standing behind the chair of another girl, arranging her auburn hair

which is curled under in a page boy. I will learn that the red-haired girl

is a minister ’s daughter from another Ontario city.

I’ve been sitting quietly with my thoughts for some time when a

large number of girls pour into the room, talking freely. At the sound of

a bell they crowd together at the top of the basement stairs. I’m now

agreeable to getting up from the chair to fit into the routine. The girl who

approached me has not taken offence, and I join her. She tells me that

the girls have just come back from the laundry where they work. We’re

going downstairs for supper. I can hear someone saying, “We’re having

peanut butter.” There’s a certain exhilaration at this prospect.

We file down the narrow stairs to a large dining area. In it are sev-

eral long tables covered with white tablecloths. I follow my friend to the

table at the rear wall and stand while a supervisor says grace. On the table

are white and brown buttered slices of bread and large bowls of peanut

butter.

No sooner have we sat down than there’s a commotion. I hear a

strangled sound. It’s at the furthest table and the girls raise themselves,

trying to see what is happening.

“Victoria is having a fit,” someone says, and I can see a matron

moving hurriedly toward the front table. Another girl explains, “She’s

having an epileptic fit, they’re putting a spoon in her mouth so she won’t

swallow her tongue.” I can’t move. I grit my teeth, suppressing a desire

to scream.

As suddenly as it has begun, the crisis is over, and the meal soberly

resumes.

� Perhaps because I’m thin and pregnant I’m put on light housework duty. I have undergone an internal examination by a male doctor at the

52 INCORRIGIBLE

jail and, now at the Home, other aspects of my body are being consid-

ered by a woman doctor. Having completed another internal examina-

tion she takes a blood test, then she takes my blood pressure, examines

my eyes, and inspects my teeth for cavities. I have barely eaten since

my arrest. The doctor remarks, “You weigh only ninety-three pounds —

you’re undernourished. I’m going to prescribe calcium for you.”

Sue, a twenty-four-year-old girl in a later stage of pregnancy, and I

work together mopping the hardwood floors, dusting, and cleaning gen-

erally. I also work in a laundry room folding sheets with another girl as

they come ironed out of a large mangle. Sue tells me she has two chil-

dren and is expecting a third. She’s very pretty with brown hair and

eyes and a turned up nose; she’s somewhat plump with a cheerful dis-

position.

Possibly due to her maturity, I become attracted to her. She tells me

that she married a man who turned out to be a bigamist with whom

she had her first child. Then she lived with a different man and had the

second child. When she became pregnant with her third child he aban-

doned her. I imagine the rest. It’s common knowledge that a woman

living with a man out of wedlock can be reported to the Children’s Aid.

She is providing an “immoral” environment for her children. She could

be charged with contributing to delinquency.

Sue smiles as she describes the antics of her children. She laughs with

embarrassment as she admits, “I like a little nookie sometimes.”

My views of the type of person placed in a home begin to change

drastically. There are lots of different women here, but we all have been

imprisoned under the broad label of immorality. Whether this covers

vagrancy or prostitution, who’s to say? For the most part, it seems we

have just been plucked out of our homes.

The Belmont is definitely not a home for unmarried mothers. I fig-

ure there are possibly sixty inmates; only four of us are pregnant. There

are no babies about. All the girls I meet have been sentenced to two

years for being incorrigible. My sentence of one year is unusual.

My mother visits me. It’s the first time since my arrest. She smiles

and describes her latest accomplishment. “I spoke to the judge. He was

going to give you two years but I persuaded him to give you only one.”

I can believe that. My mother’s experience as a fortune-teller includes

palliating her clientele as well as giving advice. She’s an expert at manip-

ulation. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out that my mother

has convinced the judge I’ll give up my Chinese baby and return home.

Chapter Six 53

I don’t ask what transpired between her and my father. It’s a sub-

ject to be avoided to spare her guilt. We both know she played a role and

that she acts on the spur of the moment.

I wonder if, in her anger, my mother exaggerated my unorthodox

behaviour and maligned my character? Most self-righteous citizens

would condemn me. God knows, the criminal tag of “exclusion” in the

Chinese Immigration Act is a euphemism for “undesirable.” I’m debased

by association with an undesirable.

I know my father is directly responsible for my being here. He laid

the charges, not my mother. But she has convinced herself she’s in charge

of the situation. She suggests that my brother doesn’t want me in the

house. She intimates that he doesn’t feel I’m fit to be at home in my con-

dition. She must cater to his wishes. She’s caught between us but will

cater to his wishes. Of course, if I were free I would not be in her house.

I’d be with my boyfriend, but this isn’t discussed by either of us.

I will never extricate details from her concerning my arrest. When

she doesn’t want to answer she lets her mind wander. I learned never to

repeat a question. “Never cry over spilt milk,” she always says.

� It’s not clear even to me why I detoured so far from popular views. Dur- ing my childhood I absorbed all the myths and values of my community.

How did I get here?

I remember being in Saint John, walking to school along the cracked

cement sidewalk of Union Street. No step or grassy surface intervenes

between the narrow street and stores or houses. Overhead wires that

supply electricity and extend between pockmarked wooden poles are

covered with sparrows. At an intersection I can see the gravestones of

the settlers who remained loyal to Britain during the American Rev-

olution. As I walk past the drab wooden-slatted houses, I peer into the

windows, which are always dark and unrewarding. I discover a door and

enter a long narrow passageway between old houses. It opens onto a

large untamed scrub-grass area that appears to be the backyard of sev-

eral decaying and fallen buildings. I pull open the creaky door of what

looks like a chicken coop and find an outhouse with two holes in the

wooden seat. So old and unused is the outhouse that even the flies

have left.

There’s no sign of life, not even an empty bottle can be seen. This

is not a haven for the destitute of our seafaring town. Union Street is

54 INCORRIGIBLE

somewhat removed from the harbour where the cheap flop houses, clan-

destine activity, and loud discord occur. Maybe this neighbourhood has

been left behind by even the worst-off rural migrants who came to a city

that couldn’t even support its existing population.

Spying a large black ribbon on a door, I cautiously open the door,

leaving it ajar in case I have to run. In a beautiful polished wooden cof-

fin lies an old woman with white hair, eyes closed, hands clasped. Dressed

in white, she looks very grand and peaceful. I smile — I’m not afraid of

the dead.

Neither am I afraid of snakes; my mother took me to a fair and the

snake man put one around my neck.

I remember too, Miss McGee’s grade one classroom with its thirty

wooden desks on the first floor of the square red-brick elementary school.

The class is all girls. The rough boys all have their own play areas. Rules

have to be followed. Even on freezing days we have to wait till the bell

rings when we line up to enter school. We must all put on our coats,

overshoes, and scarves and go out during recess regardless of the weather.

Our seats in class reflect our school marks. The girls in the first row

appear to be dressed better that the others and tend to play with one

another. The girl in the last seat in the last row always looks frumpy

and I don’t play with her. I’m annoyed that June Robinson is in the first

row. She’s black and I’m convinced she cannot be smarter than me. I’m

in the first seat in the third row.

For misbehaviour, Miss McGee wields a hard wooden ruler right

onto an open hand. One of the most awful things that happened was

when Myrtle Askey wet herself while standing in line.

Miss McAllister, our grade two teacher, is different. She’ll take a

girl into the cloakroom, set her on her knee, and talk quietly. The girl

will come out flush-faced and teary-eyed. Sometimes it seems that

Miss McAllister is giving the girls turns in the classroom to induce

confessions rather than for misbehaviour. During our confidential talks

I tell her my mother smokes. She gives me a note to take home. It says

that by smoking, my mother is setting a bad example for her daughter.

My mother becomes angry. She says, “I’m going to report Miss McAl-

lister to the school board.” To emphasize the teacher ’s prudishness,

she declares, “Miss McAllister is an old maid!” even though we all

know that married women aren’t permitted to be teachers.

On the way home from school, a small Chinese man with a bulky

white bag slung over his back comes towards me. He’s been collecting

Chapter Six 55

dirty linen for laundering but it’s rumoured that he will grab little girls

and stuff them into his bag. I cross the street long before he approaches.

In the window of a fortune-telling store I pass is a large coloured draw-

ing of a human skull with small wriggly compartments and a big yellow

picture of the palm of a hand with red, uneven lines. The inside of the

store is concealed by heavy gold and red drapes. Sometimes gypsy girls

with dangling earrings and bright costumes move the drapes and peer

out. It’s a place to beware of because everyone knows the gypsies will steal

everything you’ve got. I skirt an alley while watching apprehensively

lest some dark miscreants appear — it’s the only place blacks can obtain

accommodation. The lane is locally called “Nigger Alley.”

Perhaps loneliness and freedom from supervision draw me to always

be friends with the poor kids.

� Linda, my mother ’s friend, reveals nothing of her present life to my mother but then neither do I. My mother trusts me; she feels I’m capa-

ble of taking care of myself. She sees my independence as no different

from hers, but both Linda and I know that our lives are different from

my mother ’s since we’re crossing a racial line that society condemns.

Linda takes me to her Chinese boyfriend’s place in the back of a

decrepit-looking house. Through the door we enter directly into Jack’s

quarters. It consists of two rooms, one being a small kitchen with a

sink. I figure the bathroom is upstairs. He’s probably living in a Chi-

nese rooming house where it’s cheaper to share the rent, lock the doors,

and avoid unsafe contacts. Jack’s English is not as good as Harry’s and

other waiters’, nor does his brown pants and blue shirt suggest a waiter’s

occupation. It’s likely that Jack works in the kitchen of a Chinese restau-

rant. If he worked in a laundry he would have a room in the back or

upstairs. No longer is a laundry designated a factory so that cooking and

sleeping on the premises are forbidden. At one time, workers who broke

the rules would be fined.

I’m probably the first guest that Linda has brought to Jack’s place.

Linda smiles and says with a flourish, “Jack, this is my friend, Velma.”

Jack says hello with a broad smile. It’s easy to see the affection

between them. When Linda puts her arm around Jack, the whole world

shimmers. She brings in the outside world of excitement and novelty.

Her presence makes his lonely bachelor life worthwhile. Jack is radiant

and Linda is proud of her lover.

56 INCORRIGIBLE

But they never go out together, and Linda has another home where

she spends time. Jack doesn’t question Linda. He trusts her and knows

she cares. She’s dependable — she’ll always come back. The affair has

been going on for ten years. Linda’s family is upper class and they live

in another city. Jack is Linda’s anchor in her escape from the conven-

tional life she knew.

Is that why I’m here, then? Because I’m unconventional? In Bel-

mont, I learn that girls like me are “incorrigible,” though since we had

homes we’re not classed as vagrants. Is this a blessing? All the Belmont

girls have stories. They are spread from one girl to another. We assess

our own degradation by comparing ourselves to each other. The length

of a sentence doesn’t really reflect our misdemeanours or society ’s

revenge. Here, no one devalues me because of my Chinese boyfriend,

just as no one criticizes the girl involved in incest. Social condemna-

tion doesn’t extend to our captive enclave.

I become friendly with the girl who has epilepsy. She’s fourteen years

old, small, and fragile with fair hair and blue eyes. Her favourite song

is “Beautiful, beautiful blue eyes.” Often I hear her singing it. She says,

“My parents put me here because they’re afraid I’ll run off and get mar-

ried like my sister.”

One unhappy-looking round-faced girl remains aloof and speaks

sparingly. Someone tells me she’s Hungarian, also fourteen years old,

and in for incest with her brothers. Even if she was born in Canada, like

any person of foreign parentage, she will be described by her parents’

nationality.

Probably because she is also pregnant and because she’s so honestly

outgoing, I begin to form a close relationship with Helga. She’s tall, fair,

and broad-shouldered, and although fifteen years old, can easily pass

for twenty. She says, “I was put here for going around with a married

man.” The way she says it indicates the ruling belief that marriage is a

lifelong state. I hear her repeat the statement to others — it’s made with-

out expression. She exhibits no guilt. There’s a certain obstinacy about

Helga; she’d be prepared to challenge the law and run off with her lover.

Her serious countenance, clean-cut features, and athletic build project

firmness. She has a slight hearing defect that may account for her

thoughtful manner. She’s in an early stage of pregnancy, her condition

likely hidden from neighbours by her family.

As the days go by I come to know more girls. By her conversation,

I can only presume that one particular girl has been arrested and charged

Chapter Six 57

with being an inmate of a bawdy house. She insists she had been drugged

and kidnapped. “Nobody will believe me because I’m not good-looking,”

she tells me. It’s true. She’s not especially attractive but she’s tall and

has a good figure.

I’m the last girl to arrive at the Home until a disturbed willowy girl

is admitted. She has just given birth. Because she is underage her par-

ents have signed her baby away. She’s obsessed with the baby she’s lost

and talks about it continuously.

As she wanders off, sympathy for her ordeal invites an exchange of

grievances by those of us who are sitting nearby. One of the girls has

located herself in one of two upholstered chairs. Another girl and I are

each sitting on one of the numerous hard-backed chairs around the

periphery of the room. It’s now evening and we’re relaxing after our

day’s work.The girls have formed their friendships and are gathered

together in small groups.

Myrtle, who is sitting closest to me, says: “I was transferred here

from the Ontario Hospital School at Cobourg. I was put there by a social

worker —she came to our house and took me when my mother was taken

to the mental hospital at 999 Queen Street. The next day she brought

me to the Children’s Clinic at the Toronto Family Court where I was

examined by a psychiatrist. I think the doctor believed I inherited men-

tal problems from my mother. I was ten years old.”1

“It’s a terrible disgrace to have a relative at 999. Why were you trans-

ferred here?” I ask.

“I don’t know. The Hospital School is supposed to be for people with

borderline intelligence. The name’s going to be changed to Cobourg

Training School.”

“Borderline — what’s that?” a girl asks.

“A little bit retarded, I guess. I’m sixteen,” the girl continues. “Old

enough to be apprenticed as a maid but I want to go and stay with my

mother when she gets out of 999. Sometimes she gets better. I’ve been

back with her a couple of times.”

“What happens if you’re with an employer you don’t like?” I ask.

“I don’t know but if you complained maybe they’d put you some-

where else. But if you run away and they catch you, you’re put in the Mer-

cer Reformatory; they say it’s a terrible place.”

The other girl intercepts. “An industrial school doesn’t have to take

girls back if they run away, especially if they’re older. The school takes

in girls as young as seven and they think the older girls are disruptive.”

58 INCORRIGIBLE

“Maybe that’s why they send them to the Belmont,” I say.

I wonder at Myrtle’s naiveté, mentioning her deranged mother. I

feel a certain distance from this girl but I don’t like these feelings. What

if someone felt superior to me? Her transfer to the Belmont Home may

be seen as an advancement and her previous time at Cobourg an embar-

rassing mistake. She must feel good about that.

My mother told me that Mrs. Underhill, who rented a room in our

house, had been in the Whitby Asylum so I never spoke to her. I was

afraid of her. When she moved out she left behind a trunk full of pretty

china dishes.

“I was thirteen when they took me,” said another girl. “My father

left us and my mother started living with another man — you can’t

sleep with a man you’re not married to. My mother was considered

to be setting a bad example for her daughter. The Children’s Aid

worker asked me if they occupied the same bedroom and I admitted

it. But now I wish I’d said no. Then to make matters worse, some-

one told the judge I’d been seen on the streets at night when my

mother was working. My mother and I were in the Juvenile Court

and the judge said to my mother, ‘You are exposing your daughter to

lead an idle and dissolute life, and contributing to juvenile delin-

quency.’ I was charged with being incorrigible and sent to the Galt

Home for Girls. My mother came to see me but she couldn’t get me

out. I was there for over two years. I was so mad. I wouldn’t do any-

thing, just fooled around in school. The superintendent said I was

unmanageable and they sent me here. So now I have to work in the

laundry.”

My heart stirs for these girls. Why have they been so rudely removed

from their relatives and friends, and for such minor offences?

The drawing room in which we’re located is divided into two sec-

tions with an archway between. One could have imagined that it was

designed as a parlour with an adjoining dining room in a large mansion.

Some of the girls are sitting at a dining-room table at the back, playing

cards. Others have gone upstairs to their rooms. There’s a sofa and a

good number of hard-backed chairs. The large window at the front is

the only one that’s not covered with hard-wire grating. It has blue drapes

on the side and a curtain of a flimsy material at the centre through

which one can see the front gate. The door to the office at the front

from which we’d been admitted is always locked. It seems that the

church women at the Belmont have tried to make the place as homey

Chapter Six 59

as possible in the circumstances and are reasonably sincere in their

efforts at rehabilitation.

“I’m not here because I was transferred from a Home,” I say. “I was

sentenced in adult court. I’m eighteen, old enough to get married.”

“Wouldn’t your boyfriend marry you?” a girl asks.

“Sure, but we didn’t know I could be arrested, so we didn’t get mar-

ried in time.”

“How old do you have to be to be sent here?” She asks.

“I think you’re supposed to be fifteen,” someone says.

“Mildred’s not fifteen yet,” a girl interjects, “but some of the girls

here are really old.”

Just then the superintendent comes into the parlour. “Miss Pollock,

why are some of the girls here so old?”

“Oh, that’s because they’ve been here so long, they don’t want to

leave.”

� Church services are held in the chapel on Sundays by Salvation Army women in uniforms. They always play on the piano, “O Lamb of God I

Come.” Occasionally during the singing, a girl gets up from her seat and

walks down the aisle to be saved. We are made to understand that this

is the equivalent of giving one’s life to Christ. A girl who steps forward

is met by two Salvation Army women who put their arms around her.

One day a Salvation Army woman says, “You girls don’t know how

lucky you are. In the Mercer Reformatory the girls must remain silent.

All that can be heard is the clanging of doors.” What, I ask myself, is the

Mercer Reformatory? And why is she mentioning it to us?

I ask a girl, “What’s the Mercer Reformatory?”

“It’s a prison for women,” she says. “They say it’s a terrible place —

it’s called a house of horrors. Just thinking about it gives me the willies.”

� We arise one morning to find several girls missing — they didn’t even appear at breakfast. Speculation runs high as the names of our missing

friends are bandied about. Have they been released? Where have they

gone?

The next morning more girls are missing. Panic spreads among us.

It’s apparent we’re being moved, but where? Furthermore, although it’s

midweek, girls are not being sent to work in the laundry.

60 INCORRIGIBLE

During the afternoon, I’m ushered along with several other girls

into the superintendent’s office. Miss Pollock tells us. “The Home is

closing down and all the girls are being transferred to the Mercer Refor-

matory.”

At the mention of the Mercer, some of the girls start crying. “You’re

going to be all right,” says Miss Pollock. “You will be well cared for there.”

That’s it. Our tolerable confinement in the Home is now termi-

nated. We must now prepare ourselves for servitude in a place we’ve

heard horror stories about. We descend the wooden steps of the Belmont

Home and climb into the back seats of two private cars.

Chapter Six 61