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Yahoo
28-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
The Devastating History of Baby Relinquishment
At New York's Foundling Hospital a policewoman turns an abandoned child over to a staff member. Credit - Orlando—In 2016, Monica Kelsey, a Christian anti-abortion activist, debuted an invention allowing for completely anonymous infant surrender: the Safe Haven Baby Box. A relinquishing parent simply opens the door to the device—now at more than 150 hospitals, health care centers, and fire stations across the United States—and places their newborn in the climate-controlled bassinet. When the parent closes the door, the box locks and a silent alarm alerts responders. Supporters frame baby drop boxes as a beautiful solution for all parties involved—relinquishing parents, infants anonymously surrendered, and families who eventually adopt them. They argue that this innovation protects vulnerable babies from grievous harm, though there is no reliable data to support these assertions. The federal government does not track how frequently babies are surrendered directly to professionals under safe haven laws, which exist in all 50 states, let alone how many babies are left anonymously in drop boxes. Nevertheless, conservative religious groups position safe havens as an alternative to abortion. During arguments in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization, the Supreme Court case that overturned Roe v. Wade, Justice Amy Coney Barrett suggested that safe haven laws 'take care' of the 'problem' of 'the consequences of parenting and the obligations of motherhood that flow from pregnancy.' This framing ignores evidence that 91% of women who are denied abortion in the U.S. choose parenting over adoption or relinquishment. How Online Adoption Ads Prey on Pregnant People Positioning Safe Haven Baby Boxes as a solution to the problem of unwanted pregnancy also ignores important historical lessons about the harms caused by anonymous infant relinquishment. Charitable institutions in our country supported this practice on a much larger scale in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and the results were devastating. While the technology they rely on has been updated for the 21st century, Safe Haven Baby Boxes are a new spin on a very old idea, motivated by religious conservatism and societal policing of women's sexuality and reproduction. The earliest mechanisms for anonymous infant surrender debuted thousands of years ago in Europe. Among the first were so-called 'ruota,' or wheel, systems at Catholic-run hospitals for orphans and foundlings in medieval Italy, where turntables were built into outdoor niches. A parent could place a baby on the turntable outside and rotate it indoors without being identified. Institutions dedicated to the care of so-called "foundlings" and mechanisms like the ruota spread throughout Europe in the medieval and Renaissance periods—especially in Catholic countries that heavily stigmatized extramarital sex—in order to prevent infanticide and care for 'illegitimate' babies surrendered by poor single women seeking to hide the evidence of their supposed sins. Historians now estimate that by the 18th century, as many as one third of babies born in cities in France, Italy, and Spain were abandoned. The foundling trend didn't reach American shores until the mid-19th century, when industrialization and mass migration brought huge numbers of people into cities like New York and, in turn, created conditions under which infant abandonment flourished. If a poor single woman who came to New York to work in an unstable low-wage job became pregnant out of wedlock, shame, stigma, poverty, lack of childcare options, and the anonymity of city living might lead her to leave her infant on a stoop. In the 1860s, four different foundling asylums opened in New York City to care for abandoned children. Among them was the Catholic New York Foundling Hospital, founded by the Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul in 1869. That October, Sister Mary Irene Fitzgibbon, with two other nuns, placed a cradle on the stoop of their brownstone in Manhattan to secretly receive 'illegitimate' babies. That very first night, someone left a baby in the cradle on the stoop. By 1871, they had taken in 2,560 foundlings through the cradle, which was moved into the entryway but still hidden from sight to ensure anonymous surrender. The Catholic New York Foundling Hospital, often referred to as simply "the Foundling," was the only New York asylum that allowed for such secrecy. For decades, the organization received babies in a self-described effort to save their souls and launder the reputations of their poor 'fallen' mothers. In 1880, the charity opened St. Ann's Maternity Hospital, which served unmarried mothers 'seek[ing] shelter and seclusion with hope of preserving character and family reputation,' as the Foundling put it in a biennial report. The newborns would be cared for by the sisters, who baptized them into the Catholic faith. If they lived long enough to become 'run around[s],' the children might be chosen to ride 'baby trains' to go live with new Catholic families in far-flung towns all across the country, a practice that persisted through 1927. Some 30,000 children rode those baby trains. The Foundling came to participate in the orphan train movement because its Protestant counterpart and progenitor of the social engineering experiment, the New York Children's Aid Society (CAS), was seen by Catholic-run charities as 'an unqualified menace that had caused thousands of Catholic children to lose their religion and thus their only hope for eternal salvation.' By sending toddlers off on baby trains, the Foundling worked to preserve the minority Catholic faith against encroachment by Protestant charities like the CAS, ensuring that Catholic culture would be perpetuated and reproduced across the United States. Russia Is Trying to 'Erase' Ukrainian Identity in Captured Territories, European Officials Allege With a secretive system whereby women who 'sinned' by giving birth out of wedlock would be permanently severed from their children, who were then sent to live with new families, the Foundling may have propagated the Catholic faith. But it also harmed the very children it purported to save. The Foundling's own archives at the New York Historical hold evidence of how the organization's practices, which cut children off from basic forms of self-knowledge and from the possibility of ever reconnecting with their birth families, caused lifelong suffering for some baby train riders. Nestled into folders of correspondence to the Foundling from the 1980s and 1990s are requests from former riders, now elderly, seeking vital information about themselves and their families of origin. Some riders were hoping for details that would make sense of their medical histories. In 1994, a rider named Sylvia Wolk who was born in 1918, wrote asking for whatever information the charity had on her parents, an urgent request, as she and her brother, Joseph, were 'both in poor health, in their seventies, and under a doctor's care.' Sylvia wrote that she was 'desperately seeking truth before Joseph dies.' After a lifetime apart, Sylvia and her brother had reunited in 1989—and not through the Foundling. Instead, the siblings reconnected after Sylvia's search for her long-lost brother was featured on an episode of the television show Unsolved Mysteries. Joseph died in 1996, likely without ever learning the 'truth' about his ancestry from the Foundling. Other letters illustrate the frustration riders felt in the charity's withholding of basic details about their lives. Helen Macior, who was born in 1913 and rode a baby train to Illinois in 1915, wrote in a 1994 request form that she was seeking information 'to learn who I am.' The next year, she sent another letter: 'Seven months have elapsed, and nary a word. This in addition to the last five years of correspondence. . . . If there is one thing I strongly believe, every human being is entitled to know from whence they came, be it good or bad.' Yet the Foundling's system was entirely presaged on the idea that some people's origins need to be concealed. The tension between the Foundling's desire to keep unwed mothers' identities secret and the desire of former baby train riders to know about their origins foreshadows a central conundrum of modern adoption: the difficulty that adoptive children face in accessing information about their birth parents. The nationwide practice of sealing original birth certificates of adoptees and issuing revised documents that list the names of adoptive parents keeps secrecy alive. But that is changing—thanks to the efforts of adopted people and birth parents in recent years, adoptees in 15 states now have the right to access their original birth certificates. The conservative movement for anonymous infant relinquishment and supporters of Safe Haven Baby Boxes ignore this history and create a system that makes it difficult—if not impossible—for child and parent to ever learn the truth about one another. Babies surreptitiously left in such drop boxes will likely never have accurate birth certificates, and relinquishing parents swiftly lose their parental rights and any chance of legally reclaiming or reconnecting with their children. History has already taught us the harms of withholding self-knowledge and the possibility of reunification. It is past time we learn these lessons. Kristen Martin is the author of The Sun Won't Come Out Tomorrow: The Dark History of American Orphanhood. Made by History takes readers beyond the headlines with articles written and edited by professional historians. Learn more about Made by History at TIME here. Opinions expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of TIME editors. Write to Made by History at madebyhistory@
Time Magazine
28-05-2025
- Politics
- Time Magazine
The Devastating History of Baby Relinquishment
In 2016, Monica Kelsey, a Christian anti-abortion activist, debuted an invention allowing for completely anonymous infant surrender: the Safe Haven Baby Box. A relinquishing parent simply opens the door to the device—now at more than 150 hospitals, health care centers, and fire stations across the United States—and places their newborn in the climate-controlled bassinet. When the parent closes the door, the box locks and a silent alarm alerts responders. Supporters frame baby drop boxes as a beautiful solution for all parties involved—relinquishing parents, infants anonymously surrendered, and families who eventually adopt them. They argue that this innovation protects vulnerable babies from grievous harm, though there is no reliable data to support these assertions. The federal government does not track how frequently babies are surrendered directly to professionals under safe haven laws, which exist in all 50 states, let alone how many babies are left anonymously in drop boxes. Nevertheless, conservative religious groups position safe havens as an alternative to abortion. During arguments in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization, the Supreme Court case that overturned Roe v. Wade, Justice Amy Coney Barrett suggested that safe haven laws 'take care' of the 'problem' of 'the consequences of parenting and the obligations of motherhood that flow from pregnancy.' This framing ignores evidence that 91% of women who are denied abortion in the U.S. choose parenting over adoption or relinquishment. Positioning Safe Haven Baby Boxes as a solution to the problem of unwanted pregnancy also ignores important historical lessons about the harms caused by anonymous infant relinquishment. Charitable institutions in our country supported this practice on a much larger scale in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and the results were devastating. While the technology they rely on has been updated for the 21st century, Safe Haven Baby Boxes are a new spin on a very old idea, motivated by religious conservatism and societal policing of women's sexuality and reproduction. The earliest mechanisms for anonymous infant surrender debuted thousands of years ago in Europe. Among the first were so-called 'ruota,' or wheel, systems at Catholic-run hospitals for orphans and foundlings in medieval Italy, where turntables were built into outdoor niches. A parent could place a baby on the turntable outside and rotate it indoors without being identified. Institutions dedicated to the care of so-called "foundlings" and mechanisms like the ruota spread throughout Europe in the medieval and Renaissance periods—especially in Catholic countries that heavily stigmatized extramarital sex—in order to prevent infanticide and care for 'illegitimate' babies surrendered by poor single women seeking to hide the evidence of their supposed sins. Historians now estimate that by the 18th century, as many as one third of babies born in cities in France, Italy, and Spain were abandoned. The foundling trend didn't reach American shores until the mid-19th century, when industrialization and mass migration brought huge numbers of people into cities like New York and, in turn, created conditions under which infant abandonment flourished. If a poor single woman who came to New York to work in an unstable low-wage job became pregnant out of wedlock, shame, stigma, poverty, lack of childcare options, and the anonymity of city living might lead her to leave her infant on a stoop. In the 1860s, four different foundling asylums opened in New York City to care for abandoned children. Among them was the Catholic New York Foundling Hospital, founded by the Sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul in 1869. That October, Sister Mary Irene Fitzgibbon, with two other nuns, placed a cradle on the stoop of their brownstone in Manhattan to secretly receive 'illegitimate' babies. That very first night, someone left a baby in the cradle on the stoop. By 1871, they had taken in 2,560 foundlings through the cradle, which was moved into the entryway but still hidden from sight to ensure anonymous surrender. The Catholic New York Foundling Hospital, often referred to as simply "the Foundling," was the only New York asylum that allowed for such secrecy. For decades, the organization received babies in a self-described effort to save their souls and launder the reputations of their poor 'fallen' mothers. In 1880, the charity opened St. Ann's Maternity Hospital, which served unmarried mothers 'seek[ing] shelter and seclusion with hope of preserving character and family reputation,' as the Foundling put it in a biennial report. The newborns would be cared for by the sisters, who baptized them into the Catholic faith. If they lived long enough to become 'run around[s],' the children might be chosen to ride 'baby trains' to go live with new Catholic families in far-flung towns all across the country, a practice that persisted through 1927. Some 30,000 children rode those baby trains. The Foundling came to participate in the orphan train movement because its Protestant counterpart and progenitor of the social engineering experiment, the New York Children's Aid Society (CAS), was seen by Catholic-run charities as 'an unqualified menace that had caused thousands of Catholic children to lose their religion and thus their only hope for eternal salvation.' By sending toddlers off on baby trains, the Foundling worked to preserve the minority Catholic faith against encroachment by Protestant charities like the CAS, ensuring that Catholic culture would be perpetuated and reproduced across the United States. With a secretive system whereby women who 'sinned' by giving birth out of wedlock would be permanently severed from their children, who were then sent to live with new families, the Foundling may have propagated the Catholic faith. But it also harmed the very children it purported to save. The Foundling's own archives at the New York Historical hold evidence of how the organization's practices, which cut children off from basic forms of self-knowledge and from the possibility of ever reconnecting with their birth families, caused lifelong suffering for some baby train riders. Nestled into folders of correspondence to the Foundling from the 1980s and 1990s are requests from former riders, now elderly, seeking vital information about themselves and their families of origin. Some riders were hoping for details that would make sense of their medical histories. In 1994, a rider named Sylvia Wolk who was born in 1918, wrote asking for whatever information the charity had on her parents, an urgent request, as she and her brother, Joseph, were 'both in poor health, in their seventies, and under a doctor's care.' Sylvia wrote that she was 'desperately seeking truth before Joseph dies.' After a lifetime apart, Sylvia and her brother had reunited in 1989—and not through the Foundling. Instead, the siblings reconnected after Sylvia's search for her long-lost brother was featured on an episode of the television show Unsolved Mysteries. Joseph died in 1996, likely without ever learning the 'truth' about his ancestry from the Foundling. Other letters illustrate the frustration riders felt in the charity's withholding of basic details about their lives. Helen Macior, who was born in 1913 and rode a baby train to Illinois in 1915, wrote in a 1994 request form that she was seeking information 'to learn who I am.' The next year, she sent another letter: 'Seven months have elapsed, and nary a word. This in addition to the last five years of correspondence. . . . If there is one thing I strongly believe, every human being is entitled to know from whence they came, be it good or bad.' Yet the Foundling's system was entirely presaged on the idea that some people's origins need to be concealed. The tension between the Foundling's desire to keep unwed mothers' identities secret and the desire of former baby train riders to know about their origins foreshadows a central conundrum of modern adoption: the difficulty that adoptive children face in accessing information about their birth parents. The nationwide practice of sealing original birth certificates of adoptees and issuing revised documents that list the names of adoptive parents keeps secrecy alive. But that is changing—thanks to the efforts of adopted people and birth parents in recent years, adoptees in 15 states now have the right to access their original birth certificates. The conservative movement for anonymous infant relinquishment and supporters of Safe Haven Baby Boxes ignore this history and create a system that makes it difficult—if not impossible—for child and parent to ever learn the truth about one another. Babies surreptitiously left in such drop boxes will likely never have accurate birth certificates, and relinquishing parents swiftly lose their parental rights and any chance of legally reclaiming or reconnecting with their children. History has already taught us the harms of withholding self-knowledge and the possibility of reunification. It is past time we learn these lessons. Kristen Martin is the author of
Irish Daily Mirror
23-04-2025
- Politics
- Irish Daily Mirror
'A hero' - Abuse survivor who spoke out on RTE show dies as tributes pour in
Tributes have been paid to a former politician from Co Tipperary who created one of the most powerful moments in Irish television history when he powerfully detailed his experiences of being abused as a child in a Catholic-run school. Michael O'Brien passionately told his story on RTÉ's Questions and Answers programme in May 2009 following the publication of the Ryan report into clerical abuse. As a child, he had spent eight years in St Joseph's Industrial School, also known as Ferryhouse, in Co Tipperary in the 1940s, where he was raped and severely beaten. During the RTE programme, Mr O'Brien told then-Minister for Transport Noel Dempsey that the Government did not have "the foggiest" understanding of the pain felt by the victims. Mr O'Brien asked the panel, which included former Taoiseach Leo Varadkar, if the government should freeze assets of religious orders until money is paid for redress to people who were abused while in the care of those orders. Mr Dempsey replied that "it's not a power that the government has." "The constitution protects the right to private property," he said, adding that it wasn't an option for them Mr O'Brien delivered a passionate response to Mr Dempsey as he told the panel about how he and his seven siblings were taken into care in the 1940s. He recalled how the children were taken to a court and "left standing there, without food or anything" until a man in a "long black frock and white collar" came and took them away. "Two nights later, I was raped," he said. Referring to his wife, who was sitting beside him, O'Brien said: "That woman will tell you how many times I jumped out of the bed at night with the sweat pumping out of me, because I see these fellows at end of the bed ... pulling me into the room, to rape me." O'Brien went on to reveal that his account of being raped and beaten had been questioned at the commission of investigation into institutional child abuse by the barristers and judges, and discussed the effect that had on him. "You had seven barristers there questioning me and telling me I was telling lies, when I told him that I got raped [on] a Saturday, got a merciful beating after it, and then [the rapist] came along the following morning and put Holy Communion in my mouth," he said. Mr O'Brien said he tried to take his own life after spending five days at the commission. O'Brien's impassioned outburst reverberated throughout the country and echoed the shock Ireland was feeling at the time as the extent of the abuses carried out by priests and cover-ups by bishops was brought to light. Mr O'Brien, a former Fianna Fáil mayor of Clonmel in Co Tipperary, passed away on Tuesday "peacefully at his daughter Geraldine's residence," according to a death notice shared by his family on He is predeceased by his wife Mary and sadly missed and lovingly remembered by his family Geraldine, Peter, Martin and Catriona, sister, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, extended family and his many friends. Tributes have poured in for the former politician, with mourners saying that his moving testimony on RTE 'gave great comfort to many people who did not have a voice'. "Rest in Peace Michael, What a courageous man you were. May you find peace, comfort and rest now. A hero of those without a voice. A true citizen of Ireland. We admired and respected you," one person said. "Your testimony will stay with me until my last day. You helped so many. So brave. Rest in Peace Michael, and God bless," another added. "Deepest sympathy to all the O'Brien family on your sad loss. Thanks Michael for what you did. You gave hope to alot of people and so brave to do it. Rest easy now," a third person said. A fourth added: "My deepest condolences to Michael's family on the death of their beloved father. His bravery to speak out about his life experience gave great comfort to many people who did not have a voice. May he now experience all of that comfort whilst he rests in peace. Blessings" While a fifth person said: "Though I did not know Michael, I was profoundly moved by his powerful and deeply personal testimony. His courage in speaking out — and in so doing, giving strength to so many others — is something that will endure for generations. "Michael's voice cut through silence and shame with honesty and dignity. He not only spoke his own truth but empowered others to speak theirs. That kind of bravery leaves a lasting impact far beyond what words can fully express. "Sincere sympathies to his family and friends. His legacy of truth, resilience, and compassion will continue to inspire all who witnessed it — including those of us who never met him, but were forever changed by his words. Suaimhneas síoraí." Mr O'Brien will repose at Fennessy's Funeral Home from 5pm to 7pm on Wednesday evening, with removal on Thursday morning to St Mary's Church in Irishtown, where his funeral mass will be held followed by interment in St Patrick's Cemetery.
The Irish Sun
23-04-2025
- Politics
- The Irish Sun
Moment brave Michael O'Brien, 92, opens up on school sex abuse as tributes pour for ‘unforgettable speaker' after death
THIS is the moment that brave abuse survivor Michael O'Brien opened on his horrific experiences at the hands of a Catholic-run school. The former Mayor of Clonmel in Co 2 Michael O'Brien has passed away Credit: 2 O'Brien spoke powerfully on Questions and Answers Credit: RTE O'Brien had been an outspoken critic of the physical and sexual abuse taking place in mostly Catholic boy's He addressed the issue on It came a decade after the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse had been set up by the then The report, which found that sexual abuse was rampant in boy's institutions, was filled with accounts from former residents whose experience was similar to O'Brien's. Read more in News Addressing then-government minister Noel Dempsey, O'Brien said the He stormed that he had to repeatedly describe how he was "raped of a Saturday, got a merciful beating after it, and then he came along the following morning and put Holy Communion in my mouth." He blasted: "You don't know what happened there, you haven't the foggiest, you're talking through your hat there." He added: "You got it wrong, admit it, and apologise for doing that, because you don't know what happened to me, you don't know the hurt I feel." Most read in The Irish Sun O'Brien then revealed to the hosts, guest, and onlookers that he had considered taking his own life after spending five days at the commission. Pope says church still shamed by repugnant Irish abuse He explained: "I attempted to commit suicide, there's the woman that stopped me from committing suicide on my way down from He revealed that the Commission "brought a man over from Rome, about 90 years of age" to test what he was saying. HARROWING STORY O'Brien said: "To tell me I wasn't beaten for an hour, non stop, by two of them. Two of them, from head to toe, without a shred of thought on my body." O'Brien then pleaded with the Minister to "give us some peace" and demanded the issue of clerical abuse stop being used as "a political football". O'Brien is predeceased by his wife, Mary, and leaves behind his family Geraldine, Peter, Martin and Catriona. His funeral will take place on Thursday morning at St Mary's Church in Irishtown, Co Tipperary. He has been hailed as an "unforgettable" and powerful speaker and advocate in tributes that have poured in since his passing, with many telling how they will remember his speech forever. TRIBUTES POUR One person said: "Michael's voice cut through silence and shame with honesty and dignity. "He not only spoke his own truth but empowered others to speak theirs. "That kind of bravery leaves a lasting impact far beyond what words can fully express. Sincere sympathies to his family and friends. "His legacy of truth, resilience, and compassion will continue to inspire all who witnessed it — including those of us who never met him, but were forever changed by his words." KIND WORDS Someone else mourned: "Michael you were a truly principled gentleman. "You gave your time and knowledge freely to others and you were a fearless champion for the truth. May you rest in peace." A third put in: "Sincere sympathy to the O'Brien family on the loss of a wonderful and courageous man. "Michael played such a significant part in the recognition of Ireland's flawed relationship with the church. "He was an unforgettable speaker who carried himself with conviction. "I have no doubt that he is a huge loss to his family and he is indeed a loss to Irish society. I hope he is at peace."
Irish Examiner
22-04-2025
- Politics
- Irish Examiner
Abuse survivor and former mayor of Clonmel Michael O'Brien dies
The former mayor of Clonmel and clerical abuse survivor Michael O'Brien, whose harrowing story became one of the most compelling moments ever captured on Irish television, has died. Mr O'Brien died on Tuesday at his daughter Geraldine's home. Mr O'Brien became known nationally in 2009 following an appearance on RTÉ's 'Questions and Answers' in the wake of the publication of the Ryan report into clerical abuse. There, he described, in graphic detail, the abuse he faced as a child at a Catholic-run industrial school, shocking the country. He was particularly scathing of then transport minister Noel Dempsey about the way the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse had treated survivors of the industrial schools, pointing out that the allegedly non-adversarial process had involved him being accused of lying. He said: I got raped of a Saturday, got an unmerciful beating after it, and he then came along the following morning and put Holy Communion in my mouth. "You don't know what happened there.' During the speech, he also addressed panel member Leo Varadkar, saying: "Can I speak to you and ask your leader to stop making a political football out of this. You hurt us when you do that. You tear the shreds from inside our body. For God's sake, try and give us some peace, try and give us some peace, and not continue hurting us." Mr O'Brien's remains will repose at Fennessy's Funeral Home this Wednesday evening from 5pm to 7pm with removal on Thursday morning to St Mary's Church, Irishtown, at 10am.
