How to Make a Complaint of Sexual Abuse or Other Misconduct
Editor: jjb -Not the best first impression! Dropped calls, disconnected etc. Making us repeat the abuse verbally!
Please note that you may report suspected child abuse to ChildLine, the 24-hour statewide system operated by the Pennsylvania Department of Public Welfare to receive such reports (1-800-932-0313) (toll free). In addition, you are encouraged to report any conduct which could constitute a crime to your local police department.
The Sisters of St. Joseph, SSJ
16th Street & Allegheny Ave.
My name is John J Bangert. I now live on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I was raised in the early 1950's at the archdiocese institutions where I was severely abused and harmed.I am in touch with over 150 survivors in my data base and we would like the opportunity to address Archdiocese Lay Review Committee.
We are in our 50's/60's, a half century removed from those sad days of daily child abuse. Now that our children are raised and we have time to reflect on our past child abuse, we are looking for acknowledgement and perhaps apologies form the Sisters of St Joseph (SSJ's,) and the Holy Ghost Fathers (CSSp), now called Spiritians, as well as the present Cardinal of the archdioceses as well.
Our abuse is not just sexual, but emotional, psychological, educational, physical, at the hands of nuns, prefects, lay teachers and priests- intrusted by both the courts and the Archdiocese care givers and to be our legal guardians, some were kind, many were not, we just want an ear to our painful stories and for some of our life long silent, questions of WHY and HOW to be answered.
In September 1953, Sr. Alice Patricia, SSJ, beat me with a yard stick in the my 1st Grade class room, for not knowing how to tie my shoes. She also forced me, actually pushed tomatoes down my throat in the little boys dining room, because the kitchen nun, Sr. St. Carthage, SSJ, insisted on me to finish cleaning my plate. I hate tomatoes and kept pushing them around with my folk. Sr. Alice Patricia became enraged because I was conflicted not to be lined up when she our teacher did not following her orders upon the non-verbal clicking of wooden clickers, while also being under the watchful eye of Sr. St. Carthage's patrol. Sr. Alice grabbed me violently and pushed the tomatoes down my throat and when I gagged she held me, until I vomited my food, and she then made me clean up the floor and forced me to eat was just cleaned off the floor, regurgitated tomatoes. I can still smell her Jean Nate fragrance to this day and it reminds me of the horror during my youthful reign of terror.
In September 1960 at age 11, I was raped by an older boy CJ at St. Joseph's House, when our dormitories were not properly supervised. I was savagely beaten and daily battered and eventually sexually assaulted for two years by my lay teacher Mr. Charles Warkola, in the 7th grade.
When I spoke up and ran into the Dean of Students, Mr. John Doney, I was not believed and was "left back" with failed grades, 69 was failing, 70 was promotion! I was offered a chance to seek tutoring with Mr. Warkola in his room, during summer school.
I decided that perhaps the home or archdiocesan schools would promote me because knew of my reported abuse as did my parents when my mother noticed several black and blue bruising around my ears, and after my eye glasses were smashed after one brutal encounter in study hall.
In September, 1961, I was "left back" after I flunked the 7th grade and went on to be abused for another whole school year with this monster. My other classmates, including my identical twin brother were promoted to the 8th Grade, but I was the only child left behind.
Mr. Walkola wound hit me upon the head with his college ring, and slap me across the face for not knowing my place during oral recitation. Mr.Warkola would also make us strip down our pants and underwear past my knees "Assume the Position", he would command with his strong loud voice, as was his fear-filled mantra, I stood stand in front of the class and he whip us with squechee taken from his desk drawer.
He would whip us so hard, we would have red welts or blisters that filled with water and looked like fried eggs. We were not able to sit down and he would force us to take our punishment like a man if we tried to seat side ways to avoid the pain or give us more corporate punishment. Mr. Charles Warkola would also exam the inside of our pants pockets looking for contraband like cigarettes, candy or chewing gum.
Can you guess what I did to sooth myself ? I would open the Baltimore Catechism book and prayed the ejaculations to the God, The Saints and the Blessed Mother to forgive me and my abusers, as Jesus did in the Bible stories which I daily hear in sermons from daily Mass. Offering up to the sacred heart of Jesus, and the Sacred Heart of Mary when I would tell the priest in my weekly confessions because some how it must have been my fought.
No action was ever taken by the home, or social services. I am was not alone in this situation. As one of my homeys, also abused by the then director of Vocations for the Holy Ghost Fathers, stated
..."my tour of Vietnam was cake walk, when compared to the child abuse and subsequent PTSD from the days of both St. John's Orphanage and St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys". He will soon also be disclosing and presenting himself soon a well.
Recently our growing Homey group on Facebook decided to organize an individual response to the film Oranges and Sunshine (available from Netflix,) which has ripped opened the deep wounds hidden and not yet heard nor healed in most of us. We were placed in these Catholic Institutions by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania for our own moral development and put into the hands of God's caretakers.
The Times on Oranges and Sunshine by Jim Loach
Margaret Humphreys, the real woman behind Oranges and Sunshine
On the walls of Margaret Humphreys’ office above a sandwich shop in Nottingham are hundreds of family photographs, the typical fare of happy smiles and embraces found on mantelpieces everywhere. The truth behind these snapshots, though, is far from happy. It is a wretched story that shames our country.
Many of the people pictured here were robbed of any chance of family life when they were children thanks to a government policy to ship thousands of minors in care to Australia for a “better life”. Without the consent or knowledge of their birth parents, children as young as 4 were often simply poured into boats and unloaded into religious institutions and children’s homes at the other end, then forced to work in punishing conditions.
Children have been exported from Britain since the 1600s. From the start of the last century thousands were sent to Canada and Rhodesia. The mass exportation to Australia took place mainly after the Second World War, with between 7,000 and 10,000 children sent. Incredibly, the practice didn’t officially end until 1970.
They were “white stock” sent to boost Australia’s postwar population, told falsely that their parents were dead and that they were lucky to get this chance. Hundreds grew up not even knowing their correct date of birth. Their sense of identity was often eroded by years of neglect and terrible abuse. Thanks to magnificent work by Humphreys, and her organisation the Child Migrant Trust, over the past 23 years some have finally been reunited with family members in Britain, discovering lost mothers, brothers, sisters, cousins — hence the poignant images on Humphreys’ walls. For others, however, it was all too late and by the time they traced their parents, they were dead. All they have left is a gravestone.
Now, a year after Gordon Brown formally apologised to the child migrants, their story is being told in film. Oranges and Sunshine, directed by Jim Loach (son of Ken), is a beautiful dramatisation of a monstrous truth. It is breathtakingly moving film (have tissues to hand) tracing the consequences of a social policy that was ill-thought out and often seemed to amount to little more than free child labour. Via the story of Margaret, a Nottingham social worker who exposed the full horror of the scheme in the 1980s after a woman in Adelaide made contact to try and trace her family, we meet some of the victims still living with the shame and emptiness of being a “non-person”. All are based on true stories.
Humphreys is played by Emily Watson who captures her mixture of determination, compassion and vulnerability. Humphreys isn’t comfortable talking about herself, batting away compliments about her achievements, for which this month she was appointed CBE. Neither was she directly involved in the making of the film, based on her book Empty Cradles. But she has seen it, just once, with her family and says it is “faithful” to the truth. “Let’s hope the film helps us to look [what happened] in the face,” she says. “We need people to understand the consequences of child migration because they are huge. There were times when I despaired that this terrible injustice would ever be acknowledged. That’s one of the factors that led me to agree to the film.”
Humphreys, 66, has heard countless appalling testimonies, such as the five-year-old boy tied to a tree and repeatedly raped by a Christian Brother; the little girl with golden curls held down by nuns and shorn until her scalp bled because she tried to run away; lonely, weeping children beaten and humiliated for wetting the bed, a choirboy sent to a dentist’s house to sing at a Christmas party and raped by several men. She was physically threatened herself in Australia by people desperate to protect some of the religious institutions involved (the Christian Brothers have since apologised). Eventually the stress made her ill and doctors found she was suffering from trauma.
Her own family made huge sacrifices as she worked 12 hours a day, seven days a week, often on the other side of the world. Her amazingly supportive husband Merv, also a social worker, and played in the film by Richard Dillane, held the fort at home. For seven years there was no family holiday and Margaret took no leave.
She, though, could go home — unlike the migrants. “Many obsessed over England, the greenery, the terraced houses and the wet weather that they could still remember,” she says. “Their children too have been deprived of grandparents; the losses continue down the generations.
“Identity is critical,” she says. “It’s all about connection, who we belong to, where we fit in in the world. These are fundamental questions for children.” Some of the migrants describe a deep longing to be touched — hugged maternally — as children. One, George, taken from a children’s home in Liverpool and sent to New South Wales, told Humphreys that as a boy he would sit in a gum tree every day praying that a car would knock him over. Not to kill him, just to break his legs and get him sent to hospital “because then somebody will pick me up ... then somebody will hold me”.
Humphreys says one of her migrant friends Harold Haig, who was sent to Australia at age 10, articulates it best. “He says you walk round with this lump of ice inside you that never melts, you feel cold inside.” Sandra Bennett, taken from Birmingham to Queensland, describes it thus: “Not having a family makes you feel as if you don’t belong to the human race.” This lack of sense of self, coupled with traumatic childhood, meant many found it hard to sustain adult relationships. Alcoholism is also common in child migrant communities.
I had assumed that the shipping of the children abroad was largely a class issue: the children were poor and their parents voiceless. But this was not always the case, says Humphreys. Many people found themselves in difficult circumstances after the Second World War and put their children into care, meaning to pick them up later. When they returned to the homes they were told their children had been “adopted”. This wasn’t true. Adoption was never part of Child Migrant Scheme plan. As the film shows, when Margaret traced the now elderly mothers, they were devastated to learn their children had never had loving homes. “People of all classes found themselves in situations — single parents where there was a stigma, parents separating.”
Children’s homes sometimes emptied overnight. “One man wrote to me saying he had got up one morning, gone to the breakfast table and there was no one there. He hadn’t gone because he had chicken pox.”
Tragically, the trauma of having to give up a child caused many mothers to decide they couldn’t go through it again. “To a lot of these women it was a grief without end,” Humphreys says.
“The film is about society; it challenges all of us,” she says. “It is about loss, separation, reconciliation, restitution and learning. That last word is crucial. What we learn from this will inform actions in the future. It is not something that happened over on the other side of the world, it is part of our history too.”
How did it feel to see Gordon Brown say sorry? “I saw the apology as a measure of where we are at as a society and for that alone — well, it was a pretty good moment,” she says. “The apology removed shame. It said [to the migrants], ‘It isn’t your shame, it is ours.’ ”
My therapist, Vincent Guardia suggested that I start with this first step in the completion of my childhood trauma; and for my PTSD healing to have an ear across the years. and not even an auto responder from the very professionals, set up by the Philadelphia Archdioceses to at least do an intake or hear our pained dark stories from faraway and long ago.
I did get a connection to this kind person, who even offered me an apology. Thank you Al! Al suggested that I call the Victims 888-800-8780 and all 3 times I was disconnected this afternoon.
Director of Investigations
to victims, family and friends