Myrtle Juanita Robertson was born July 16, 1924 at the Central State Hospital in Norman, Oklahoma. Despite its name, Central State was no ordinary hospital. It was, in fact, the State of Oklahoma’s largest hospital for the mentally ill and the criminally insane. Her mother had been institutionalized after the death of her husband, but there are no remaining stories of why she was institutionalized, nor why her 11 children were all given up for adoption. Myrtle Juanita, who always went by “Juanita” did not realize that she was adopted until much later in life, and then, when she learned about it, she looked desperately for her brothers and sisters. She found one, Charles, who had lived a very difficult life. I met Charles and immediately liked him. He was a small man with a wry sense of humor. He had bleeding ulcers, however, and I think that the end was already near when I met him.
But, to back up a bit. Why on earth was Mary Etta (Shields) DeWitt treated in such a harsh way? The answer has to do with a hidden history of mental institutions. Juanita’s parents were members of the Citizens Band Potawatomi, removed from Illinois to Kansas and Oklahoma, and then given allotments. The DeWitts had land near Little Axe, Oklahoma. After Juanita’s father died and her mother was institutionalized, something happened and it appears that the mother lost all her rights to anything at all. This dark, shameful history is not acknowledged. Juanita was raised by a family in the same town as the mental hospital, and she never had any notion that her mother was in the rather terrifying mental hospital on the east side of town, nor did she have any idea that she had 10 brothers and sisters.
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Juanita graduated from Norman High School and then went on to attend the University of Oklahoma, where she majored in education. She continued with her education and became a social worker for the State of Oklahoma. Years passed, and she was contacted by the Bureau of Indian Affairs to let her know that she had inherited land from her parents, and that she had at least one surviving sibling. This was a shock to Juanita, who did not realize that she had been adopted, nor did she have any knowledge of her Potawatomi heritage.
Ironically, at the University of Oklahoma, at the same time that Juanita’s mother was institutionalized and her children taken from her, the University of Oklahoma, literally 2 miles from Central State Hospital, efforts were made to preserve Native American culture at the Western History Collection. There are many harsh ironies in this situation, which will be the subject of a later, more detailed meditation.
Finding out that she was adopted, and then, the tragic circumstances, put Juanita in a state of shock, and she started to piece together all the things that had never made sense from her childhood, and also the deep sense of trauma, rupture, and horror that she could never shake off.
She immediately dug into her past and also into Potawatomi heritage, customs, and language. More than anything, she felt a deep, searing pain when she thought of those who were overwhelmed and helpless, who ended up losing everything, and dying alone, destitute, and sad. She could never change the past. There was nothing she could do to rectify the wrongs done to her mother and her 10 brothers and sisters. However, she could fight for better conditions for the Elders.
Juanita was able to work with the State of Oklahoma, and in doing so, she worked on programs to benefit the elderly. At the end of her career, she could look back and see all the programs she had helped shape that had to do with providing nutrition as well as emotional support to senior citizens in the State of Oklahoma.
Juanita died at the age of 90, an unsung hero, a Potawatomi who was able to reclaim her heritage and to fight for meals, companionship, and human dignity for elders.
Her funeral took place on a rainy, cool afternoon at a funeral home in Purcell, Oklahoma, where I had attended the funeral of my dear mother, just three years before. I signed the guestbook and fought back tears until I looked out the window and saw my ex-husband running across the parking lot in a downpour, clutching a cardboard box. Instantly, I knew what it was. He was carrying the urn with the ashes of little Ricky, Juanita’s beloved white cat. I remembered Ricky well. Ricky was the meanest cat you could possibly imagine. Ricky loved to hide under a sofa and then lash out with his razor-sharp claws. I lost many a pair of tights to that crazy cat! But, Ricky loved Juanita, and Juanita loved Ricky. Later, I wondered if somehow Juanita’s mom, Mary Etta DeWitt, had shared her spirit with Ricky, and she was there to do everything she could to protect her little lost baby.
Little Ricky, the cat, and his adored owner, Juanita DeWitt Robertson, are unsung heroes.
