'Watermelon Hill' at History Theatre revisits era of secrecy and shame in St. Paul

Anya Kremenetsky feels emotionally connected to all the plays she directs. But "Watermelon Hill," which opened Saturday for a four-week run at St. Paul's History Theatre, presents a particularly heavy pull.

"This play hit me in the gut with a deep sense of injustice," said 31-year-old Kremenetsky. "These girls were tangled up in a system that is hard for women of my generation to imagine."

She grew up in a world of mandatory sex education classes in public high schools, affordable and available birth control, open adoption and legal abortion.

"Watermelon Hill," first performed at History Theatre in 2001, features girls who grew up with none of those options. (The name comes from what taunting boys called one St. Paul home for unwed mothers.)

From 1945 to the early 1970s, an estimated 1.5 million unwed American girls and women, most between ages 16 and 23, surrendered their babies for nonfamily adoptions. While pregnant, many lived in homes such as Watermelon Hill, where they changed their names and later told teachers and friends they'd been away caring for a sick aunt.

Parents, clergy members, social workers — everyone — assured them that this lie was for the best. They'd move forward with their lives. They'd forget about this baby.

But, of course, they never forgot. Many women fought depression, developed post-traumatic stress disorders or turned to drugs and alcohol. Some did eventually reunite with their children, while others couldn't bear to.

"This was a white, middle-class problem," said playwright Lily Baber Coyle, whose play is inspired by the 1998 book "Shadow Mothers" by Linda Back McKay. "When a white, middle-class girl got into trouble, this is how it was handled."

Coyle wrote the play while pregnant with her first child. That daughter, now 15, was appalled to learn this piece of history. Her daughter's generation, Coyle said, "can't even fathom it."

Her play, "tightened and sharpened" from the 2001 production, still takes place in 1965. The prisonlike set, with towering windows too high for the girls to access, is the Catholic Infant Home, although Coyle noted that "every church, organization and town had something."

Three actors playing the girls move back and forth in time, from pregnancy, where they are dwarfed by billowy maternity dresses and oversized bows, to adult reflections. The situation isn't totally dismal. There's levity and joy at times; heartwarming bonds develop between the girls with this shared secret.

"There were some really lovely nuns, too," Coyle said. "Everybody thought they were doing a good thing."

Reactions to the original play were strong. One woman wrote in the guest book that she was a "survivor" of Watermelon Hill in 1958.

"I fought the Catholic System and Society with the strength from God," she wrote. "I kept my son after he was put in a foster home for three months. I was 15 years old." She still suffers the trauma of Watermelon Hill's "secrets of hell."

Those secrets weren't limited to girls. While most boys got off scot-free, John King wanted to marry the mother of his son, born in 1964. "But the shame and stuff that happened was just too much," said King, 74, of St. Paul.

In 1999, King paid $600 to search for his son. When a social worker found King's son, who was then 35, she said "she didn't know who was more excited" about reconnecting. His son lived in the Twin Cities and was the father of three children. His adoptive father had died when he was 2.

King became an "instant" grandfather, attending plays and sporting events. The men continue to play golf together. "I had a lot of respect for her," King said of his son's mother, who has not yet felt ready to meet their son. "I'm sorry it ended like that. The number they did on those girls over there."

Still, some girls look back with gratitude.

"Today I am thankful for the decisions that were made for me," wrote one woman. "I've been reunited with my daughter and we are making up, as best we can, for the 28 lost years."

Author McKay, too, was reunited with her son when he was 19. He's turning 50 this year. In 2012, McKay wrote an uplifting sequel to "Shadow Mothers" titled "Out of the Shadows: Stories of Reunion."

Teaching at a Young Authors conference recently, McKay was approached by a man whose aunt had read the original book and attended the play. She had been sent to "Watermelon Hill" and subsequently given up her baby.

"He told me that the book and play brought her more peace and comfort than she'd had in her whole life," McKay said. "That's what this work is about. People who don't understand how it was at that time will learn about it. And people whose lives have been affected will find healing, comfort and peace."

Comfort also comes from seeing proof of how much society has changed. One need look no further than the 17-year-old Jeremiah Program. While the program's St. Paul campus is housed on the same block as the original Watermelon Hill, its two-generational approach, affecting more than 750 female-led families, is worlds apart.

Moms receive safe and affordable housing, support for postsecondary education and life-skills training. Children benefit from quality early childhood education on-site.

Executive director Lucy Gerold grew up in the tail end of the Watermelon Hill era, but guesses that many girls from that time used their personal pain to fight for the creation of programs such as Jeremiah.

"Today, the words I use for young women facing this challenge are hope, family, community and pride," Gerold said. "They're not alone."

Seeing "Watermelon Hill" is a wrenching but important reminder of how essential it is to stay this supportive course.

"We've come a long way in 50 years," Kremenetsky said. "Watermelon Hill continues to be relevant today, as the progress we've made is fragile. Let us look back to ensure we never go back."

gail.rosenblum@startribune.com 612-673-7350 • Twitter: @grosenblum