Raven

by Reiterman, Tim

  Within a day, she had packed and was on her way to San Francisco. Wearing a borrowed suede coat, tottering on high heels unworn for many months, thrilled but lost in the big city, she went job hunting.

  Bob welcomed the change of scenery too. In October 1973, he either had quit or been fired as a sales representative for Xerox in Mendocino and Lake counties. Driving a beat-up old Pontiac, wearing bags under his eyes and his only suit, he had tried to be a salesman, but he could not succeed in that competitive sales world without the trappings and energy denied him by the church lifestyle. After leaving Xerox for a milling factory where he lost about thirty pounds, San Francisco sounded like paradise.

  While waiting for Bob’s divorce, Bob and Joyce took up residence in a studio apartment located at Fillmore and Haight streets, an area known as “Needle Alley” among narcotics cops. As the only whites in the area, they were conspicuous as they marched out each morning, neatly dressed for work. Joyce had found a job as a psychological tester at the University of California Medical Center, and Bob, after a stint as a substitute music teacher, worked as a Youth Guidance Center counselor and for the railroad. They sacrificed their own comfort and risked their safety so they could accumulate as much money as possible for the church. Adhering to the principle of giving according to ability and taking according to need, they turned over at least $10,000 to the Temple that year. They even swept wine bottles and heroin debris out of the apartment building hallway each day to defray half the rent.

  As soon as the divorce came through in September 1974, Bob and Joyce hand-carried their marriage papers to Redwood Valley. It was October 2, 1974. While Temple members milled about, folding chairs after a meeting, the couple presented the papers to their pastor. There was no ceremony, no elation, no rice and no cake. Jones signed the legal documents and, as the newlyweds walked away, he called after them irreverently, “What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

  Like good socialists, Bob and Joyce abstained from the frivolity of a honeymoon. Their wedding night was spent in their $80-a-month apartment. But soon the close quarters were not theirs alone anymore.

  About six weeks after the marriage, church head counselor Grace Stoen asked them to take in a teen-age boy having difficulty adapting in Ukiah. They did so. Less than a month later, the church decreed that Bob’s daughters would move in too. Phyllis, it turned out, was dating another member who had once left the church and was viewed as potentially disloyal; giving the children to Bob and Joyce might bind the mother to the church.

  To accommodate their expanding family, Joyce and Bob went house-hunting on Potrero Hill, a racially mixed poor and working-class neighborhood with some housing projects. The hill, where football star O. J. Simpson was reared, overlooked downtown San Francisco from one slope and the industrialized bay shoreline from another. After only three hours of looking, Joyce and Bob rented a spacious three-story frame house on Vermont Street with a playhouse and a garden in the backyard. Soon, this commune was bulging with people too. The Houstons had started out with seven children—including Bob’s daughters. Throughout 1975, additional children and several adults moved in as Jones encouraged people to go “communal” and shifted the church emphasis wholeheartedly into the big cities.

  Communalism was no revelation to Jim Jones. The revival of communalism in the 1960s simply put that living style back in public consciousness. Using biblical justifications, Jones had practiced it to a very limited extent in Indiana with his extended family of about a dozen. But in California, the organization was sufficiently large to reintroduce it. Philosophically, Jones favored the communal life because it was a leveling and unifying influence. In a commune, all theoretically would have the same housing, use of communal transportation, equal sharing of food and even clothing. No one would own anything. No one would feel inferior. No one would lack parents, or children. Everyone would live under Temple rules.

  People were encouraged—and at times pressured—to “go communal.” Anyone privileged enough to be elevated to the p.c. or important church positions was expected to adopt a communal lifestyle. But it was more than a badge of commitment. The money saved through a collectivistic lifestyle, along with the possessions of the communards, could be donated to the church. Their children would be raised communally too, often in other Temple communes and even under guardianships.

  The communal system was almost self-generating. The church converted houses and property donated by communards into new communal living units. Over thirty pieces of property were signed over to the church in Mendocino County alone. At least several dozen additional properties, including a rest home, were donated in San Francisco, mostly by black people who had worked all their lives to buy a home or build a business.

  In the mid-1970s, as the Temple shifted to the cities, communes became important as a means of tightening controls and of improving church finances. Rather than use wholesale recruiting and risk another Kinsolving series, Jones concentrated on deepening the loyalties of existing members and making revenue through them. Their possessions were sold through two Temple antique stores and through weekend flea markets. People signed over pay checks and disability, welfare and social security checks, receiving in return room, board, medical care and other benefits. Contrary to the stereotype promoted by the Temple and embraced by the news media and others, the masses of Temple members had not been ne’er-do-wells on welfare. They were hard-working black people who had been productive all their lives and who often had maintained strong Christian church ties. When they retired, they collected their social security with pride. They had toiled hard for it.

  The attractions for people on fixed incomes was obvious. A social security check did not go far toward paying for necessities. But pooling resources meant all could live better communally, with companionship and brotherhood and people to care for them in their final years. Likewise, single parents were attracted to a lifestyle with religion, political activism, companionship and child care. For all, the standard of living, while perhaps not comparable to white middle-class neighborhoods, was far superior to that of many urban ghettos. The diet was healthy, the shelter safe and adequate, the supervision of students and children good. And the environment was interracial.

  During the urban transplanting process, some Temple good works were negated. There would not be room in San Francisco communes for the animals sheltered by the church in rural Mendocino County. Reluctantly, the Temple had to dispose of animals that could not be placed in homes. Three pits were dug on one member’s property, and security chief Jim McElvane, a towering black activist and vegetarian, supervised the extermination. Dozens of dogs were shot, their bodies thrown into the mass graves.

  For their commune, Bob Houston and Joyce Shaw tried to pick bright rebel children with church or school adjustment difficulties. The total population fluctuated, reaching twenty-four at one point, including several adults. It was so overcrowded that some children had to be hidden when social workers came to the house. But with as little money as they allowed themselves for support, the communards performed admirably. Bob adopted the role of handyman and father figure. Joyce, the mother figure, mended old clothes and prowled secondhand stores so the children could be dressed in presentable fashion. The commune spent $400 a month or an average of 60 cents a day per person on food, with an emphasis on fresh fruit and vegetables. Yet five adults netting $45,000 one year still were able to turn over $19,000 to the church. The commune became known as the Temple’s most successful one.

  As a treat, all children with a birthday in a given month were allowed to select an activity or outing—a parallel to the monthly birthday parties held by the larger church body. Playing parents, Joyce and Bob would shepherd the children to places they never had seen before—the beach and Chinatown, ice skating. For all intents and purposes, the houseful of children belonged to Joyce and Bob, whether foundlings and orphans, kids on loan or permanently adrift, black or white. Six were under guardianships to the couple. If any
had troubles at the nearby grammar schools or junior high, Bob Houston went as a parent to talk to teachers and administrators. He and Joyce provided individual tutoring at home to help some children keep up with classes. They supplied instruments to four children taking music lessons at school, and Bob supplemented that with lessons at home.

  The harmony thrilled Joyce; her dream of a family was fulfilled. Her first husband never had wanted to have children, but her second took in children and treated them as his own. Though not particularly demonstrative, erect and dedicated Bob Houston saw to their needs. Bob was careful never to show favoritism to his own flesh and blood—that was the Temple way. In fact, he had been reprimanded for allowing his daughters to sit on his lap at a church meeting. After that, he followed the rules so strictly that Joyce finally encouraged him to reserve an extra bit of love for Judy and Patty.

  Temple children at Potrero Hill Junior High dressed on a par with other students. Though exceptionally meek and retiring, they blended well in a school that was nearly a third black, though school staff did notice that they shared a group identity. They would not play kickball or participate in yard activities. They always ate lunch together—as part of the free lunch program. Whether black or white, they called each other “brother” and “sister.” And after school, they met on the front steps to go home together.

  Eventually, Principal Thomas J. Sammon asked Bob Houston’s cooperation in dissolving the clique. The children then did start developing some outside friends at school. But when they brought them home after school, one church member objected that having a nonmember, even a child, inside a Temple commune was a breach of security.

  After school, commune children, like children in nuclear families, had an afternoon snack, then free play time. When Joyce came home from work at dinnertime, there were often up to ten people lined up, waiting to hash out their problems. She did not mind being mother and counselor. But she wanted a measure of authority if she was going to shoulder the lion’s share of responsibility.

  Soon a conflict arose. Bob believed in total democracy and extreme egalitarianism, with children having an equal voice. Joyce, as a p.c. member, was more in tune, at this time, with Jones’s drift toward an authoritarian structure. She contended that crowded conditions necessitated more rigidity.

  The issue resurfaced whenever the house became dirty or in disarray. Joyce’s patience ran out when she found herself alone on one weekend, faced with a huge cleanup job. She drafted a schedule designed to guide everyone in the commune from 7:00 A.M. wakeup until 10:00 P.M. quiet time. When Bob and the others returned to the house from a bus trip at 5:00 A.M. Monday, Joyce had planted herself at the front door. She handed out copies of her typed schedule. Bob did not like this reception one bit; he thought Joyce was usurping his role as commune leader. They quarreled.

  When other adults in the house supported his wife, Bob became defensive and uncooperative. Frustrated, Joyce took the drastic step of writing up her husband in a report to the church council. The matter came to the floor during a church meeting. In compliance with Jones’s wishes, the counselors officially designated Joyce as sole commune leader. The decision emasculated and demoralized Bob, but he abided by it, playing in the band, holding his mouth shut, avoiding conflicts. He did not question Jones’s healings, and he did not challenge the most intellectually troubling practice, the deification of Jones. Bob Houston so strongly believed in the value of the Temple’s social service that he accepted the guideline: the ends justify the means.

  Still, Bob Houston was operating on more precarious ground than most. The combination of his stubborn personality, vocabulary, education and perhaps his father’s occupation as a newsman made him a suspect member, a frequent target of Jones’s tirades against elitists. It did not matter that he worked two paying jobs, that he served as a church bus driver on weekend trips to Los Angeles, that he kept himself running on coffee, or that he knew his Marx. He had the disturbing habit of taking Jones seriously when Father invited questions. Bob asked them—sometimes the tough or esoteric ones about socialist theory. What to Bob was simply exercise of intellectual curiosity seemed to others a pretentious flaunting of multisyllabic words and complicated concepts. Worse, he was clearly better educated than Jones.

  At meetings, Jones handed carte blanche to anyone who wanted to antagonize or harass Bob Houston. By ridiculing Houston as an “insensitive intellectual,” by poking fun at him for priggishness (Houston seldom swore), Jones indirectly intimidated anyone who might think of exercising his or her intelligence independently. The articulate potential challengers to Temple practices were silenced. Like the college dorm students, like Tim Stoen, Houston needed subduing and humbling.

  Tearing Bob Houston apart became a sadistic sport condoned by Jones. He was mocked, even by children, even at home. His stubborn, honest defenses only encouraged more of it; he was derided even for dozing off at meetings. Jones labeled him a “narcoleptic,” victim of a disease marked by sudden and deep sleep. Then he attacked him as a traitor and class enemy. Though some members were disturbed, none came to Bob’s defense. No one wished to share the animosity. Besides, it seemed sometimes that Houston brought it upon himself, stubbornly doing the same things over and over. Stoically he tolerated the punishments that grew more extreme with each month in 1975.

  Like so much with the church, the physical discipline began in a small way and only gradually reached extremes. It had started with a few light spankings for children. Then a paddlelike one-by-four-inch “Board of Education” was introduced. The paddlings became more severe and were often administered by a rotund black woman named Ruby Carroll, who was chosen for her physical strength, not a mean disposition. Like a master of ceremonies, Jones supervised, but the audience participated, particularly when the disciplined person was deserving or disliked. The swats varied in number and intensity. Some were spanked almost half- heartedly, or in fairly good humor. Other spankings qualified as beatings. In one of the most extreme, teen-age Linda Mertle (later known as Mills) was hit seventy-five times for becoming too affectionate with an alleged lesbian.

  The normal practice was for church notary publics to obtain signed permissions from parents and guardians before the public floggings. Then, once he had guided the jury to the proper verdict and sentence, Jones, for the most part, sat back and watched silently. At times, he seemed pained; at times, he laughed at some humorous aspect of the punishment, a joke that the spectators either shared or were expected to share. Other times, he would command the hitter to use more force or to increase the number of strokes. He might show compassion, calling off a particularly painful beating, or reducing the number of hits.

  Boxing matches were soon inaugurated for the children—almost as entertainment. Laughter and lightheartedness predominated as an errant child was pitted against a stronger opponent who was supposed to win. Some were as young as five. If the wrong child won, tougher opponents would be called into the arena until the child was taught a lesson.

  The next step was introducing adults to the matches. The brutality became severe as full-grown people donned gloves and began throwing punches seriously. Sometimes they knocked each other silly or bloodied each other. A person stupid enough to fight too hard would go toe to toe with bigger and better opponents until vanquished. But if he did not fight at all, he was ridiculed and hit anyway. Every punch carried the message: one cannot fight the “collective will.” The will of Father.

  The battling conditioned people to believe that they would win if they fought for the church and would lose if they fought against it. Jones justified his psychodrama by saying that society was full of rough conditions, that people needed to be rugged and capable of self-defense. Yet it really was an extension of the catharsis sessions, with physical pain added to the psychological. Through corporal punishment, Jones could simultaneously strengthen internal order, mete out justice and indoctrinate.

  No one, not even Jim Jones and the white elite, was exempted, technically spe
aking, from the punishments. In 1975, Joyce Shaw volunteered for five swats with the “Board of Education” for shoving her stepdaughter, Judy Houston. Jones, who claimed that his own father had spanked him as a child, took some swats too, to demonstrate that his followers had caused him pain by their rules violations. Stephen Jones was paddled once. Even little John V. Stoen took a spanking in front of the group, stood with tears in his eyes, raised a clenched fist and said bravely, “Thank you, Father.”

  Punishment was applied not just for deviation from policy but for serious cases of delinquency. In some instances the Temple was substituting its own punishment for an act that might well have led to a jail term on the outside: for example, there was the man whose penis was beaten with a hose after he was caught molesting a child. Another in this category was a fourteen-year-old boy who had karate-kicked his sister in the back, putting her in traction.

  Jones confronted the boy, whom we will call Mason, at a Redwood Valley meeting. “What the hell you doin’? With all our enemies, you put a hand to one of our sisters?”

  Jones asked the congregation to prescribe a punishment, but suggested himself the severity and rationale: “How many should he get, Church? Ten? [Remember] he’s been kicked out of school. He kicked his sister after doing karate. You who don’t want to do it or who want to do it mild are the worst enemies they’ve got, because when he winds up in jail, you won’t be there to get him out.

  “If anybody does, it’ll have to be me, and I’m overworked.”

  After asking for a show of hands on various punishments, he announced that the majority had voted for twenty whacks. Mason’s mother seconded the penalty. The crowd applauded her.