I shook my head, grimacing, and closed my eyes, trying to make it all disappear. But it didn’t. Instead, the other children started yelling at one another again. After a while most of them had exhausted themselves into a temporary quiet as a few talked about their irritations. Some listened attentively, offering advice or stating their disagreements more reasonably. Even when they were just talking, their words were blunt and crude.
From time to time, Linda said, “Good,” or “Okay.” Then she announced the game was over.
I stood with the others, my legs rubbery from the aftereffects of adrenaline, which surged through my muscles. The children hugged and kissed one another or shook hands. “Good game!” they repeated, over and over. It was not clear to me what game we had been playing, why the game had ended or who had won.
My mother hugged me and told me in her soft voice that I had done well. Once she’d released me from her embrace, others came to congratulate me.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get better,” one of the children said and shook my hand.
The sound of singing cut through the congratulatory conversation. A woman carrying a small round fruitcake had entered the room. Her face was illuminated with smiles. “It’s your Synanon birthday. We’re so glad you’re here,” she said.
The others joined in. “It’s your Synanon birthday. You’ve been here one day. It’s your Synanon birthday. You came here on a door. Celena! Celena! We wish you many more!” The song ended with clapping, whistling and laughter.
I stood among the grinning bald people, hoping to go home. I wanted my dad. I wanted to walk outside and see large buildings, neighborhoods and streets with cars, not the view of the unfamiliar empty landscape outside the sliding glass doors.
I had never encountered people like these Synanon people, not on the streets in Compton or Inglewood, not on TV and not in a storybook. While slices of cake were passed around, I tried to make sense of the scramble of odd occurrences that had taken place, realization seeping in. Bald and clad in overalls like everyone else, I held my paper plate, celebrating a birthday that didn’t exist, finally absorbing the fact that I was staying.
Chapter Two
The Demonstrator
“I am a demonstrator,” Linda said. “My job is to demonstrate to you how to be a good Synanon member. There is a lot to learn, but your buddy will help you.”
Sophie stood by, fidgeting while Linda gave me this speech. We were in the room Sophie and I shared, where I’d spent the last two nights lying beneath a thin gray blanket on a hard narrow bed, with Sophie chattering incessantly. For the last few days I had scarcely been able to do anything without her shadowing me.
“Will I see my mom?” I asked.
“You mean Theresa?” Linda waited for me to say my mother’s name, but I stood before her, silent and sad. She squatted so we were at eye level. “Here in Synanon, all adults are your parents. You don’t need a mom and dad. Whenever you want something, you can come and get me or another demonstrator.”
I was beyond bewildered and couldn’t seem to make sense of anything. Before I’d been brought to Synanon, my father had driven me to my Uncle Danny’s home in Riverside to spend the weekend. We’d arrived in the afternoon, and my father and uncle had spent an hour or so talking and drinking coffee while I’d played with my cousins. Before my father left, he hugged and kissed me and shook my uncle’s hand, thanking him and my aunt for their hospitality. Later that night my mom and Mary Ann had stopped by and taken me with them when they left. I’d thought she had told me we were to visit Synanon. Had she said we would live here?
After the party celebrating my Synanon birthday, my mother had vanished. I couldn’t remember her saying goodbye or telling me when she might come back. I went over the events again and again like a connect-the-dots picture, searching for something I’d missed. How long would I be in Synanon and why hadn’t my father called to see how I was?
The second night I inevitably began to cry as the enormity of the situation weighed on me, and try as I might to contain my sobs in my pillow, Sophie eventually woke up and tiptoed across the floor. Her weight sank into the mattress as she sat down and leaned over to stroke my brow.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I want to see my mom.”
“Don’t worry. Theresa will come back.”
Sophie’s words did not console me.
My limited possessions that I’d brought to Synanon, not only my clothes, but also my most treasured baby doll, had been confiscated. In place of my own things, I’d received a stack of clothing that matched that of the other children.
Linda pulled out one of the drawers in Sophie’s dresser. All of her white t-shirts were rolled tightly into tubular forms and stacked neatly end-to-end.
“This is how we keep our clothes,” Linda said. “Sophie will show you how to roll them.”
Linda pulled out another drawer, which held all of Sophie’s pants, rolled the same way. Before she closed the drawers, Linda glanced at me. Then she said, “Sophie, I would like you to show Celena how to roll her clothes. I’ll be back later to see how she’s getting along.”
Sophie, ever smiling, opened my dresser and grabbed a stack of the drab gray overalls and blue jeans, clothing very different from the short, colorful, knee-length dresses I was accustomed to wearing. I found that I’d subconsciously developed the habit of raising my hand to the smooth surface of my scalp, sliding over the whole of it as if to receive further confirmation that all my hair actually had been shaved off.
I looked down at the baggy overalls I wore. They reminded me of the nursery song “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” I watched my roommate’s puffy small hands as she expertly folded, rolled and tucked a shirt into its own self-contained tube. Laughing, she tossed it and it fell to my bed, bouncing off the blanket that was pulled tight and wrinkle-free with the corners folded over like pockets.
“They’re called ‘hospital corners,’” Sophie told me.
I practiced rolling the clothes until I had a shirt as smooth and cylindrical as those produced by my ever-ebullient buddy.
As promised, Linda returned to examine my work. She picked up a rolled shirt and ran her finger under the fold. It held. She set it down, her gaze flicking over the rest of the tubular clothing. “Very good.”
That I’d pleased her gave me courage. “When will I see Theresa?” I hoped that using my mother’s name would produce the desired effect of getting some information from Linda. Instead, the pleased smile left her lips, her mouth tightened with disapproval.
“The sooner you are used to being apart from Theresa, the better. I told you, mothers do not matter here. We are all your mothers. Isn’t that better than just having one?”
I did not want a group of mothers I didn’t know. My mother, Theresa, loved me. It showed in her eyes and body language. But after our reunion, she was gone again, replaced like a pair of shoes. I did not know what to say to Linda, who coldly demanded that she, in a sense, was now my new mom. A feeling of terror came over me. I clenched my fingers into my palms to fight back the tears that filled my eyes.
“When we have another game, you can talk about it,” Linda said. “That’s when you get out your feelings.”
I took a deep breath, not daring to move.
“Tell Sophie ‘Thank you,’” Linda said.
I couldn’t speak. Afraid that instead of words there would be just an uncontrollable wail, I held myself very still.
Linda gave me a minute. “It is important when someone shows you how to do something properly that you thank them.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Chapter Three
Inspection and the Schedule
I awoke to a loud clanging. Though it was still dark outside, a light from the hall illuminated my room in a soft glow. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was.
Linda stood in the doorway holding a large cowbell and hitting it with a metal rod, her movements measured and methodical. Sophie was
already out of bed. As Linda left our doorway, clanging as she moved to the next room, I watched my roommate pad over to me, a silhouetted figure in shadowy lighting.
“It’s time to get up,” she said. “We have to get ready for inspection.”
I removed my bed covers and glimpsed several girls still in their gowns running down the hallway.
Sophie turned on the overhead light and I watched as she briskly made her bed. Without turning, she told me to make up my own bed. She looked over my work, pulled a little at the gray blanket to unfurl a wrinkle and tucked in the corners tighter, emphasizing the crispness of the folds. This constant quest for perfection puzzled me.
I followed her to the bathroom, where the three sinks were already in use, each with one or two girls vigorously brushing their teeth. The other children eyed me, but their curiosity was gone.
We shrugged off our gowns, and I stepped in line behind the other naked girls waiting to enter the massive shower room. Each stood naturally, some yawning. They were used to this strange situation.
I didn’t know how to act or where to put my hands as I still hadn’t grown used to the naked lineup. At my home, people didn’t stand naked in a crowd. Everyone had privacy in the bathroom. The door always remained locked.
I needed to go number one and make a BM. I peered over my shoulder at the room where the toilets were. I already knew what was there: two toilets with no doors. I wasn’t sure I could go to the bathroom with other people watching me.
Several girls emerged from the showers, their bodies slick and dripping wet. Our group was next. There were five showerheads and thick bars of green soap in holders. In an instant, the enormous stall fogged with steam. I wrapped one of the short, thin white towels around my body and tiptoed to the toilets. A girl sat on one of them, wiping herself. I turned to leave.
“Look,” she called out. I glanced over my shoulder. Her cheeks indented in a dimpled smile, she held the paper smeared brown with feces. “It’s poop,” she chirped. Unsure what to say, I turned around and scurried to my room, where I finished getting ready for the inspection. Sophie had already dressed. Wielding a white rag, she dusted our dressers, nightstands and lamps, glimpsing now and then at the cloth. “The demonstrator always checks to make sure that everything is clean and that our clothes have no dirt or stains.” I looked down at my overalls and didn’t see any spots or dirt marks. My tennis shoes were creased and a bit scuffed. They were obviously a second-hand pair.
Sophie handed me some shoe polish. “Do you know how to polish your shoes?” When I shook my head, she uncapped the little bottle and showed me how to dab at the shoe with the attached sponge and work the polish into the creases with a rag. When she’d finished, she recapped the polish and put it away.
“Time for inspection!” someone called out.
Girls ran up and down the hallway, darting into their bedrooms. Sophie shoved me in the direction of my bed and stood in front of hers. Her small, chubby body went rigid as she held her arms ramrod straight at her sides and stretched her neck as if to appear taller while staring straight ahead at nothing. I took the same stance and heard girls moving about the neighboring rooms before a hush descended upon the dorm.
Some minutes later, Demonstrator Linda entered our room. She was all business as her gaze fell on me. “Stand up straight.”
I pulled my frame a little straighter, trying to stretch my neck as I’d seen Sophie do.
“Open your mouth,” Linda said.
I did, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead. Linda’s face came close to mine while she squatted to peer for what felt like a long time at the inside of my mouth.
“Smile,” she said.
“What?” I whispered.
Linda stood up. “Sophie, come over here.”
Sophie walked over to us and stood facing me.
“Show Celena.”
Sophie’s cheeks bunched up into the obligatory smile.
Linda nodded and told me to do the same.
I grimaced while she squatted to examine my teeth. “Good. Turn around.”
I did.
“Good.”
She looked at my bed. “Nice and tight. Good job, Sophie, for helping your buddy.”
Sophie beamed.
“You are excused. You may go to breakfast now,” Linda said.
“Come on,” Sophie said, making a grab for my hand. I pulled it away, but followed her outside into the cold winter morning. Other children emerged from the buildings cloistered next to ours. All of us wore overalls and white t-shirts as well as an overshirt or jacket. Due to the uniformity of our clothing and haircuts, I still wasn’t sure which children were girls and which were boys. Sophie and I joined the merging group on the road and walked a quarter-mile to the Commons, the building where we had our meals.
Only children, supervised by demonstrators, ate in the Commons. The tables were long and U-shaped, each with little pushed-in plastic chairs. We were allowed to sit wherever we wanted.
A woman circulated through the room, handing out colorful, hard-plastic cups of milk.
“No, thank you,” I told her.
“There is no breakfast until you drink your milk,” she said.
I swallowed and took the cup. I hated milk. Some of the children were already chugging theirs. As each finished, he or she was rewarded with a plate of scrambled eggs and piece of toast. I took a sip; it tasted sweet and watery, even worse than the milk I’d had in the past. I set the cup down, feeling nausea rise in waves.
“Plug your nose,” someone said.
I looked up. It was Poop Girl.
“If you plug your nose and drink it, you can’t taste it,” she said.
She pinched her nostrils and downed the milk. When she finished, her upper lip was swathed in dewy white.
I followed suit. Several gulps in, the cold sticky sweetness felt like a wad of mucus. I didn’t want to gag because I was afraid the milk might come back up my throat.
“I’ll drink it,” Sophie offered. Her eager, round-eyed gaze darted about the room. When the demonstrator’s back was turned, she quickly finished my milk and slapped the empty cup down next to my hand.
Moments later we were both served plates of soupy scrambled eggs and half pieces of toast. Worse than a cup of milk is a cup of milk and eggs. I pushed them around and took a bite of toast, willing myself not to barf it up.
The meal seemed to last forever.
After breakfast we took another fairly long walk up a hill to the classrooms. My grade was in a room that seemed to favor the look of wooden desks and wooden chairs on a wood floor. Large picture windows without curtains displayed a gray morning sky.
For our math lesson, we counted out small wooden cubes into groups of ten. Later there was a physical education class, which consisted mostly of one exercise, step-ups, that we performed until my legs ached and became numb. Afterward, we took showers again. Then we played the game, screaming at each other until dinner, followed bedtime at 8 p.m.
Several days went by and my mother didn’t return. The demonstrators constantly reminded not to call her “Mom.” “Her name is Theresa,” I was told. “And don’t ask about her anymore.”
Chapter Four
Before
When I stretch my mind back to the fragmented images of my early years before Synanon, I see my mom in snapshots, reading to me while I sit on her lap, her finger tracing the words, her long brown hair trailing across the pages. The paper emits a sweet, faintly musky smell, an odor that encapsulates comfort for me. She’s in the kitchen of our studio apartment, making cinnamon toast for breakfast and serving it on a napkin. My mother has something ephemeral, almost childlike, about her. A vein of vulnerability runs through her that even at age three I am able to intuit.
For the most part, we were alone, the two of us adrift in the sea of humanity that makes up Los Angeles, isolated in our urban poverty. We moved often, from Hollywood to Long Beach to downtown. Once, when we’d settled into an apartment comple
x, a woman came to our door. “This is a family place,” she said. Her arms were folded, her hair straightened into a stiff, perfect, shiny helmet that framed her dark, self-righteous face. Her eyes told us that she was closer to God than we could ever be.
“We don’t want you loose harlots and your bastard children here,” she shouted. “You hear me? Your kind’s not wanted here. You’re nothing but a yellow nigger with green eyes and good hair. You’re not foolin’ anybody.” The encounter left my mother looking frail, the smile with which she’d greeted the woman disappearing as she eased the door closed.
“Why did that lady yell at you, Mommy?”
The only answer I received was a hug.
Too young to know we struggled to live our lives, I had no idea my mother shielded me from certain realities. For me, she’d spin pleasant fantasies. We had no money to buy things that weren’t necessities, but window-shopping turned our lack of funds into a game. We could pretend to purchase the things we saw on display. We went for picnics in the park, meeting placid, idle women in crocheted tops and homespun dresses, sunning themselves, with children as old as me still nursing in their mothers’ arms. In the rain, blocks away from home, we listened to the drops fall on our umbrellas and splashed through or leaped over puddles. Games were my mother’s way of keeping me from feeling the cold and tedium of long walks in unpleasant weather. If I grew tired, my mother lifted me to her hip and let me rest my head on her shoulder, her long dark hair draping my arms or whipping about in the wind, obscuring my vision of cars that whizzed past us. In a pinch, we hitchhiked.
My attachment was primordial, existential, a sensory umbilical cord of warmth, touch and scent that filled the minimal span between us. I luxuriated in the softness of her skin, the combined warmth of our body heat, and the moist and slightly sour scent of saliva when I sucked my two middle fingers while patting her breast.
Synanon Kid: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult Page 2