“Sit here,” my mother said, guiding me to one of the long wooden picnic tables and benches that took up the middle of the room. “I’ll be right back.”
I did what I was told, watching as she hurried to the shadowy perimeter of the room and disappeared around a corner. Minutes later an overall-clad woman approached me with a bowl of red Jell-O.
“Here you go,” she said.
I perked up, took a bite, then set down the spoon in surprise. An acrid bitterness had flooded my taste buds, my first taste of a dessert made with saccharine, a popular sweetener in the commune. I pushed away the bowl and waited for my mother to return.
Some parents who found it difficult to negotiate with their ex-spouses and other relatives resorted to kidnapping.
My weekend visit in Riverside with my mother’s brother, Danny, had been part of a Kidsnatcher plot, which her brother had agreed to go along with. I was taken on a Friday night, but my father would not learn of my abduction for two days. Sunday evening he received a call from my aunt Terry, who was in hysterics.
“Celena’s gone, Jim. She’s gone.” And that was all my father could get out of her for the first minute or so.
“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?” he said. “Someone took Celena?” My father later told me that he’d never felt such a cold fear in all his life as the time he received that call. At first he thought a stranger had snatched me. Once Terry calmed down, he was able to glean some information from her and realized the person he needed to talk to was Danny. When he spoke to my mother’s brother, the friendliness in my uncle’s voice, when he had called my father a few days before to invite me to visit at his home, was gone.
“Aren’t you out of work? Wouldn’t Celena be better off with her mother in Synanon if you can’t look after your daughter?” Danny interrogated him.
My father shook with rage. “I would never take your kids and give them to some commune, no matter how hard you were struggling, Danny. How could you have sent my daughter off to a place full of ex-convicts and drug addicts, people like those Manson lunatics?” They exchanged a few more words before my father hung up and hopped in his car to drive to Danny’s, where he planned to beat him senseless. On his way, he stopped at his mother’s, my grandma Regina, who talked him out of it. What persuaded my father to not follow through with driving to Danny’s was my grandmother’s revelation. “Terry was beatin’ Celena somthin’ fierce. Her screams could be heard up and down the street,” she said.
My father had suspected something was wrong, but no one would tell him. He has often repeated that if he’d known, he would have taken me away from Terry’s the same day. But he didn’t know. His mother’s disclosure left him deflated.
Later he went to see an attorney about getting me out of Synanon. The attorney told my father that he couldn’t help him. He said, “Even if you were a wealthy man, I’d have a hard time getting your daughter out of there. Synanon is a powerful organization with a tremendous amount of money to fight the case. They have their own lawyers, who work around the clock for free. Then there’s also the fact that your daughter’s mother has custody. There are other families in your situation who are fighting Synanon, and the cult has turned violent, so much so that a lot of attorneys don’t want to go up against the place. It’s probably best to wait until her mother gets tired of Synanon and leaves on her own.”
My father tried to call the Synanon headquarters in Marin, but was stonewalled. He couldn’t get my mother or me on the phone. He had no better chance of contacting us than if we’d taken a spaceship to the moon.
Chapter Nine
Assimilation
I stood on the porch of the Commons, hugging myself against the cold. The building had been empty of diners for some time. A rolling fog traveled over the landscape as if sentient, giving the appearance of unfurling the three small boys who approached. I’d been in the commune long enough to know they were from the Hatchery, a separate building from the usual dorms, where children lived from birth to age three or four. Demonstrators maintained the building and cared for the children. I watched the boys walk toward me and climb the steps to the porch.
We stared at each other, their eyes gazing along the length of my body.
I crossed my arms as two of them circled me.
Without a word, they jumped me, punching my body and grabbing my arms while I struggled to stay on my feet. One of them got his small hands around my throat. His lips twisted into a grimaced smile. Panicked, I hit his face. He fell back while the other two continued to attack me. Swinging wildly, I tried to make contact with a body.
I wasn’t sure what made them stop, but they pulled away as if part of some orchestrated, sinister dance. They departed just as they had arrived, and I watched them climb down the steps with their short baby legs and walk into the mist, the blue of their overalls a smear of color in an otherwise colorless landscape.
Stunned, I tried to regain my breath as I pulled my jacket tighter around me and left the Commons, heading for the safety of the bunkhouses.
I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. There was no one to tell. I had no parent, no close friend and no sense of connection with the demonstrators. It had been a month, perhaps, since Theresa had left me at the school, and I was still trying to make sense of the world into which I’d been thrust and left to navigate on my own.
It seemed that every other day I met someone new. One day, a girl with her arm in a cast sat outside my bunkhouse and asked me how I liked being in the school. She’d been aware of my existence. I couldn’t say the same for her.
On another day I sat on a beanbag in the living room and watched as another child I had never seen before ran into the room, howling in pain.
“What happened?” the demonstrator supervising us asked, hovering over the girl and looking for the issue. “Do you want a rice cake?”
I perked up at the word “cake,” hoping we’d all get a slice.
The demonstrator left, and when she returned, she held a plastic bag of what looked to me like Styrofoam disks. I wondered where the cake was. The demonstrator pulled out one of the disks and handed it to the girl, who bit into it.
“Celena, do you want a rice cake?” the demonstrator asked.
She held out the bag to me.
When I hesitated, she rummaged inside it, pulled out a second disk and gave it to me. I took a bite, unsure, and tasted nothing, my mouth filling with the puffy texture. I decided it was not food, walked outside and when I thought no one was looking, tossed it into the bushes.
On weekends, the hawkish attention that the demonstrators paid to the children diminished to almost complete disinterest. Each Saturday and Sunday for the first several months in the commune, I wandered the property of Walker Creek, often on my own.
In those early days I also explored my immediate surroundings: the cluster of bunkhouses and other buildings that made up the children’s quarters. One building held a series of playrooms, each named for the color of its walls––Orange Room, Green Room and Blue Room. Leading to these rooms was the Reading Room. There were also storage rooms in the bunkhouses, which held piles of dolls, stuffed animals, baby strollers, blankets and the like.
One afternoon I followed the narrow, paved road that wound through the property and saw a rare sight: a moving car.
I found a yard full of every imaginable kind of tile—some stacked neatly, others tossed in messy, mountainous heaps on wooden pallets as far as I could see. I explored the tile yard for an hour or so, winding my way through the maze of multi-colored ceramic and porcelain materials and never saw another person. Nor did I ever see anyone there in subsequent visits.
I found other places like the tile yard, buildings two or three stories high, barn-like structures with tin roofs. Layers of dust and dirt covered every surface inside them. Cobwebs hung in dusty tatters or curtained the corners, shimmering expansively at times. These buildings were bursting with various items: clothes, shoes, blankets, record players, records,
cabinets, dining tables and chairs, all stacked haphazardly or packed in boxes. I spent hours sorting through things, playing records and trying on musty-smelling clothes before some of the hazy mirrors. Light poured through the windows, making visible the dust particles that swirled through the air, giving the spaces a ghostly feel.
On another walk, I discovered an old speedboat in the middle of a meadow and, not far from the boat, a decaying cow and calf. The calf was just bones with bits of skin and fur, but the cow was mostly intact. Its stomach had expelled a pool of white, foul-smelling goop teeming with maggots. I went back to look at the bovine corpses every weekend until the cow was nothing but scattered bones.
Some of the other girls introduced me to the children’s zoo, which consisted mostly of rabbits kept in individual hutches that sat high above the ground on stilted wooden legs. I had to stand on a two-step ladder to open the hatch door. I was allowed to pet the velvety fur of the skittish creatures, but warned to never touch the tiny pink newborns because the mother might kill them if she smelled an unfamiliar scent on their smooth, bubblegum flesh.
Weekends were about autonomy. I might wander alone, set off on an adventure with another child or join a group of kids in a game of tag or Monopoly. Mostly I played on my own. Other than a brief friendship with a girl named Anna, who replaced my “buddy” Sophie, I did not yet have connections with any of the other children.
Anna, an older girl who was well liked by the demonstrators and other kids, treated me like a favored pet. During free times, I went everywhere with her. As her favorite, I found myself regularly fussed over, my cheeks pinched by other, older girls, who exclaimed, “Ahh, she’s so cute!” When Anna left the commune, I once again became solitary.
Having no understanding of my situation and no firm grasp of time during my first year at Synanon, I absorbed whatever was around me in the osmotic way young children do. I learned Synanon habits and behaviors and the cult’s unique vocabulary.
WAM meant “walking around money,” or allowance. Every week I received two shiny quarters, which could be spent at a makeshift store that opened for the children Saturday afternoons in one of the many playrooms. Fold-up partitions created a temporary space within which boxes of sugar-free carob bars sat on rectangular tables. There were also Corn Nuts, chips, gum and other snacks for purchase. A child nine years old or older ran the cash box while the rest of us browsed the goodies, not wanting to be hasty as there would be no more treats until the following Saturday. Some children chose not to spend their WAM, but were instead champion savers. They gave up the little store full of snacks to stash away their quarters in ever bulging envelopes. Their main enjoyment was counting their growing savings.
When personal standards slipped, we received a “pull-up,” a sharp rebuke, which could come from anyone, even another child. A grumpy face or bed with sloppy hospital corners could result in a pull-up. The person who received it was expected to reply with a rigorous “thank you very much” to the person who had taken the time to deliver the reminder.
“Act as if” was an attitude we were constantly reminded to adopt. If we didn’t like something, we were to act as if we did. Smile and eventually we’d supposedly learn to like it.
The busy weekly routine and my exploratory weekends kept me from dwelling on the fact that I had not seen my mother since she’d brought me to Synanon. Once again, life took up my attention. My mother and family were relegated to the occasional thought.
Chapter Ten
A Visit
“You have a letter.”
One of the many demonstrators who looked after the children placed a slim pink envelope in my hand.
I stared at it, surprised. Every week, mail arrived for my peers, but I’d never thought there would be a letter for me. I went to my shared bedroom and sat on my bed, where I opened the mysterious envelope. It contained a single sheet of paper with pretty writing.
My Dearest Celena,
How are you? How do you like living in the school? I miss you every day.
Right now I am living in a city called San Francisco with other Synanon members. I am working hard to come and visit you. Soon I will have a chance and we can spend the day together. Any time you would like to speak with me, you can write me and I will be sure to get your letter.
I love you, your mother, Theresa
I read the words over and over again. She was coming to see me? When? I carefully placed the letter with my other personal things in my end-table drawer.
It was Saturday morning, and I heard the blare of television cartoons from the living room. We did not watch much TV. Weekends were the allocated time, and sometimes we watched one or two shows during the week.
I closed the door to the bedroom, hoping to have a moment to myself. Sitting on my bed, I drew my knees up to my chest and thought about my mother for the first time in a while.
Physically, we were very different. The first time I had taken notice, I had been three years old, the age at which young children begin to emulate their parents’ mannerisms, speech patterns and intonations. Standing in our bathroom, I had watched in the mirror while she’d brushed her hair, the bristles gliding easily through the silky brown waves, which cascaded over her shoulders.
My own kinky hair popped out from my head in short little bushes of frizz that refused to obey the motions of my imitation grooming, refused to lay flat and smooth like my pretty mother’s. The harder I brushed, the puffier my hair became, until I had a halo of brown cotton candy. Angrily, I pressed down one side, crying out my frustration while my mom watched me, amused. To appease me, she braided my hair into several chunky plaits, fastening the ends with colorful plastic barrettes.
Shortly after I got the letter, I received a large doll. The present astounded me, as the idea of presents was far removed from my new reality.
“It’s from Theresa,” the demonstrator said.
This information was as stupendous as the gift itself. I was still trying to make sense of the school at Synanon. When I’d first arrived, all my personal possessions had been confiscated, and not long after I’d been introduced to the communal playrooms. At first I did not know children could own things; however, later I learned that all children possessed personal belongings. The doll was still sealed in its tall box, its blank eyes staring at me through the clear plastic. I quickly opened it, releasing the hard plastic limbs from the twist ties that held them in place. Some of the girls who had been around me when the gift arrived stood and watched.
“Ahh,” they cooed, once I had the doll out of the package.
I let them pull the shiny brown springy curls and touch and stroke the bright yellow dress. The doll had brown skin like mine and curls just like I had. I loved her at once and even more so because she came from my mother, who had reached celebrity-like status in my mind compared with the utilitarian demonstrators and their evenhanded, often emotionless treatment of the other children and me.
Later that morning I walked with my new doll up the road to the Commons for breakfast, which extended into brunch during the weekends. In the distance I saw a familiar figure. I stopped, squinting into the sunlight, unsure. The woman walked toward me, but didn’t seem to notice me. I tried to make out her features.
Was she my mom?
I called out, “Theresa!” to her and waved.
She still didn’t see me, but she heard my greeting because she hesitated, looking around and over her shoulder.
I waved again.
Finally she saw me and waved back with such enthusiasm that I knew she must be Theresa.
I ran to her, hindered by the giant doll banging against my legs and threw myself into my mother’s open arms. We embraced and I felt I might explode with the kind of joy a child feels when she’s awakened to find Christmas has arrived with all its pleasures.
“I got your present,” I said, once she had released me.
“It is not from me, sweetheart. It’s from Grandma.”
“Oh!” I fel
t even happier to know that other people in my family knew where I was, that I hadn’t been forgotten.
Kneeling, Theresa took my hand, her greenish eyes assessing me.
“Isn’t it funny,” she said, “that we ran into each other when I was on my way to come visit you? We have the whole day together, just you and me. Where were you going?”
“To breakfast.”
“Would you like to come and have breakfast with me in the Shed?”
I nodded, excited to be with my real mom and eat at the buffet-style setup where I could choose what I wanted instead of the usual powdered milk and soupy scrambled eggs with toast served in the Commons.
The Shed, a large block building with corrugated metal siding, housed the adult dining room. It was a sprawling space divided into smaller sections that were reserved for VIPs, who dined at round, café-style tables draped with tablecloths and set with linen napkins and sometimes fresh flowers or candles as the centerpiece. Everyone else ate in the larger dining hall at long, plain wooden tables that seated four or more people.
“How do you like the school?” Theresa asked while I walk-skipped alongside her.
“I want to live with you,” I said.
“That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” She stopped and looked around. We were alone on the country road, which ran through the center of the property, yet Theresa lowered her voice. “I’m working on trying to come here and be a demonstrator in the school. Then we could see each other every day. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yes. But when are we leaving?” Naively, I thought the long strange visit was now coming to an end.
She laughed and hugged me to her. “When we’re finished eating, I have a surprise for you.”
In the Shed, we each took a plate from the stack of dishes ready for use by the buffet and served ourselves. We sat at one of the long wooden tables.
Synanon Kid: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult Page 6