Synanon Kid: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

by C. A. Wittman

  “I don’t think a man’s thing is going to stretch that far,” I said.

  I reached under the doll and measured with my fingers. “His dick won’t make it. She would have to squat down.”

  Melissa paused, frowning at me, her thick bushy eyebrows squeezing together almost into a unibrow.

  “So,” she declared. “It’s pretend. He can have a giant penis.”

  “Won’t her pussy be too small for a giant penis?” I said. “I don’t think she would like it.”

  “Would you shut up? It’s just a stupid fantasy. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

  I shrugged, and Melissa returned to her moaning.

  Melissa was several years older than me, and recently we had become friends. A tall girl with a strong lean build and vivid imagination, Melissa had the ability to gather a crowd by telling her own made-up stories or recounting the thrilling points of a book she’d read or movie she’d seen. She had only one parent in Synanon, her father, one of the commune’s physicians.

  Zissel, a Kibbutz kid from Israel who visited Synanon every year with her two brothers, reached out for the doll.

  “Can I try?” Zissel’s pupils dilated, eclipsing most of the normal brown of her eyes. Melissa’s fantasy had excited her.

  Just a few days before, Zissel and some of the other girls and I had been playing house. For almost ten minutes, Zissel and Janet disappeared under one of the blankets. Having grown increasingly curious, I finally lifted the blanket’s edge to find the two of them tongue kissing, their bodies entwined.

  Sex play was common, at least among us girls. We slipped into each other’s beds at night and rubbed our bodies together, simulating the future sex we were told we’d be having one day. Just the same, this behavior wasn’t cool. Girls often made out, then accused each other of being “a lesbo.”

  There was something thrilling yet icky about it all. Like the other girls, I was curious and turned on, but my feelings confused me.

  I’d met another older girl, Michelle, in the back of a pickup truck, where we listened to Donna Summer’s “On the Radio” while the driver did a run through the property and we helped with odds and ends. Michelle wore a knitted cap, the rim pulled low over her face. Her style seemed to fit the slick silky sound of Summer’s voice as we sped through the dappled afternoon light.

  For the first time I felt the angst of youth, that bubble of coolness where there is no room for adults. Michelle and I didn’t move in the same circles, but after that truck ride I was aware of her noticing me. She had a strange habit of compulsively pulling out her eyelashes, several at a time. Her lids were bald from plucking. With no fringe of lashes, her dark eyes appeared hawkish.

  “Hey, wait up.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see Michelle jogging at a shuffling pace to catch up with me, her bald eyes squinting beneath the sun.

  I stopped and waited.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” I said. “To the dorms, I guess.”

  She took a few steps toward the shoulder of the road and the start of a narrow foot trail that led down to the creek bed.

  “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you something. Have you ever been down to the creek?”

  “Yeah. Lots of times.”

  Michelle took my hand. “Come on. Come down there with me.”

  I let her pull me toward her, then I followed her along the path that snaked its way down to the water. When we reached the bottom of the trail, she stopped and looked back the way we had come.

  I looked, too, wondering what she was searching for.

  “Stand over here.” She nudged me toward some thick foliage under the protective shade of brambly branches, the coniferous shadows darkening her eyes to black. Wordlessly she unbuttoned my pants.

  I didn’t try to stop her. It seemed I was not myself anymore. She pulled my pants down to my ankles. “Lie down,” she ordered. I did as I was told, stretching out on the dry, pebbly earth.

  Satisfied with my robotic obedience, she twisted her lips into a smile that never reached her black eyes. She removed her own pants and stepped over me, positioning the lower half of my body between her legs. For a moment she stood staring at me, then she sat, straddling me, her vagina resting against mine. She slowly rocked her hips, rubbing herself against me.

  I couldn’t feel anything, as if my sex had been anesthetized. The experience seemed to be happening to someone else, another girl lying there in the dirt, the real me an indifferent observer.

  Faster she went until she was shuddering, pushing on my chest with her long thin fingers. She caught her breath, stood up and pulled on her pants. Without a word she walked back up the trail, leaving me lying on the ground with my pants twisted around my legs.

  After that I did my best to avoid Michelle. If she caught me unawares and took my hand to lead me to some obscure place, I followed her without argument, numb, my mind gone blank. Mostly she pulled me into some forested area where she could feel me up, uttering the pornographic dialogue that ran through her head.

  “This is what they do in Hustler,” she’d whisper in my ear. “If you see any of those magazines, bring them to me.”

  I did as I was told, collecting what I found and handing the glossy books of smut over to her.

  Other times she demanded I give her any of my possessions she fancied.

  I had a hard time telling her no. When I’d pleased her, I basked in her praise. She’d tell me in her husky voice that I was her best friend and she would give the thing back to me later, but she never did.

  I was enamored of her and hated her at the same time. It seemed that I could eventually be talked into anything that was self-deprecating. My personal boundaries were like a knee-high fence that anyone could step over.

  “We dare you to try it.”

  I shook my head and shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  A group of us kids stood in a ditch by some scraggly bushes. Charlie, Carla and Amy huddled around a new boy called Daniel and me, with mean little smiles and squinty eyes. Just before they’d shown up, Daniel and I had been talking amicably. The three girls had whistled at us as they’d approached.

  “Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?” Charlie called out.

  I felt my skin grow warm as they closed in around us. I shot Daniel a look, but his face was as innocent and defenseless as a calf’s. He hadn’t been around these other children long enough to harden up.

  “Leave us alone,” I growled.

  “Ooh! You want to be alone? Are you gonna kiss, kiss, kiss?” Charlie pushed her face into mine. Her smile was gone. The meanness traveled from her lips to her eyes.

  “Shut up,” I hissed. “Fucking bitch.”

  She pulled her face back and the smile returned. “I’ll give you something if you both pull down your pants and let your things touch.”

  Daniel’s cheeks blazed, and I felt sorry for him. Although he and I were both eight, he seemed much younger than the rest of us.

  I also knew he was embarrassed about a previous incident: when we’d been naked in the shower, he had asked me if he could give me a hug. I had said no. Why we’d been showering together will forever remain a mystery to me.

  The other two girls had grown quiet.

  “No,” I repeated. I felt trapped.

  “Carla, show her your markers,” Charlie said.

  Carla looked doubtful as she held out the plastic book of Pentel markers. I took the book and snapped it open, staring at the extensive array of colors. They were dazzling. One of my favorite hobbies was drawing girls and coloring them, or I would make a loopy, scribbled mess with a pencil, then color all the parts with different shades. It would be nice to have some Pentels. I only had access to crayons.

  The girls waited.

  Daniel said, “I’ll do it.”

  I handed the package of pens back to Carla. “Nah. I
don’t think so.”

  “We won’t tell,” Charlie said in a hushed voice. “We’ll make it a blood secret.”

  I didn’t want to do what they’d asked, yet I found myself saying, “You won’t tell? And I can have the pens?”

  “Yeah. I swear,” Charlie said.

  She dug into her overalls pocket, pulled out a pocketknife and opened the small blade. We all watched as she made a thin slice across the pad of her index finger and a drop of blood welled up to the surface. Carla held out her finger. Charlie cut each of us, then we meshed our bloody fingers against one another’s to seal the deal.

  “Okay,” I said. “Give me the markers.”

  “You’ve got to do it first, then we’ll give them to you,” Charlie said.

  Daniel unbuckled his pants and pushed them off his hips.

  I unbuttoned my jeans. Our pants sagged around our hips while the girls watched, eyes wide.

  Daniel stepped up to me and pushed his pale hips in my direction, his tiny, limp penis nudging against my vagina.

  I looked at the girls. Charlie held her hand over mouth, then removed it to shriek, “Oh my God, that is so disgusting!” A wave of shame washed over me. I grabbed my pants, yanking them up as the girls started to run away.

  “Hey!” I screamed, trying to button and move at the same time.

  Their laughter echoed at me.

  I grabbed a stone and threw it in their direction, but it fell to the ground a few feet away.

  They were gone.

  “Shit!” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Daniel said. He shoved his shirt into his pants, his light brown eyes soft with an affection that I couldn’t understand. My chest was tight with anger that threatened to turn to tears.

  “Stay away from me,” I hissed.

  In that instant I could see that he knew that we were not friends and never would be. He ducked his head and walked away while I remained rooted, hyperventilating.

  Over the course of just one year in Synanon, between the ages of six and seven, it seemed I had lived a lifetime. The little girl who wore pigtails and short skirts and attended etiquette school and learned to say, “If you please, ma’am,” followed with a gracious curtsy, was no more.

  In her place was someone I doubted that any of my family would recognize. I strutted about in my blue jeans, white t-shirt and cowboy boots, my speech quick and peppered with the f-word.

  Anyone in Synanon who didn’t learn to talk fast and take up space was verbally run over by others. In the game there was usually a point when everyone turned on one person. You had to know how to take it and not crumble when ten, fifteen or twenty people all screamed at you, telling you what a fucker you were, a complete shithead, not worth two cents. The gamers would lean forward in their chairs, eyes wide, neck veins popping, fingers pointing as if invisible leashes held them from springing forward to devour the person in the hot seat. The rule was that you must stay in your chair.

  “I’m going to tear you apart! You’re gonna wish you were dead!” they’d yell.

  “You think anyone here likes you? Who here likes Celena? No one! We hate you! Hate you!”

  Throughout my years in the commune I had nightmares about being attacked by a bear or wolf. I was trapped in a circle of children, all of them mouthless and holding hands. Only I was confronted by a wild animal. The other children either would not or could not help nor let me get free of the beast that crept ever closer with its sharp fangs.

  When I first came to the school my popularity among my peers burned brightly, bolstered by my second buddy Anna, who had taken Sophie’s place. Socially, Anna was at the top and anyone she deemed worthy of her company basked likewise in the warming rays of her alpha status.

  When Anna left a few months into my stay, my popularity dropped like a rapidly declining currency. Girls who’d previously included me began to turn their backs, teasing me mercilessly, imitating the way I walked on my toes. The shape of my head was mocked, the long narrow proportions of the back of my skull like the profile of Nefertiti. This inspired the nickname “Football Head.”

  I didn’t know how to handle such cruelty. One day I would react with tears, another with rage. There were times when I played nicely with a particular child for several days or weeks only to have him or her suddenly turn on me or join a small mob of children who would taunt me to the point of verbal savagery.

  I knew the game forbade physical contact, but outside of the game I frequently had physical fights with the other children. One of these fights led me to take up a new activity.

  Every week I looked forward to the show Little House on the Prairie. During that hour I soaked up the love that Ma and Pa had for their children, virtually living the frontier life. I’d go to the shared living room in my pajamas, ready for another riveting hour of Laura Ingalls’s life, her chores at home with Ma, lessons in the little school house, experience with the great outdoors and always at the heart of it, a moral lesson to learn that Pa would usually drive home in his calm and kind way.

  I was therefore severely disappointed when one evening a cop show with a car chase and people shooting at one another was on the TV instead of Little House. Most of the kids hadn’t come to the living room to settle in yet. Just three boys sat in front of the TV.

  I asked, “What happened to Little House?”

  One of the boys, Ben, glanced up blandly at me. “We’re not watching that tonight. Everyone wants to watch Kojak.”

  “We always watch Little House.” I felt my frustration rising. I had waited a week for my favorite show and now faced the chance of not getting to see it because of dumb Kojak.

  “Well, we’re watching this,” Ben said, his attention focused on the TV.

  Who put him in charge? I marched up to the TV and changed the channel.

  Ben jumped to his feet and ripped my fingers from the dial.

  “Hey! We were looking at that!” he screamed in my ear.

  “This is not the show we’re supposed to watch!” I screamed, my retort earning me a solid push.

  It was all I needed to completely lose my temper. I sprang on Ben and grabbed a handful of his cheek, yanking as hard as I could. I did not see his fist, but in the next instant it had connected with my nose. I don’t remember the pain, only the surprise and fear from the blood that spurted out.

  “Put your head back,” Ben instructed.

  The fight was clearly over as the other two boys, Mike and Eric, jumped to their feet to get a glimpse.

  Too hysterical to follow any instruction, I wailed.

  “Put your head back,” Ben yelled as I watched blood drip from my nose onto my shirt. Reaching out to grab my shoulder, he steadied me and gently lifted my chin. “Keep it back like that,” Mike advised, hovering over me next to Ben. “It’ll stop the bleeding.”

  “I’ll get some toilet paper,” Eric said. A minute later he was back with a small wad, which I placed over my face, pressing it against my nose. I slowly brought my head to neutral while the boys watched.

  The bleeding had stopped.

  Mike grinned. “Did you see the way she jumped you?”

  Ben laughed, then we were all laughing and reliving the fight.

  “You’re strong for a girl,” Ben said. “You should come box with us.”

  He slapped me on the back, and Mike did as well.

  My pajama top was spattered with blood. I went to my room to change it, and when I came back, more kids had come into the living room to watch TV. Little House was on, and Ben gave me a quick grin as I settled in with the group.

  A few days later I joined some of the boys in their dorm for boxing lessons from our physical education teacher, Buddy. While we waited for him, we arm wrestled one another, and I beat most of my opponents.

  Buddy arrived, carrying two sets of boxing gloves. He had us form a ring around the fighters. We were already warm and a little sweaty from arm wrestling, and the small room soon filled with our musky body odors. The fighters went at it w
hile the rest of us yelled and cheered. The fight lasted only a few minutes, but I was wildly excited. When Buddy asked who wanted to fight the winner, my arm shot up. A roar of cheers erupted from the boys, their faces glistening with moisture. Some grinned so widely it seemed their skin might split.

  I stepped into the ring and the referee laced my gloves. I did not know the rules of boxing, and no one bothered to explain them.

  When Buddy rang the little bell, I rushed my opponent and lifted the surprised boy off his feet. The room exploded with shouts as I swung him around amid his angry cries of “Put me down!”

  For the finale, I threw him, but as we were the same size, we both went flying. My contender landed on his hands and knees with me on his back. Dazed, he sagged through his midsection as the referee jumped in for the countdown.

  When my opponent didn’t get up, the ref grabbed my arm and announced me the winner.

  The boy, finally catching his breath, jumped up, yelling, “That’s not how the game goes!” His words were drowned out by the other boys’ yells that he’d been “beat by a girl.”

  I continued to box with the group for several weeks until the lessons faded like many other activities in the community.

  Without that outlet, I began to have rages. The first came over me one afternoon when I was relaxing in my shared room and listening to Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Do Run Run” blaring from Charlie’s record player.

  During one of our many moves, I wound up sharing a room with my enemy and two other girls. Our four twin beds were angled to give the most privacy possible, but it was still a tight fit. We were all in the room that day, languid and lazy, each sprawled on our own bed and absorbed in a personal activity.

  I flipped through a picture book as Charlie began to sing along with Shawn Cassidy. Small for her age, Charlie had sleek, dark looks and a natural propensity toward horses and Nancy Drew novels. Part of the popular clique, she never let me forget that she considered herself far above me in social ranking. Her glares, sneers and eye rolls indicated her feelings.