Synanon Kid
Page 4
“Well, what happens? The next thing I know, your mother tells me she’s joined their little club, and I said, ‘Theresa, didn’t I tell you not to get involved with those people? A bunch of wackos is what they are, running around in overalls, looking like Farmer John. Take over America, my foot. Do you think Americans are going to let a bunch of Howdy Doodys way off in left field take over our country?’”
At this point he’d go lecture mode. The commune had robbed him of his most precious asset, his daughter, and now that he had me back, he wanted to wrest every bit of Synanon doctrine from my mind. His lectures about the folly of the cult were forceful and persistent, a desperate scouring of my psyche.
“Do you know how many wars we fought with the English, the Spanish, the Indians to make and keep this country? A lot of people died, and the people at Synanon thought we were going to hand our country over to them. I like America just fine. It’ll be over my dead body before I’d let a bunch of Loony Toons take over. And—” He’d jab the air with his finger. “—I’m not the only one who feels that way.”
My father’s monologue required no response from me. My job during these outbursts was only to sit and listen.
Chapter Six
My Mother’s Story
September, 2013; Phone Interview
When I left you with your father to move to Synanon, I was transferred to the Oakland facility. After I arrived, a woman searched through all my personal belongings and confiscated my prescription pills. She took me into the bathroom, where she wanted me to watch while she opened each bottle, emptied all my medications into the toilet and flushed the pills away.
Those pills were prescribed to me, and I should have been weaned off them gradually. Going cold turkey put me into a sort of catatonic state for months. Everything felt foggy, and I couldn’t think clearly. I had a hard time following conversations, and life became like a strange dream.
I spent most of my days scrubbing cooking pots and dirty dishes. In the evenings, there were games, but they were different from the games at the club. There was a lot of screaming, swearing and verbal attacks, and I was kind of mute through it all. People would attack me and I’d try to organize my thoughts, but I couldn’t seem to form coherent speech.
I remember some guy calling another guy an asshole. That was the first time I’d heard that word, and the visual I got was stunning.
Then, one day, the fog in my mind lifted and everything became clear and ordered again. I joined a conversation between two other people I happened to be sitting with, and they were both surprised. Everyone was used to me having little or nothing to say.
Not too long after that, I started dating this young guy, Tom. He was maybe seventeen, I guess. I don’t remember how the relationship started, but I got a lot of flak for going with someone so young.
Tom started talking up one of the other Synanon properties in Marin, the Tomales Bay property, where they had something called “boot camp.” He raved about how much fun boot camp was, what a great time he’d had there and that I should apply.
After listening to him for a while, I thought maybe it would be nice to be outside in nature, working in the fresh air, so I applied.
My application was accepted, but the “boot camp” wasn’t anything like what Tom had described. It wasn’t fun at all. “Boot camp” was more like labor camp. It was a lot of heavy ranch work, military marching and compulsory long runs, and then in the evenings, when I was completely exhausted, we had to play the game.
I couldn’t have my own private thoughts or feelings. The Synanon people were always trying to get me to admit to stuff that I shouldn’t be thinking or feeling, and then they’d attack me for opening up. It was a constant teardown, and I started to really miss you, Celena.
I felt miserable that I was separated from you. It was almost unbearable at times. That was when I started to think about leaving, and when I started to think about that, it suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t know how to leave. We lived on a ranch far from town, and if I wanted to leave the property, I had to have permission or be accompanied by a senior resident. I couldn’t even make a private phone call.
What I mean is that we could leave, but it was a big deal to admit that you wanted to go. Usually, when people talked about wanting to quit the commune, there was a lot of persuasion to get them to stay, and they’d be subjected to more gaming. Community members would try to convince doubters that it was in their best interest to stay. Often people caved under that pressure, but there was another way: I could run away in the night.
Runaways were called “splittees,” and a plan to split between two or more people was called a “contract,” which was what I ended up making with another woman and a man. Our plan was to leave in the middle of the night and walk to the nearest town, Marshall, and from there catch a bus to San Francisco. But it never happened because the other woman started to feel guilty, and she broke our contract during a game.
After that, I was subjected to a series of teardown games and was told I wasn’t good enough for boot camp. Management sent me back to Oakland. I still wanted to leave and probably would have if I hadn’t met Barbara.
Barbara was an older woman with some status in the community, and she took a special interest in me. When I first met her, she said, “Honey, I’ve got my eye on you and I’m going to make it my mission to get you to stay here. You have too much potential for us to lose you.”
It was the first time since I’d come to Synanon that I felt somebody cared about me. I told Barbara how much I missed you and how hard it was for me being separated from my child. Barbara told me that if I worked hard and truly embraced the Synanon way that I would be reunited with you, and she promised to help me make that happen.
The more vested in the community I became, the more unattractive the outside world began to look. Sometimes when we had games or seminars in which the subject of mainstream living was brought up and we discussed how it destroys people, I’d remember how vulnerable and helpless I felt when I was on my own. Those thoughts hardened my resolve in doing the good work and to finally bring you into the community. It was in Oakland, where I met most of the people who would become my closest friends throughout my time in the community and after.
What really put a fire under me, though, was when I discovered the Kidsnatchers club, a kind of support group for parents working to bring their children into Synanon. The Kidsnatchers really gave me something to strive for, and I developed a Synanon zeal in the group. Once I became involved in Kidsnatchers, I started to get a lot of approval and encouragement from upper management. I finally began to feel on track with the movement.
Barbara breathed new life into me, and I became inspired all over again with Synanon, only this time instead of only going through the motions, I began to put in real effort to be the best Synanon citizen I could be.
Chapter Seven
Relatives
At my father’s home, I had my own room, which I wasn’t used to. Late at night, I’d creep into the bed he shared with his girlfriend, Alice, depositing my dolls and stuffed animals under their covers before shaking my father awake, complaining of ghosts and monsters and begging to sleep with them. Too tired to argue with me, he’d grumble an okay.
In the morning, I awoke to find my toys scattered everywhere and Alice scissoring the air with her legs, doing exercises.
Sometimes, she’d already left for work, so my father and I would be alone together. We developed a morning routine, a running joke between us, which consisted of checking each other’s breath and pretending to fall over dead from the smell. I’d explode in giggles every time.
In the bathroom, my father lectured me on hygiene. After we scrubbed our teeth and gargled with minty mouthwash, he’d say, “You want nice white teeth, Celena. When you grow up and start dating, no man is going to want to deal with yellow teeth.”
I’d scrunch up my face while my dad watched me with mock seriousness before we both broke out laughing.
For breakfast, we ate the cornbread his mother, Regina, sent home with us after our Sunday dinners at my grandparents’ house. We’d crumble the fluffy bread into bowls to be eaten like cereal with milk and sugar.
I spent long days riding around in my father’s car while he looked for work and went to job interviews. Sometimes he’d leave me in the car with the window opened slightly, a bag of potato chips and soda to keep me company, along with a warning to stay put and not open the car door for anyone.
On weekends when Alice had free time, we went to her sister Stella’s in Compton, and I played with the youngest of Stella’s four children, Danielle, who was only two years older than me. Alice sometimes took Danielle and me to the beach or an amusement park. Other times we stayed home and hung out at the pool in the apartment complex.
Having never learned to swim, my father would sun himself on one of the white plastic pool chairs while Alice waded into the cool water, carrying me on her hip, my arms and legs wrapped like octopus tentacles around her body. Try as she might, she could not peel me off to begin my swimming lessons. I could see clear to the bottom of the pool and the dip of the cement alarmed me. I’d wiggle myself higher into Alice’s arms to escape the water lapping against my shoulders.
My father laughed genially from the safety of his chair at my frantic attempts to cling to Alice. Sometimes he’d follow us along the perimeter, calling out encouragingly for me to kick my legs or place my face in the water. I could not trust him at these times. He wanted me to swim, but would not put even a toe into the water himself.
When we finally went inside, a warm towel would be wrapped around me, and with eyes burning from chlorine, I’d skitter to the bathroom, waiting for the comfort of the dry clothes Alice brought me. Soon all the terror of the swimming lesson was forgotten as I ate a hot baloney sandwich prepared by my father, the white bread soaked with grease and mayonnaise.
My life took on a regular rhythm as Alice eagerly stepped into the maternal role that my mother had vacated. She provided me with dolls whose blond hair I continually brushed until they were balding. My clothing, which Alice kept neatly folded in my dresser, smelled of Tide detergent and lavender. On weekends she plaited my hair into two braids and tied them with ribbons that matched the colors of my clothes. Among Alice’s relatives, I was called her little girl. When I wanted comfort, I learned to go to Alice. Possibly, at such a young age, Alice and my mother blended into one and the same person for me. They looked very similar to each other, and I don’t recall missing my mother with Alice around.
But one afternoon, just as suddenly as my mother had departed, Alice left too. My father and I returned to the apartment to find all the furniture gone. Alice had taken what belonged to her. In shock, I walked the length of our bare living room. Then I sat on the floor while my father paced, phone to ear, his jaw clenched with tension.
By the end of the week, my bags were packed. Jobless and struggling financially, he thought I might fare better under Alice’s care, and so, like the furniture, I went too.
In Compton, where Alice’s father, Lewis, had a house, I was given two rooms: a bedroom and a playroom equipped with every toy Alice thought I should possess, as well as a school desk and handwriting booklets. Alice valued education. Whenever I spoke, she corrected my grammar. “Black English” was a pet peeve of hers and my father’s, though she was more stringent in scouring the dialect from my tongue. “That way of speaking will only hold you back,” she’d snap. Her expression soured when I’d blurt out, “Watcha doin’, huh?”
“What are you doing?” she’d say, emphasizing each word.
“My orm horts,” I’d say.
“My arm hurts,” she’d correct.
Alice and my mother were both fair-skinned Creole beauties, but Alice’s personality—critical, detailed and highly organized—couldn’t have been more different from my mother’s earthy and childlike qualities. Alice, chic and fashionable, lived in high heels, even wearing high-heeled slippers around the house. Her deformed toes curled inward from gripping the soles of her shoes. Routine-oriented and strict, she had little patience for kid-type nonsense. Most of her nieces and nephews found her formidably frosty; so, recognizing that she was softer on me, they often used me as a go-between when they wanted something from her.
Along with insisting I use proper grammar, Alice enrolled me in an etiquette school called Sugar-and-Spice, for girls and boys. The lessons were held in the back room of a department store. My new etiquette skills came into play when I took a train journey with my grandma Gladys to New Orleans and met my great aunt Dolly for the first time. I recall my grandmother prodding me into my aunt’s living room, where she waited to meet me in her easy chair. Aunt Dolly was a large woman, and she didn’t walk around much. Not knowing what to do as she gazed intensely down at me, I fell back on my etiquette.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said and curtsied.
Aunt Dolly shifted the bulk of her rotund body in her chair to peer speechless at me for a moment, before she tilted her head back and let loose a howl of deep husky laughter. “Well ain’t you somethin’ else, um-huh, my, my. Look at that baby. What else can she do?” she demanded to know of my grandma. “Do she sing and dance?”
When my grandmother opened my suitcase later that night, which Alice had packed, she found my clothes ironed, starched, perfectly folded and smelling of flowers. This left such an impression on my grandmother that for the rest of her life she spoke of my neatly organized clothes whenever she heard Alice’s name.
Alice taught me to sit still with my hands held lady-like in my lap so I would not draw attention to myself when adults talked among themselves. Unlike my mother, she had no interest in being my friend, but acted as a parent in every sense. At night I slept with curlers in my hair to create the ringlets Alice adored. My dresses were either frilly and shiny or conservative and chic like hers, streamlined to fit my small figure.
While Alice groomed me to become the lady she hoped I’d be, I also spent long days at a Compton preschool. The bright and cheerful colors of the artwork hanging on the walls, the toys at our disposal, and the chirping voices of Sesame Street characters blasting from the TV were only superficial deviations from the dysfunctional home lives that many of the children came from, and the teachers’ methods of dealing with us were unorthodox at best.
When a little girl bit my ear so hard as to draw blood, I ran crying to one of my teachers and to show her the assault.
“Bite her back,” the teacher said.
I didn’t want to, and when I turned squeamish over the matter, the teacher grabbed my attacker, pinned her arms to her sides and demanded I bite her ear.
When I sank my teeth into the squishy flesh of her lobe, the girl’s screams of pain terrified me.
“Now, you see. She won’t be doin’ it agin,” the teacher told me, satisfaction rounding out her words.
A drop of blood sprang to the girl’s skin where I’d left the imprint of my teeth.
“You betta stop that cryin’ before I give you sometin’ to cry about,” the teacher warned the screaming child. “And you can take your little black butt and go sit down on one a dem chairs inside.”
During naptime, the boys often used the girls who drifted off to sleep for masturbation. Creeping from their mats, the boys dry humped their classmates. I never closed my eyes and never did a teacher halt this regular, repugnant routine.
An innocent game of cops and robbers in the schoolyard turned into a brutal reenactment of gang rape. Two of the boys wrestled my friend to the ground and yanked her legs open while a third mounted her, pumping away.
I can still see
the whites of her eyes as her head thrashed from side to side while the little rapist tried to kiss her. I pounded the boy’s head and back with my fists, trying to pull him off of her until he turned around and punched me in the face. No teacher came to our rescue.
On one of my last days at the preschool, a girl was whisked away in an ambulance, her eye punctured by a needle driven in by another girl who sat sulkily on a blue plastic chair, swinging her legs and waiting for her parents to pick her up.
Alice’s nephews were affiliated with the Crips gang. Ranging in age from twelve to sixteen, they sported enormous afros and carried giant hair picks in their back pockets. The boys liked to roughhouse with me and their little sister, Danielle, throwing us about in the front room of their home. We’d bounce off the plastic-covered furniture and barely miss colliding with a shelf full of family photos and figurines or the big wooden TV set, which sat decoratively on the muddied green spongy carpet. With a wink or grin, they’d say, “Y’all Crips. Crip or die. Don’t be talkin’ Bloods ’roun’ here. Who y’all?”
“Crips,” Danielle and I mimicked.
At that, they’d hold out their hands and say, “Hey, giv’ me five, giv’ me five,” and we’d all slap each other’s palms.
Satisfied that we knew our place, the brothers took us to the corner store for ice cream. They preened and strutted before older girls, who gave them sassy looks and made sucking noises through their teeth to let them know they weren’t all that. If a girl was interested, she’d swing her hips slowly from side to side when she walked away.
I stayed with Alice until she and my father began to argue over my care. At first Alice merely suggested the idea of adoption, testing his response. His flat out refusal meant the subject would be dropped for a while, but she couldn’t let it go. Her constant nagging at his resolve only turned to bolder talk.