The main dining hall, reserved for dancing, was decked out with multiple strobe lights that flashed in rapid succession to long techno-disco songs, like Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love.” Our movements appeared as hallucinatory projections of patterns, shooting out every millisecond from the darkness to the machine-like beat and creating an ultra-hyped-up sensual feeling. At some point we’d form the block formation for the communal dance, the hoopla. Maybe a hundred people or more would perform the same movements in unison, a giant wave of bodies dancing as if one entity.
With the sugar ban lifted, these parties were supplied with vats of doughnuts, sodas and candy. In a mere three or four weeks, we began to realize we were eating ourselves sick. New rules were made to curb the abuse that we were doing to our bodies. Before long we were subject to spending limits on sugar: two dollars per week for the children. Sure, we balked some at the new rules. I must admit, though, that deep down I knew that the sugar limitation and its enforcement were for our own good.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Case of the Rattlesnake
“A couple of our members have run into some problems with the law. They’ve been set up.”
I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to get comfortable in the impromptu meeting led by a man I didn’t recognize. Some months shy of nine, I was mostly unaware of Synanon politics, as were most of the children my age, yet our ignorance hadn’t stopped one of the demonstrators from plucking a handful of us out of our play, where we were herded into a smaller side room of the Shed. Inside, a few adults milled about with crossed arms and stern faces. I wondered if we were in some kind of trouble. As usual, I had no idea what I’d been dragged into until it started.
“Now, we can’t stand for this,” the man said. “There are journalists and newspapers printing all kinds of lies about who we are and what we do here. They’re saying we’re nothing but a kooky cult, and now there’s this crazy lawyer telling the media that Synanon tried to kill him by placing a rattlesnake in his mailbox. Can you believe that?”
The speaker didn’t wait for an answer.
“We would never do that,” he went on. “This lawyer put that snake in his own box and after he was bitten he yelled, ‘Synanon got me!’ How ridiculous! It was a complete setup.”
The man paused, scanning the room. “Who here likes being in Synanon?” All hands shot up, including mine, although I still longed to leave.
The man’s expression changed to grim satisfaction. “Joe Musico and Lance Kenton were accused. They’ve been set up and we’ve gotta fight to get them out of this mess.”
My ears perked up. Joe and Lance? They were two of the nicest men I had ever known. Neither would ever do something like that! For once, I felt as indignant as the other community members.
A little over a year earlier, I had been invited, along with seven other kids, to spend the winter holiday at the Home Place, a Synanon property in Visalia, California. An invitation to the Home Place was considered a special honor. We spent four days in the VIP headquarters, where we were catered to and fussed over.
I’d had no idea what was happening when I’d boarded the Synanon jitney for Visalia or, when I’d arrived there, why I had earned the privilege to visit the special property; nonetheless, I had a blast. Although at the time we were not allowed sugar, this rule was temporarily suspended at the Home Place. We were treated to hot chocolate with whipped cream or marshmallows, ice cream and cider with cinnamon sticks, as well as enormous feasts of various kinds of meats, mashed potatoes, bread, rolls and pies.
In the evenings, we children in our pajamas and the adults in silk robes lounged on plush furniture in a massive living room before a blazing fireplace and watched movies. One that I recall was a dark comedy called Who’s Killing the Great Chefs of Europe? about a psychopath who was systematically killing Europe’s top chefs, the grisly murders themed to imitate each chef’s most famous dish.
Our group leader for that holiday had been Lance, a young man who exuded Synanon wholesomeness. His hair clipped military style, his body strong and his smile wide, Lance displayed a constantly positive attitude. We played cards and board games together, or he’d hand out plastic squirt guns and we’d run around in a game of tag, shooting one another with water before darting off to hide. Throughout the visit Lance was full of ideas for fun activities, and Joe joined Lance and us in our games.
Like our properties in Marin, the Home Place was far removed from civilization. Snowy mountains hemmed the property, lending a hushed quiet to the outdoors. All of nature appeared to be asleep.
When Joe took us out to play in the snow one afternoon, I was more curious to explore the new environment, a blanket of white that stretched as far as I could see, than to hang out with him and the other children.
I wandered toward some spindly trees, trudging deeper into the drifts with every step until I managed to get myself stuck. I could neither lift my leg nor move it forward. Turning to look behind me, I saw everyone else at a distance. They were running after one another, throwing snowballs. Could they see me? I called out, but no one looked in my direction. Panicked, I tried to move my leg, but it wouldn’t budge. What if they forgot about me and went back inside? I called out a second time, but I was too far away. The kids laughed and screamed so loudly that my shouts were drowned out.
I sat down and cried.
Minutes later I felt large hands slide under my arms, giving a quick tug and pulling me up out of the thick cold wet. Joe slung me over his shoulder, wading out of the deep snow as if he were walking through a mild stream of flowing water.
“It’s okay,” he said.
I rested my cheek on his shoulder, feeling instantly safe.
When I left the Home Place to return to Marin, I had only fond memories of both men. I just couldn’t believe that they would try to murder someone.
We watched the recorded broadcast of Joe and Lance, surrounded by reporters, on the wall-mounted TV. An anchorman informed us that they were suspects in a conspiracy to murder an attorney named Paul Morantz, under the executive order of Chuck Dederich. We sat for a few hours, looking at other news clips and listening to various members speak their anger at the injustice being committed against us.
“We are the victims. We are the ones who are being attacked.” The adults repeated this refrain over and over to us children.
The following year Joe and Lance were found guilty and sentenced to a year in prison. Still, I remained unconvinced of their guilt. Chuck escaped conviction, but was forced to step down as director of Synanon for several years.
The politics of the commune and its fight against “outsiders” resulted in a shift toward building power through us children. Boys were encouraged to learn how to shoot guns and maintain them. Some of our sports were substituted with karate, which Synanon called Syndo. The white uniforms were purchased and we were each given an outfit for lessons. We learned kicks, rolls and jabs and how to block an opponent. After karate class we stood in formation, enduring endless lectures on the physical excellence expected of us.
A black-belt guest teacher came to one of our karate classes to show us what we could achieve. A large beefy man with hair on his head that advertised his outsider status, he performed a demonstration in which he sliced a stack of bricks cleanly in half with the edge of one of his bare hands. A fine powdery residue of dust clouded the air and sifted slowly to settle on the table where the bricks rested.
His skills were impressive, yet the mandatory nature of the martial art instruction dampened my interest. Although I’d watched my share of Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris films, I didn’t see myself becoming a master of karate or even accomplishing any level of competence.
As if to further highlight the truly quirky nature of the commune, we were also forced to watch the TV miniseries Shogun, all twelve dreary hours of it, while wearing our karate outfits and snacking on revolting, greasy, cinnamon-flavored crisps and apple juice.
By the time Shogun ended I had devel
oped a deep dislike for karate and Japan. My dislike would persist for many years.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lost
For years I had a recurring dream in which I was a prima ballerina dancing majestically on stage before a large, adoring audience. I’d leap through the air, my legs spread in a grand jete, or I’d twirl in endless pirouettes and at the end of the performance the audience would throw flowers to me, their applause thunderous. Whenever I had one of these dreams, I’d talk to any demonstrator, who’d listen about the possibility of having ballet lessons in the school.
Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised when one day it was announced to me and a few other girls that we had been chosen to take ballet lessons in San Francisco. The lessons were to take place once a week on Mondays.
Since San Francisco was a good hour away, we had to wake up at four and be ready to board the 5 a.m. jitney that would take us to the Synanon property where our lessons would take place.
A massive structure encompassing a whole city block, the Synanon house of San Francisco had been obtained as a donation from the National Lead Company. It housed many residents and for a time was one of several main business hubs of the Synanon organization. Boasting a sweeping carpeted foyer, long narrow hallways and old rickety elevators that transferred residents between multiple floors, it was to us children a treasure trove of adventure and endless exploration.
On our first morning we were ushered into the dance room to meet our ballet teacher, a young woman with a quality of patience exhibited by very few of our Synanon demonstrators. The floor of the large room was carpeted instead of wooden; there was no barre and only a single rectangular mirror, propped against the wall. I was too excited about the lessons to care that it was not a real ballet room. Maybe the room would be altered later.
“I already know how to spin like a ballerina,” I told our teacher as soon as our small group filed into the room. I followed my words with several turns, spinning as fast as I could.
“What do you think?” I asked, swaying slightly.
“Very good,” she said.
The other girls silently absorbed this scene. I had no idea whether they wanted to learn ballet or not. Lacy and Melissa, my friends from the secret club, were among them. Lacy, tall and thick, and Melissa, even taller, were both aged twelve and unlikely candidates for a ballet class. But that didn’t matter. Leaving the Walker Creek property once a week to come to San Francisco was more than reason enough for taking ballet lessons.
As the only animated student in the class, I inspired our teacher to begin our first lesson with learning to spot our turns. To demonstrate, she showed us how to prepare a turn. Placing one leg in the bent position of a plie and extending the other in front of her in a tendu, she held her arms in a similar fashion, one rounded in, the other extended to the side. “The trick is to find something across the room to focus on. With every turn, your eyes should always remain on your chosen object. Like this.” She began a series of turns in perfect symmetry on the diagonal across the room, her movements so quick they were just a blur.
I was hooked.
The hour or so that we spent in class was over all too soon, but we were told that we had the rest of the day to do as we pleased, as the jitney would not be taking us back until late afternoon. So began a series of Mondays that we spent taking ballet lessons, eating what we liked, playing card games with some of the younger men who lived at the house and goofing off.
A month into our program we were granted permission to go out and explore the city and given pocket change for bus fare and a little extra to buy a treat or trinket. The only stipulation was that we had to return by 4 p.m. to catch the jitney back to Marin.
Melissa, Lacy and I hit the streets, basking in the rare warmth of a clear sunny San Francisco day. Strolling along the wide sidewalks, we gaped at the large, chunky buildings, some with fancy eaves and cornices, others brightly painted blue-and-pink Victorians. Like gawkers at a theme park, we viewed everyday pedestrians as exotic.
“We should go downtown,” Lacy suggested. “There’s probably a lot to do there.”
We located a bus stop, hopped on the next bus that came along and got off when we arrived in what Lacy said must be downtown. Stores lined streets busy with tourists like us. For the next several hours we explored the shops. We found a music store with records and posters of our favorite rock musicians. Clothing and shoe stores carried the trendy Wrangler blue jeans, halter tops and platform shoes that we girls coveted. We wandered through an Indian shop that reeked of musky incense and sold colorful beaded jewelry and silk textiles fringed with tiny mirrors. The statues of elephants and four-armed deities displayed throughout the store reminded me of the pictures from the Bhagavad Gita.
At one point we stumbled upon a wig shop. The mannequin heads adorned with wigs presenting various styles in the window rendered the three of us temporarily speechless. Here was a store full of hair of every conceivable texture, style and length. Wigs were hard to come by in Synanon, as the long tresses were usually kept locked away with other theater props and brought out only for performances.
Traipsing through the store, I could hardly contain my excitement. We garnered curious stares from the employees and customers, but I didn’t care. I was only nine and could still easily pass for a boy, but Lacy and Melissa had obvious breasts and feminine figures. Our boyish hair- cuts were the polar opposite of the long hair that women wore in the late 1970s. Even the men wore their hair long.
I passed one mannequin head after another, searching for the wig I wanted to try on, the one with the longest, straightest hair. Melissa put on a wig in the popular feathered hairstyle of the day and stood before one of the full-length mirrors, admiring herself. I spotted a foam head adorned with two long braids, a style I had often worn before coming to Synanon. I grabbed the wig, placed it on my head and then dashed to the closest mirror. A different child stared back at me. I looked like a girl, a real girl. I was even pretty. I couldn’t believe it.
A saleswoman, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere, tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Where are your parents?”
I looked up at her.
She stood waiting with folded arms.
“I don’t have any parents,” I said. “I came here with my friends.” I pointed to the hulkish form of Lacy still browsing the wigs and Melissa removing the feathered tresses from her own military cut.
“You’re girls?” The saleswoman glanced at Lacy and Melissa again. “You are going to have to leave. You need to be here with an adult.”
I didn’t want to take off the wig. I glanced once more at myself in the mirror before I removed the hair and handed it to the woman, who took it from me. Her lips twisted as though she had tasted something sour as she returned the wig to the mannequin head.
We left the shop and continued our wanderings to the piers shrouded by hazy sea air. Hungry, we purchased corn dogs and big, soft, salty pretzels. After lunch we decided it was time to head back.
Lacy scratched her chin. “Do either of you know the way back? I wasn’t paying attention to how we got here.”
I shook my head, and we both turned to Melissa, whose green eyes clouded in thought. When we’d left the San Francisco house, we’d had no bus schedule or phone number. We hadn’t bothered to check the name of the street, and no one had taken the time to make sure that we possessed this information. Like our weekends at home, our time was our own, and we could go where we liked with no supervision.
“No one remembers?” Lacy said.
“We’ll head back to the downtown area and catch one of the buses. It should take us back to where we came from,” Melissa said.
We walked briskly back to the street where all the shops were. It didn’t seem as if we’d gone that far, but the bustling street on which we found ourselves wasn’t the same street we’d strolled along earlier. As we looked for something familiar, it dawned on us that we didn’t know the name of the street we’d been on b
efore.
We turned around and went back to the piers. Throngs of people milled about. A group of Japanese tourists in brightly colored clothing held cameras and talked among themselves. When a red cable car pulled up in front of them, Melissa, Lacy and I ran to catch up and board the public transport with the tourists. Hanging on to the railings we scanned the seaside attractions, but again saw nothing familiar. When the cable car stopped, we got off.
“I don’t think we came from this direction,” Melissa said.
Two men brushed past us, holding hands. Lacy frowned, staring as they went by. We circled for a minute or two, not sure what to do. Then, down the street, I noticed a couple from the San Francisco house. They walked arm in arm, smiling and talking with each other. The three of us ran to catch up with them.
“Hey!” we yelled, waving our arms.
The couple stopped and waited.
“Man, are we glad to run into you,” Melissa said. “We’re lost and we don’t know our way back to the house.”
The woman’s gaze flicked over us, a pinched look of irritation replacing her carefree smile. “We’re having an afternoon off,” she snapped. “It’s not our job to look after you.”
“Yes, but we’re lost,” I said. A fluttery panic rose up inside me.
“That’s not our problem,” the woman said. “Don’t bother us anymore.” With that, they walked away.
The three of us stood there, deflated, watching them walk down another street until they disappeared into the crowd.
“Come on,” Lacy said. “We’ll go back the way we came on that cable car. I think the house is in that direction.”
An hour later we were no closer to our destination. We caught another bus and then got off, aimlessly walking the hilly streets, looking at the different buildings.
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