Theater and Propaganda

Back at University, I remember reading a very intriguing book about cave warfare during the Vietnam War.  In order to outfox the invading army and avoid the inhumanely massive bombing runs, a huge number of the Vietcong lived in an underground world with a vast system of tunnels almost unbelievable in scope.  I recall them having theatrical productions for the troops in this subterranean labyrinth in massive halls that they had carved out of the earth.   It stuck with me because I could identify with this bunker mentality and the idea of using theater to distract the troops during the trying times, but also to keep them in order and on message.  For me it was an epiphany.  I could see directly into the mechanism by which well meaning people became accomplices to horrible things.   The use of the theater was vital to this process.  It was  and has always been a powerful medium of coercion.  For most of the people involved it was most likely just a fun process through which they could express their creativity and distract themselves from the terror unfolding above them.  Yet, their words, actions and songs were influential beyond their imagination.   They molded minds.

Theater as a medium for influencing public opinion has been a fundamental part of human life for longer than one can imagine. From Ancient Rome to Mid 20th Century Berlin, to contemporary Hollywood, the combination of story and song has been harnessed by the power-elite to both disseminate and amplify their messaging, all under the guise of “entertainment”.   The efforts of the United States government under Roosevelt used to sell the WPA and the second world war were scarcely different from those being run simultaneously in Nazi Germany, and while we did not exterminate masses of people, we did convince our citizenry to accept the internment of the Japanese through the copious and widespread use of stereotype and prejudice. The messages used are strikingly similar.  From local theaters to the big screen, every medium that had any power to connect and manipulate has been exploited at one time or another.  Yet, because we are a “Democracy” and they were a Fascists Dictatorship, our use of propaganda has not been as fully accepted or appreciated by most.  It is a very powerful tool that every successful leadership team uses.  I recently read an article about the making of Zero Dark Thirty and the unprecedented access the filmmakers had with the highest echelons of the military.  Naturally they want to use the power of the screen to continue their unprecedented control over our national discourse and to grow the power of their respective organizations.  The methods and tactics have remained the same for eons, only the medium has changed.

In Synanon it was no different.  For better or for worse, Synanon utilized theater and play in all forms and in every possible setting to goad people, inform them and even to unify them.   It was every day and all of the time and sometimes the most simple 2 minute skit could come laden with information and directions.   For Example, I remember that during a very long drought, someone did a little morning meeting skit during demonstrating how to take a one minute shower, all the while making fun of the very very large director of the Property,  by saying he could not possibly complete his bathing in that amount of time due to his massive stature.  You saw and felt the humor of watching a fully clothed man pretending to feverishly wash himself, every nook and cranny, in less than 60 seconds.  You also saw the double entendre of making fun of someone’s weight and using a carom shot to show that the rules even applied to a head of the facility.   Clearly, the power of that messaging resonated and stuck with me, as I still remember it today.  If you magnify this example one hundred fold, then you can begin to understand the level and degree to which Synanon utilized theater like the regimes of old to keep the good soldiers in line.

As children, there were long periods of time where we had music class every day.  The songs that we sang and learned would often be the basis of a musical play that we would put on for the community at the end of a given period.  Although we soon began to loath the process, it was made somewhat entertaining due to the master pulling the proverbial strings.  You see Ed Scott was his name and he was definitely one of a kind.  He told me that he had started playing piano in speak easy’s during prohibition when only in his early teens in order to bring in money for the family.  From there he went on to a very prolific musical career, writing songs for the likes of Marilyn Monroe and many others and working on the Ed Sullivan show for many years.  He could write a song about anything, and he did.  They were mostly based on show tunes of old, but his creative well was almost as bottomless as his infectious energy.  In the waning years of the commune I used to work in his Japanese garden to make extra money and he would tell me the stories of his youth.  He later used to visit me in Pacific Beach to body surf when he was in San Diego.  He was amazing and brilliant but in the end, unfortunately he became a very powerful tool, unwitting or not.  Regardless as to whether there were directives for the content or the plays, he touched on every aspect of our lives in those songs and that certainly served Chuck well.  From joking about the lousy food to pointing out specific people’s flaws or misdeeds, all of the material was relevant to the direction and message of the “Board” I can assure you.  Again, this could have been a coincidence, but it shows how the edicts and whims of the few can come full circle as they are ingested by the good nonners and then regurgitated with a creativity and fervor that can do nothing else but amplify and solidify the messaging.

So prolific was the use of theater to nudge the community in a particular direction, that you might see more than one skit or play in a single day just to reinforce the messaging.    For instance, I remember a simple a harmless example where a couple of girls sang a song entitled, “this is not a door at this time.”  For all sorts of reasons doors were often closed “permanently” with a sign which said exactly that.  So two pretty young girls singing this song was thereafter locked into every persons mind when they encountered one of these doors.  The skit that went along with it would possibly make fun of the fact but reinforce the rule.  Of course, this example is seemingly harmless, however, you might imagine what other types of pressures were created through the use of this type of layered messaging.  The powerful act of creating songs and a narrative to support a new direction or reinforce a particular belief was a tried and true part of our upbringing and one of the more sinister methods of brainwashing.  I say sinister because disguised beneath a veneer of good music and humor lay the bare utility of manipulation.    Like the time where someone pretending to be my father, or perhaps it was him, was tackled on stage and they feigned piercing his ear.  You see, this was something everyone was doing and he had not yet capitulated.  I believe that soon after he got his ear pierced.  The pressure was real and often the laughs were more a result of the nervous tension than a genuine glee.

Due to the eclectic mix of residents, there was a huge pool of talent to draw from to this end.  There were world famous professional musicians, song writers, actors and other players, all looking to elevate their status and importance in the community by volunteering their expertise to the cause.  So clever were many of them, that the shows were often very memorable and enjoyable for the residents.  But somehow, I don’t believe they were clever enough to know that they were just being used like so many tools in some lunatics’ maniacal tool box, and that giving their creativity over to the system helped to perpetuate the miserable leadership and direction that Synanon had taken.  Again, most were unwitting participants in this age old game, but that does not mean they were benign.

In the end Chuck used every possible tool and method available to him  in pursuit of his aims.  Perhaps he was aware of these tactics instinctively, perhaps not.  Perhaps he studied methods and ways to manipulate or perhaps he was just an evil genius like Trump.  Either way he most certainly weaponized the use of theater and song to get what he wanted above all, compliance.

Dining

Dining

Dining in Synanon was one of the central parts of the very long days. It was a small respite from the hard work and treachery for us kids but it was also a bittersweet pill to swallow. Regardless of the facility, the main dining room was where everything from the Morning Meetings to the Nude Weigh-Ins were held (more on that later), usually before the meal, so you had to get through all of that nonsense before you could actually tackle your hunger. The tables were almost exclusively round as the community celebrated the circle in all of its ceremonies and Lazy Susans adorned the center of most like a Chinese Restaurant from a bygone day. In general, the plebeian masses would sit randomly together, while the elite occupied premium tables in the corners with all of the finery of the best white tablecloth restaurant. Dinner time for them included young ladies who sat tableside, waiting to offer their service of fare that was not available to the rest of us. The diversity at the common tables was very rich, as one could be seated next to a recently arrived former addict on one side and a Phd from Harvard on the other. Lively conversations were the norm and as a kid you could pick up a lot during this time. I can’t remember exactly when we were moved up to the main tables as I do recall an era where all the kids sat together. Regardless, most of us never had a chance to sit at the big boys table with their fanfare, but since we never had a taste for it, we never missed it. Occasionally we were subjected to something called “Gracious Dining” where we were forced to sit for what seemed like an eternity, emulating their daily routine, but this was pure torture for us and the food wasn’t at all what they took their time to enjoy.

I have one distinct memory of being in the Shed at the Strip property and seeing a lady who I had not encountered for some time but had been fond of. She was heading toward the food line and although I was somewhat shy, I approached her and gave her a smile and said, “Welcome Home.” She looked at me with a bit of disdain and a lot of contempt, and said, “I am not home, I live at the Home Place,” as if a 13 year old kid was supposed to know the place of residence for each and every member. She turned away to inspect the food line and I remember her face as if were yesterday as she opened the lid to the first steam tray, pure disgust. As I recall, she did not even bother to look at the rest of the line or even get a plate. She had seen the entree and that was more than enough to quelch her appetite. After all, she lived at the Home Place and she was not accustomed to sucking it up and eating the unpalatable food we were given.

The serving style for the masses in the dining room was a buffet line that was positioned directly in front of the kitchen. The line started with the plate warmer and a rack of massive hard plastic bowls. Sometimes an enormous half moon bowl full of half rotten fruit would be at the front as well just to whet your appetite for the practically inedible food to come. In the morning there would also be a giant vertical rotary toaster which never stopped churning. The bread was dense but it was one of the only things that was freshly baked. But only Margarine awaited after the toaster, creating a very strange combination of fresh and fetid. Oh, how we longed for some wonder bread and real butter, but that never happened.

After the plates, bowls and the toaster in the morning came the salad bar, then the hot cart.
At the end of the line you got your drink from large metal vats that contained either Water, “kool aide” and “Syna-milk”. The water was what we stuck to as it was usually from a well and was very satisfying, especially compared with the other options. “Syna-Milk”, as it was called, was Non Fat Dried Milk, reconstituted in very large quantities. I am not sure if this was a government commodity or if we actually purchased it, but it in no way, shaped or form resembled or tasted like milk. It was normally very watered down and sometimes a bit lumpy. There was also a rumor that went around about one of the kitchen workers being caught pleasuring himself into it at one point, so it was definitely off limits. I don’t know if anyone actually drank it, but I certainly never did. The final option was the “kool aide” which was overly laden with saccharine and tasted like you were ingesting some sort of industrial paint stripper, so bitter was it’s taste. We referred to it as either “Orange Death” or “Green Death” depending on the color du jour. It was rumored that Synanon actually donated the “kool aide” powder that was used by the people of Jonestown who eventually added cyanide and drank it in their mass suicide. Our use of that name long preceded the suicide in an eerie prescience.

The chefs and the kitchen staff were gracious, very hard working and sometimes very talented, but their job was like asking Michelangelo to finish the Sistine chapel with an old box of broken crayons which was missing half of the colors. They did their best and they did it with pride, but they were not working with anything close to high quality ingredients. All of those went elsewhere and landed on someone else’s plate. There was a prominent slogan that was plastered on walls which went, “eat what we have or starve.” Of course, that slogan was a great for those at the homeplace eating their gourmet fare; it was not so comforting for us. Yet, like it or not, we ate it because after the days we suffered through hunger was never a stranger.

Synanon always had a lot of mouths to feed, but they never did spend the money required to do it properly. Sure, as I mentioned, the “Old Man” and his court of mostly jesters dined on line caught salmon and anything else they wanted but “we the people” ate whatever we could lay our hands on, and it usually was really really bad. As children, the primary use for our weekly allowance, “Walking Around Money or WAM”, was to buy real milk, cream cheese and crackers whenever we got a chance to go to town. Later, there was the Granny Gorp Store which provided food offerings that we could use to supplement our diets if we had money to do so. Suffice it to say, not a lot of 10 year olds were out there buying Philadelphia Cream Cheese and Wheat Thins on the meager allowance they had, but we certainly were. So bad was the food that we would do anything to get something “normal.”

For the most part, Synanon relied on charitable donations to feed the masses. Anything that was good went to the home place and the stuff they did not want went to the plebs. There was an old tradition in Synanon which followed the street parlance called hustling. Ex addicts were sent out into the world to find companies, farms, ranches or whatever to donate anything they needed to unload. They would tell their story about how Synanon had saved their lives and ask for a donation in order to help save another. Since the commune was a certified 501c3 charitable organization, the donations were deductible, giving the mark ample incentive to unload their overstocks, freezer inventories, past code products and anything else they could not sell in their primary market. The donations ranged from food to clothes and shoes and many other things.

As you might imagine, the Hustlers were so successful the they ultimately brought too much stuff to the doors and a whole new industry was created called Anti-Hustling, later known as Synanon Second Market. The idea was to distribute the things we hustled but could not use to other charitable organizations and it was a great idea. I remember Buckminster Fuller’s name being mentioned in this regard with the quote, “The world is full of the right stuff in the wrong places.” I am not sure if this quote is accurate but that is the way it was told to me. While it was a great idea, the reality is that most of this food “stuff” should have been land filled and not given out to local church groups and other organizations because many times it was nowhere near edible and often far past the reasonable shelf life. The 12 year old Mahi Mahi and the World War II ration biscuits leap to mind as I write this, but there were many other insanely old and incredibly bad things that ended up on our plates instead of the rubbish bin.

At the top of my list in this regard, and one of the things that none of us will ever forget, are the airline dinners that were donated to us by the million. The never ending supply of small white trays were identified only by the “Beef A La Grecque” stamped on the foil wrapper in small black generic type. I still get a bit nauseous just thinking about them. The “meal” consisted of mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes and sliced beef with some sort of sauce. We apparently got so many of them that they were a steady staple on the serving line for longer than I want to remember. They started out serving them in the tray, just heated with the foil still intact and stacked into the steam trays on the large hot carts. As people grew tired and wary of them, they would be opened in the kitchen and separated after they had thawed slightly. The components were placed in hotel pans, covered and heated in the oven in an attempt to make it a little more elegant. Of course, the ruse was not a very good one and the camouflage was easily detected. The “meal” may have briefly conjured thoughts of air travel and distant lands in the beginning, but of course, that feeling did not last very long.

It is important to note that some time during the 70’s refined sugar was banned for Synanon residents. This also included honey. This was a very insightful move on the part of the community as it certainly reduced the cost of dentistry and other health maladies associated with overconsumption of sugar. However, there were very few artificial sweeteners on the market at this time. The go-to for almost all sweetening needs was saccharine. We also encountered sorbital in the sugar free products we were able to purchase in “town” at the time, however, saccharine was used in the “kool aide” and the jello that were ever present on the dining line. Jello was a staple on the Salad bar and it was always some strange neon color. Orange and green were the most common colors with red mixed in some times. I have a very distinct memory of a visitor coming in for lunch one day, surveying the food options and then settling on a huge bowl of jello. Little did he know that it was laden with toxic artificial sweetener instead of sugar. His disgust could not be contained when he shoveled the first heaping bite into his mouth. The reaction was priceless and unforgettable.

One of the few highlights in our weekly routine was Sunday breakfast where “eggs to order” were served. You would go into the kitchen, in front of the stoves and put your name on a sheet, along with your preference for the way your eggs were to be cooked. If you liked eggs, this was a great thing. They were made to order and fresh off of the stove, two things we virtually never had. Eggs were not a rarity, however, they were normally served scrambled in four inch hotel pans and had been sitting in a steam tray for long enough to turn them green on the edges. Sure, a food service guy would come through and mix them occasionally in order to “freshen” them up, but for the most part they were inedible. So, the weekly occasion to have eggs cooked the way you wanted was a treat, that is, if you liked eggs. I have several friends that won’t touch them to this day, traumatized as they were by the Suessian version served almost daily.

In the end, we survived by eating from the Grazing Board and later by pilfering the “granny gorp store” which was run on the honor system. But the store came much later and I actually paid for all of the things I took from there although most of the kids did not. And since I was a paying customer with very little money, almost all between meal snacks came exclusively from the grazing board. That board consisted of a small cart with bread, margarine, peanut butter (if we had it) and yogurt. Over the years there were donations of other things that landed there such as banana puree but mostly it was just the basics. We would get as creative as possible with this meager selection, mixing the peanut butter and yogurt together and then adding any condiment we could find, such as cinnamon or vanilla, but there was only so much we could do.. I still distinctly remember the taste of peanut butter and margarine sandwiches which may have been awful in retrospect, but there were no other options. Since there was no sugar available and we all really did not like “Sweet n’ Low”, our concoctions were not very tasty in the traditional sense, but we ate them anyway because hunger is a powerful motivator. The bread and yogurt were actually fresh and made daily but those are not things kids really want and the fact that there were so few other options made one quickly tire of them. Occasionally there was some fruit around, but it was normally the half rotten, donated variety that turned most of us off to fruit for a lifetime. Sometimes there was also jello but this too was something we never ate as it was bright neon color and laden with saccharin as mentioned previously. Naturally ,this was one reason we spent all of our allowance, meager as it was, on foods that were not available to us otherwise, or simply stole from the gorp store without remorse, as many later did.

An interesting addition to our diet, which was a rare exception, and very strange, was Sugar Day. Since we were on a permanent sugar ban (which I later found out many cheated on), any opportunity to eat sugar turned into a literal mind numbing, stomach churning day which left one reeling for some time. The Sugar Days normally came in the form of an extravagant and endless ice cream bar. By endless, I don’t mean variety, rather that we could have as much as we wanted, which of course was the problem. On these days, some fine soul would drive into town and stop at Swensons, bald head and all, and buy God knows how many tubs of ice cream. Mostly they were French Vanilla from my memory. There were normally chopped peanuts, hot fudge and hot caramel to load up the bowls with. Now the reason for the ice cream days was normally as a “celebration” for something or another. Perhaps it was a legal victory or good news on another front, but in reality we did not care. For us it was a full on eating frenzy, the likes of which could be shown on the Food Network on that Man vs. Food show. The old adage, “never eat anything bigger than your head” comes to mind when I recall the huge plastic Bolta bowls overflowing with ice cream and toppings. We would repeat this madness until we just could not eat anymore and then we would lay around, sick as a dog because we simply couldn’t move and our bodies were not used to either milk or sugar. We literally ate ourselves into a food coma, which was followed by a serious hangover. In retrospect I imagine this was just another one of those ways that the powers that be tried to ingratiate themselves to us. By creating a severe restriction or shortage, they could appear the hero when they gave us a reprieve, if only for a fleeting moment. Chuck knew the power he wielded with these simple manipulations of the “norm” he had created and he used them wisely.

Other things that I remember on the positive side were the Mint Chip ice cream donation in Santa Monica, along with the Dr. Pepper. This was prior to the No Sugar rule, so we enjoyed these with abandon. Somehow I never got sick of them and have an affinity for both to this day.
We briefly had a donation of Jeno’s frozen Pizza during my time at Walker Creek. It was not served often, but when it was we ate so much of it that I can still taste the frozen pepperoni to this day. Another cool thing that we always had around was Crystal Brand Hot Sauce from Louisiana. I assume it was a donation because it was ubiquitous, although I am not sure. Perhaps they purchased it all of the time so people could lather up the terrible food with something that tasted good. I have always kept this in my pantry as an adult and as a food guy I am still impressed with it’s three simple ingredients. My younger daughter has also grown to love this. One time in NOLA I actually had a waiter apologize to me when I sat down because they did not have any Crystal on hand, demonstrating the true magnificence of this nectar to the people of Louisiana.

When I left Synanon I obviously knew nothing at all about food. My connection with it consisted of the old gulp and belch variety, consuming whatever to satiate the hunger and then moving on. Even though the experience of Gracious Dining should have taught me something, it mostly showed me that spending endless time with horrible foods was way way worse then just slamming it down and moving on. When I left Synanon at age 17, I did not have any money to speak of and often resorted to stealing food just to eat (for which I have no regret). When I finally got my own apartment, I began the long process of learning to make meals for myself. One of my first experiences was inviting a girl over for dinner and spending two weeks’ food budget on the ingredients only to ruin every single part. From there I was determined to learn not only how to cook but how to nourish one’s self and soul. I have found that food, drink and the company of fine people are the most rewarding moments one can experience in life. The old adage of breaking bread with someone means more to me than most as I knew nothing of this concept in the commune. These days my monthly food expenditures are much larger than my mortgage. I literally spend most of my monthly budget these days in order to entertain my friends and family, and of course any stranger that is lucky enough to be around.

There are many in the world that lack even basic nutrition so perhaps this diatribe seems trite. And yet, the experience of meals with family and friends is one of the most important things that one can pass along to our children. For me, I can barely remember even one single time that I had a meal with my parents and that is the real shame. For, while the food may have been awful, it is the love and togetherness that one can experience during a meal that was sadly lacking. As a father I have been very emphatic that we sit down as a family every day to eat together, be together and discuss all things from shoelaces to Aristotle. Meals are where the family really is a family and where the sharing and learning and back and forth foster the spirit that elevates each and all. This is one more of the lessons that I learned from my wife as I learned about Family and something that I am certain my children will cherish and remember for a lifetime. It is also one that Synanon completely missed in their effort to bring people together and educate the children for a prosperous and happy future. It really is not about the food, per se, it is about being together.

“An ear in a glass of alcohol”: Lessons from an Outlier

The rise of Donald Trump as a serious contender for President has elicited an avalanche of criticism aimed at stopping this impending catastrophe in its tracks.  Comparing his rapid ascent to that of the most reviled figure in recent history, Hitler, is so common that it may have lost its power to disgust.  The tired analogy is generally thrown around mostly as pure hyperbole by both sides of the political spectrum, but in Trump’s case that is chillingly not so.  In a few short months he has gone from a laughingstock orange carnival barker to the overwhelming favorite to gain the Republican nomination, and he has done so with a sordid mix of lies, insults and incitement which can only be understood properly if you have lived through this type of thing before.  There is a good reason that the experts and pundits failed miserably to notice his sick and widespread appeal.  They have not witnessed first-hand what “normal” people will resort to when the rhetoric and circumstances have ignited their inner furies and primal fear.  There is almost nothing they won’t do in defense of their “principals” (read Rights).

Although there are many direct descendants of the victims of Hitler, there are only a handful left in the world that actually heard him speak and saw his rise.  We are all familiar with the terrifying consequences that ensued, but most people are baffled as to how one could just stand by and do nothing.  There is always a voices that shouts,, “I would never fall for that”, or “Those people must have been really stupid”,  as if we were somehow better or different from them.  The fact is, and scholars have demonstrated, that people will do horrendous and unthinkable things to others and themselves when they are manipulated in just the right way.  That is why 2,000 year old magic tricks still work the same as the day they were dreamed up.  All of us are human.

None of us individually has the power to stop the leviathan once it has grown to full strength.  The only hope we have of is to recognize what is actually happening and not allowing it the room in which to do so.  The reality is that there are actually some of us that saw this type of dangerous demagoguery on display as a part of our daily lives in one of the many Intentional Communities that sprouted up in the 60’s.  In my case that community was Synanon, and the dangerous demagogue was Charles Edwin Dederich.  The striking parallels between what I witnessed first hand as a youth are manifesting themselves right before my eyes and my greatest concern is that the end-game will be the same.   The fear and anger that is being incubated and nurtured will grow into the violent, deadly mob that will threaten the very fabric of our society, just as it did within many of the intentional communities of the last five decades.  We all remember Jonestown and how Jim Jones followers literally “drank the kool-aid” in the ultimate act of self sacrifice and group violence (many did not voluntarily commit suicide but were murdered).  The phrase has entered our lexicon and is often used quite inappropriately given its true origins, but the fact is that when that happened, many in our own community feared we were next.  The rumor was that the very “kool-aid” they were drinking was donated to them by Synanon. (Strangely, the “kool aid” was artificially colored and sweetened so none of us kids drank it because it was so strange.  We always referred to it as either “green death” or “orange death”.Little did we know.)

Gratefully, Synanon did not end with the mass suicide of the residents, ala Jonestown or Waco, but the violence that did occur and grow out of the fanaticism brewed by the charismatic leader changed many people’s lives forever.  The fear of Trump is real because the consequences are grave.  Any thought or idea that Trump is just playing games is either denial or ignorance; there is no other way to put it.

The foundation of Trump’s persona is built on the “attack first”, put them on the defensive method.  There is an old story about Lyndon Johnson telling his adviser to report to the newspaper that his opponent was sleeping with farm animals.  The aid replied that there was no truth to the statement and Johnson replied, “I know, but let’s see him try to defend it.”  From his comments about women, minorities, disabled, Muslims, Mexicans, etc. to his snide “little Rubio” or “lying Ted”smears, his number one, go-to is to hit first and hit as low as possible.

Chuck was no different.  Just like Trump he knew how to read people with the clarity of a street smart cage fighter.  He would use their strengths to his advantage while incessantly hammering them on their “faults” (real or imagined) to keep them in a position of weakness.  Look how he treated Chris Christy the past couple of weeks, publicly humiliating him as Christy was busy kissing his ring and hoping for that AG job.  Nobody could challenge Chuck, just like Trump.  He was the king, he could “fire” anyone and bust them down to the dorms.  Those who came in as drug addicts or alcoholics were always and often reminded of this and told that would fall on their ass if they ever left (sowing fear).  Lifestylers with an education such as the Doctors and Lawyers were always called “Leather Elbows” in much of the same way the right refers to anyone with an education as “Elite” as if being educated were somehow a negative.   

Chuck built an amazing community which at one time helped a lot of people, in the way that I imagine some of Trump’s more successful ventures have done, but his oversized Ego and overwhelming Hubris got the better of him and destroyed everything that we had all dedicated our lives to.  That is what I see if Trump is continues to use this despicable playbook.  The monster he creates will consume the lives and liberties of many well meaning people because the fear, hate, racism, xenophobia, and sheer ignorance being harnessed by the Master Manipulator Donald Drumpf.    If it grows out of control, it will destroy our democracy.

The violence that has begun is not a coincidence.  I have seen it before and I can assure you that it will only escalate until someone dies and then perhaps it will already be too late.  Chuck used the very same tactics to get his followers to cross the line, it works every single time.  Like Trump, he started by creating  a common external enemy to unite his followers.  Like Trump he called them and taunted them and when they reacted he said to his minions, “see they hate us, they are going to hurt us, we need to do something about them.” Chuck didn’t have twitter or facebook, but he was certainly a Troll in modern parlance.   And just like Trump, Chuck inferred the kind of violence he wanted to see.  If you wanted to prove your loyalty to the cause you were going to take the initiative and get a “piece of flesh” in defense of your noble motives.   In Trumps case they are “rights” that the “other” has stolen and abused and you must defend yourself against this certain doom.

There is a famous tape where Chuck says to his audience that he wants to see “an Ear in a glass of alcohol on my desk.”  In a very bizarre parallel, he first he told people how successful he was and that he had made his money and was rich but that the “enemy” was threatening their future, just like Donald does.  Chuck would directly call his followers weak and lacking, while Trump inverts the equation by saying we are getting beaten all of the time (same inference).  When I first heard Donald say that in the old days, “people would be getting carried out in stretchers,” my heart stopped.  People ARE going to be carried out in stretchers, that is how this works.  Everyone trying to prove their strength and loyalty are going carry out his sick little fantasies and invent their own, and somebody is going to die.   Synanon was famously responsible for placing a de-rattled rattlesnake in the mailbox of Paul Morrantz, almost killing him and changing the course of his life forever.  He still suffers from that horrible incident to this day.  Phil Ritter was beaten within an inch of his life because of his refusal to back down to the bully Chuck Dederich, and the list goes on.

But it gets much worse.  The most startling and horrendous aspect of the violence that was fomented by Chuck’s manipulation was that it came to be directed against the children and others within the community.  The violent rhetoric could not be contained and directed only towards our enemies because it had become a tactic for dealing with problems.  Violence was the solution to any and all conflict where the “Community” wanted to impose its will.  Public beatings, spankings and other forms of terrifying humiliation and abuse, became the norm for both children and adults who got on the wrong side of the community.  Lost was the art of reasonable dialogue, in it’s place was pure vitriol and hatred.  Does this sound familiar to you, because it should.

To this day, I remember the faces of many of the abusers in Synanon like I saw them this morning.  Those are the same faces I saw heckling and spitting obscenities toward lawful protesters who oppose the heartbreakingly hateful message that Trump espouses.  The fear fueled fanaticism is the exactly the same as what I witnessed, and the results will be so as well.  Unless someone takes a stand, we shall all be responsible for the carnage.  Unfortunately for so many Synanon residents, nobody ever did stand up to Chuck, I pray that will not be the case with Trump.  

Trump is not a just a racist, misogynist, braggart, buffoon, he is a master manipulator that will hang us all with as much rope as we give him.  Take it from me.  I have seen it first hand.

 

Always Treat Ralph Nice

One very strange, thing I remember from Synanon comes from a line in one of the many songs that were often sung.  The line said, “and always treat Ralph nice.”  As a very young child of 8 or 9, I remember inquiring to a demonstrator what that meant.  “Who was Ralph?” I asked.  They told me that, Ralph was the name of Chuck’s penis.  It very matter-of-fact as if it were perfectly normal to be telling a kid this type of thing.  That doesn’t mean that Chuck was out there banging every nubile young thing in the commune.  He never engaged in any sexual behavior with minors that I know of.  it was just representative of the way in which sex was talked about and dealt with in public.  Now, he was not a fit man in the image of Adonis.  Rather he was a squat and portly man who was an alcoholic for 30 years before the commune and who enjoyed the good life as it’s dictator.  Like many before him, his body did not belie his bad habits.  The visual that I still remember getting as a child of somebody “Treating Ralph Nice” was something that I should never have gotten from a “Demonstrator” under any circumstances.  Yes, we were an experimental community, pushing the limits of society, but in many ways the directions that we took were juvenile and adolescent and in the parlance of the commune, they were “way past the money.”    I don’t consider myself a prude in any way, but there are certain things that children are not prepared mentally to process and that should be introduced during the ascendance into puberty, not when they should be playing make believe and enjoying the blissful innocence of youth.  So while some may disagree as to how out of line this really was, and believe me NOBODY questioned this, it happened and it always struck me as weird.

In fact, Synanon had an almost ridiculous level of openness when it came to matters of sex, but very little when it came to sexuality, another glimpse into CED’s prejudices shaping the community.That is to say, anything and everything that you can imagine about the act of sex was open to discussion, but all matters relating to LGBT issues and practices were strictly taboo.  There was an almost feverish need to prove that one was not a prude with Co-Ed showers and naked soaks in the communal hot tub.  It was not a nudist colony in any sense but there were places where you essentially had to be naked to enter.   The nudity eventually led to Nude Weight-Ins when everyone was determined to get “lean-normal” in a Biggest Loser sort of way.  Yet, while everyone in the community had seen you naked and knew exactly who you were “shacking up with” and perhaps how you performed in bed, gay men and women were not allowed to express themselves in the manner true to their nature.   Instead they were forced to find opposite sex partners and “act as if.”   The mantra was that Synanon was a “coupled community”, which meant that nobody was really allowed to be single and there were forums and ways through which people were hooked up and made to create a relationship.  Young adults starting at sixteen were allowed to marry in what was known as a “small M” marriage so that they could legally engage in sexual activity.  In this regard, Synanon had both an liberal attitude about sex and a lot of respect for the laws of the particular states in which we resided.  For some reason, while they played extremely fast and loose with the law in many instances the were extremely strict in this regard when it came to what was allowed in terms of sex.  And while some

As I mentioned in the post about the Synanon Game, intimate details regarding the sex lives of residents were discussed at length in games, long games, stews, trips, or whatever.  They might even be discussed on the Wire for god’s sake.  Things that you might never imagine hearing about anyone in today’s world were the norm in the community.  Even worse, your own personal sex life was somehow everyone else’s business.  Since you were technically not allowed to have sex in the dorms or other housing, not that it would be easy given all of the people around, you had to sign up for Guest Room.  A Guest Room was a place where people “Shacked Up” for a while before they got a formal Love Match.  The sign-up was public and the rooms were auspicious so everyone knew who was banging who and they talked all about it.  For some strange reason, I specifically remember people talking about bringing their douche bags and other such necessities along.  The day after my first visit to the Guest Room, every single person who I passed gave me wink or asked me a stupid question as if it were their business.  It was as if the “No Tell Motel” where all of the action happens was right in front of City Hall, and the list of people who frequented it was up on the wall in the Post Office.  But the public nature of everyone’s sexual experiences wasn’t limited to those who were going to the “Guest Room”.  At some point when I was about 10, a board was installed in a very prominent part of the shed which tracked the number of times people had sex in a day.  It was called “The Gold Star Chart” and it became something of a competition among certain residents.  Again, this may have been funny and OK for adults to relate to one another, but actually creating a chart and locating it directly in the path of every man, woman and CHILD as they came for their daily meals is once again way over the top.  First of all many children were coming into their own in terms of the interest in and desire for sex and this was obviously difficult to deal with if you didn’t have a girl friend or partner.  Secondly there were loads of newcomers and recently arrived delinquents who were obviously titillated by this bizarre practice and that certainly carried its own risks.   Whether or not the “Gold Star Chart” contributed to the many molestations and rapes that have been reported, nobody knows.  But clearly a community comprised of everything from infant children to hardened criminals which publicizes, and tracks sex to such a degree can expect abuses and transgressions on a scale which far exceeds any normal population of people.  In the end I would say that while many people, including myself, may have enjoyed this “Penthouse Forum” type of environment, the absurd level of candor was destructive in many ways and created an environment which led to a huge number of awful misdeeds.  For those that were not of the heterosexual persuasion, this must have been difficult beyond measure.

I can think of many people who “came out” after Synanon or actually left Synanon because being gay was not permitted.  In a backward, mid-western conservative mindset, being gay is a choice and that was how Synanon treated it.  But in reality, a certain percentage of any population is going to be gay, regardless of the race, age, etc.  It is as natural as the proverbial “Birds and bees”  and obviously something that is difficult to suppress.  I cannot tell you why being gay was prohibited, but it must have had a lot to do with Chuck’s ideas and sensibilities with regard to this.  There were many quite obviously gay men that were forced to enter into relationships with women, and I can assure you that many were not very comfortable with this.

Another group of people that certainly felt uncomfortable by the system were those that would otherwise be perennial bachelors or bachelorettes in any other setting.  I am not arguing that the community did not have a role to play in getting people to socialize or to develop relationships, but I am saying that there are limits as to how effectively anyone can play match-maker and that sexual relationships should be left to the individuals themselves.  I have always believed that this was contrary to nature and almost always led to ill conceived unions.  Maybe that is just my opinion, and I accept that but since I have had first hand experience in watching this happen and having been subject to it, I consider my views to at least be informed.   A very good example of this happened to me at aged 16.  Having “graduated” into the community at 15, I was expected to be “coupled” like all of the other adult Synanon members. Following a 6 month relationship which ended due to some generational differences which were difficult to reconcile, I found myself single.   As the holidays approached a Super Game was called and all of the single adults were called to the Home Place.  This was quite a collection of people from the recently split to the very hard to match, both young and old.  We were told that we had to find “Holiday Companions” so that we could have a partner to attend events during the season.  I remember distinctly a young man being yelled at over through the wall from a patch-in being encouraged and even forced to get together with a woman almost twice his age and very very dissimilar in character and nature.  She was different in almost every way and they were yelling that she must be quite a freak in bed because her appearance was so unique and different.  To his obvious chagrin, he was partnered off with her with every expectation that they would consummate their relationship in the Guest room during the holidays to find out just how wild she was and then hopefully get love matched so that neither of them would be single any longer.  In my case, I was partnered off with a prominent couple’s daughter, who although somewhat attractive, she was not at all my type.  In fact during the holidays we actually did kiss at which point I was quite sure that we weren’t right for each other.  Much to my horror, when a follow up game ensued several weeks later, I was being grilled about the relationship and was asked whether I had slept with her, or should I say, why I didn’t sleep with her.  In a scene too surreal to imagine, the actual parents of the young woman were screaming at me thought the patch in and asking why I didn’t “fuck her”.  “Didn’t I think she was beautiful? Didn’t I want to screw her?” they demanded.   Even at the time I could not believe how insane these people were when it came to sex and getting people “shacked up”.  Believe me, I was always very active with the girls, but I preferred a more natural approach which included a basic attraction.  The very idea of trying to screw your way into liking people is yet another one of those things about the commune that nobody questioned and that I never believed in.

 

 

 

 

 

The Game

The Synanon Game was a ceremony where individuals sat in a circle and ostensibly hashed out their differences.  It was always described to us a means of Catharsis.  The rules that we were told as children were simple.   You needed eight or more people to play unless it was an emergency game (see below). You could not touch anyone, threaten physical violence, and you could not make racist comments or statements.  Everything else was fair game.  You could lie, exagerate, tell stories, swear, yell, cry, laugh or whatever else you pleased.  And you could do so to anyone, including your parents or other adults.   The game began with a ceremony which essentially said, “There is in the game and there is out of the game.  Everything that occurs in the game, stays in the game.  The Mobius Loop that we are about to put around our necks represents the dichotomy between the in and out of the game, when we put it on, we are in the game, and when we take it off, the game is over and everything stays here.”  Different people might recite different words, and metaphors of other dichotomies in life and in nature could be used to illustrate the point, but the essence was the same.

The rules of the game were supposed to be the consistent across the community, regardless of the venue or occasion and irrespective of the participants.  You see, there were a host of different manifestations of the ceremony.  There were the standard weekly games which happened on Game night.  On this night, hundreds of people would come to the Shed (main dining and receiving building or area) and would be randomly assigned to groups of eight or more and sent off to rooms to conduct their game.  There were spontaneous or emergency games where people would call an immediate game to sort out something which could not wait until the next scheduled game.  Profanity and other forms of displays of anger were forbidden “on the floor” in the community and could only be done in the game, so sometimes when tempers flared people would gather the nearest residents and have a game.  Sometimes games would be held that lasted 24 hours or more which were called “stews”.   The idea being that when you were extremely exhausted and dissipated, your guard would come down and real truth telling and healing would occur.  At one time during my childhood a 100 hour dissipation was conducted.  At this ceremony it was not a requirement that everyone stay up the entire time but during a normal stew or long game you were absolutely prohibited from leaving.  In the waning days of Synanon there was the Super Game which was on camera and broadcast throughout the community through our close-circuit television / radio network.  These were held at regular intervals and broadcast from the Homeplace.

As children, we started playing games together almost as soon as we could talk, and normally did not play many games with the adults.  Most of the time there would be adults on hand, but we had lot’s of games with just our peers.  I am not so sure now if this was constructive or not, since the weaker kids could be bullied very easily.  A standard game tactic was that someone would raise and indictment on another and then other people would pile on by supporting the validity of the issue at hand and pointing out similar experiences they had witnessed.    It was very easy for some kids to be the constant brunt of criticism and indictment and it sometimes took intervention by a demonstrator to redirect the game toward others.  Generally kids games were loud shouting matches which were probably not very valuable except for the utility in teaching your people the fine art of swearing.  I would wager that it swayed many of my peers’ behavior toward the raucous and rash to this very day.  Be that as it may, it was a part of our life and we didn’t really think about it too much except for the dread we had for the long games.  But as time went by, things began to change.  You see, the game in it’s original incarnation and the way it was taught to us was soon morphed into a means of coercion and control by the upper classes and the rules as we knew them no longer had any meaning.

I remember with absolute clarity the very second in which I realized that things had changed and that our community was nothing more than a GIANT hypocrisy.  I was about twelve years old and living at the Strip property in what was known as the Strip School.  Around 1981, the community started a small school consisting mostly of the children of the board of directors at the Strip Property, just over seven miles from the Homeplace.  The majority of the children in the school remained at the Walker Creek property in Marin County.  Anyhow, the day that my eyes were finally opened to the pharisaism went like this.   A visit by the Chairman of the Board was announced which meant several days of cleaning and organizing so that we could put on a good show for the royalty.  Many of us kids were playing a game when the tour finally reached our location and in a seemingly rare moment, the Chairman decided to join the game with the kids.  This was presented as the utmost honor and we were made to believe that we were VERY lucky to have this happen to us.   The game was stopped and a started again with a proper ceremony and she began to talk to us, but I cannot remember what was said.  I do remember very clearly though that Jokton Speert, a child of no more than 8 years old, decided that he didn’t like the bullshit he was hearing and decided to voice an opinion about it.   Of course, according to the rules as they were conveyed to us this was entirely acceptable behavior.  After all, he was not threatening, touching or using racism, he was simply shouting and swearing at another participant in the game which should have been OK.   However, this was not just any participant, and of course, this was not what anybody in power desired or expected.  Yet it happened because true to the purity of children he was not jaded by the artificial constructs of hierarchy, he was just playing the game and those were the rules that he had learned since birth.

The reaction was swift and clear.  He was literally yanked from the game and told that he was out of his mind to speak to the venerable Chairman in this most disrespectful manner.  After all, didn’t he know that she was blessing us with her presence and was gracious enough to join our petty little game.   Who were we to speak that way to someone so revered.  Yet, Jokton did not accept this easily or almost at all.  He began to shout that he was allowed under the rules to do so and that they could not shut him up.  After all he had played the game his whole life.  He knew what had been stated countless times.  He was only 8 years old but he knew his rights and he was not at all prepared to give them up.  Naturally, this did not hold any water with the demonstrators or anyone in the royal entourage and he was summarily removed from the room and punished in some manner.  It was a simple incident in my life and one that I remember well.  I have been told that there were incidents before such as the infamous Dad’s Root Beer episode where Chuck poured an entire can of soda on someone that dared to game him, but in my little life, this was the moment that I realized that nobody in the royal circle practiced what they preached.  The soldiers may have been loyal and faithful but the officers were corrupt beyond redemption.

Long games were particularly hard for us as children.  While these may have played a pivotal role in breaking down the egos of hardened addicts or alienated squares, it wreaked havoc with my mind in particular and was always viewed by the children as a form of pure torture which was very, very difficult to endure.  Long games could be stand alone events, or part of a “Massive Dose” (explained in more detail in a future post but essentially was a week long intensive learning session which included a variety of events and rituals).  The general time frame was 24 hours.  I may be mistaken but it is very difficult for anyone to stay up for 24 hours straight.  It is almost unfathomable for children as young as 8 and 10 years old to do so.  But there was absolutely no choice.  You either stayed awake or you were forced to stand up in the corner.  The sound of children crashing into walls or shelves because they literally fell asleep standing up still rings in my head.  Yet even this did not buy anyone a reprieve and the culprit was not allowed to sit down or more humanely be allowed to find a bed somewhere and sleep.  No, they were forced to continue standing until such time as they had demonstrated their ability to stay awake.  Only then were they allowed to sit down.  In order avoid being “that guy” we took extreme measure to stay awake including drinking coffee or very dark black tea, drawing or doodling, going to the bathroom to rinse your face, biting your lip or tongue, and a whole gambit of others.

Now, when it comes right down to it, that was not nearly the worst part of a long game.  The absolute worst part of the long games was when some lunatic brain-washed Synanon Zealot Demonstrator coming into the game around 2 or 3 in the morning, when all of the yelling and swearing had petered out and people were getting deep into something which was coming out at a nice, even, peaceful pace, and raising holy hell.  Just when you thought that you were going to make it through the night and were going to somehow escape without being permanently scarred from the experience, some perky, well rested and freshly bathed freak would rip the whole lid off your fantasy and start howling and degrading you in the most personal and uncomfortable way possible.  I can honestly say that there were times when I would wish all sorts of evil on these people because what they were doing was something so far removed from decency and normal child rearing that it actually could have been considered criminal.  And we knew it.  To these freaks it was an experiment and it was making us better people.  To me it was just like what I had read the Vietcong had done to American POW’s, and once I actually said so to a demonstrator.  Boy did that cost me.

As we got older we began to be included in the Adult games.  I would say we started participating somewhere between 12 and 15 years old, I cannot pin down the actual date.  Suffice it to say the the 12-15 years olds were considered Young Adults who were in their last stages of adolescence before becoming a full fledged community members at the age of 15 and giving up school and every other childhood dream along with it.  In fact after the age of 12 we had serious apprenticeships in the trades from 7am to noon everyday before going off to school.  So we were treated as though we could handle that type of responsibility and conversation only normally afforded to actual adults.  That meant that when we were in games with adults there were no holds barred.  Everything and anything that virtually every member of modern society would refrain from saying in front of children was fair game.  For example, if a man and woman were discussing their sex life and getting into very graphic and specific detail about the things they liked or didn’t like and things that happened between them, they would not even think twice that there was a minor or much less a pre-teen in the room.  If an ex-junkie was getting down and dirty talking about their most heinous crime or sin, that was alright too.  That was the way the community worked.  For better or for worse, we were privy to the most intimate details imaginable between people.  These were things that people normally reserve for their Doctor, their Shrink, their Lawyer or their Priest, but NEVER their kids and ABSOLUTELY never someone else’s kids. But that was the way it was.  Worse yet, I can remember vividly my friends telling me things about my own parents that were just not things that anyone would ever know or discuss.  They simply wouldn’t, either out of embarrassment or just plain decency.  So, not only did you hear things you didn’t want to about random people, you also had to hear about those closest to you even if you didn’t want to know.

I am not sure when they started the Super Game, but I would imagine it was just the natural evolution and distortion of the game that resulted from those in power removing themselves from it and playing it by their own rules.  You see, the Super Game was the ultimate example of everything that was wrong with Synanon.  Firstly the Super Games were always held at the homeplace and that meant that everyone was to consider it important and would listen intently on the wire.  Being invited or called to a Super Game usually meant you were going to be toasted, grilled, or somehow manipulated emotionally because the Super Game was not like other games that members held among themselves.  Rather it was contrived and orchestrated to make certain things public and other things happen.  It was not a simple cathartic ceremony that people could use to better themselves.  It was a powerful tool that was wielded deftly in the hands of the board in order to make examples, create the old Carom Shot and to quite literally ruin people’s lives.  I can think of numerous incidents where people were actually yanked out of these games, stripped of their belongings including their eye glasses and driven down the road to be left to fend for themselves after they had spent a good part of their life and all of their means supporting the insanity.  And yet often these orders were made by people who were not even in the game and moreover, they were not even in the ROOM!  You see, these nimrods had dreamed up the “Patch In” whereby members of the board would sit around eating lavish meals and drinking, while people sweated for their lives in the Super Game, and would push people’s buttons and pull their strings.   And the absolute worst part of it was that nobody was allowed to speak back to the “wall” (their voices were “patched-in” on a speaker box on the wall).

So you see, this was no longer the game of our youth.  This was even worse than the one that Jokton had protested so vociferously as an 8 year old.  It was directly out of the Wizard of Oz with a bunch a half-crazed, fully drunk lunatics barking at people through a box on the wall and not allowing them any way to defend themselves against the onslaught.  They would quite literally have people’s entire lives hanging in the balance and laugh and make fun of their stupidity, and then order some thugs to uproot them and toss them out like a filthy old sponge.  It was truly a sight to behold and one of the real reasons that Chris and I were intent on barging in and telling them how utterly ridiculous a spectacle they had become.   The integrity of the entire community was lost because the game had been corrupted beyond recognition.  No longer could good people settle differences.  The game had become a vicious tool for the powerful to keep everyone uncertain, uneasy and about to step on that proverbial Banana Peel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always Under Suspicion

My 11 year old and I were talking yesterday and she mentioned that when a teacher or parent called her name she immediately went through a list of the things that could be considered wrong, wondering exactly why her name was being called.  In essence, her first reaction was  to think that perhaps she had done something, so she would rack her brain to try and figure it out what it was before she was confronted with it.  I believe this is very natural and something that I also remember as a child.  Any time an authority figure singles you out there is an immediate cataloging of ones behavior to be sure that you haven’t done anything that could be construed as against the rules.  If your brain could come up with nothing, you could probably assume that there was another reason that you were called upon.

In Synanon, this did not apply.   I witnessed and experienced many occasions where the mere accusation carried the same weight as a guilty sentence.  In fact, I can honestly say that I remember very vividly being petrified that someone would “think” I did something wrong because that was just as bad as actually having done it.   Never mind the idea that you could prove your innocence, the powers that be would never believe it anyway.  I can think of several occasions where confessions were literally beaten out of people while the real perpetrator sat in the room watching.  The most glaring example I can remember was when Tony Loza had the absolute daylights beat out of him for allegedly stealing some apples.  When the apples were later found to have been misplaced it was already too late for Tony had already paid the highest price.  Another time, David Akey and I were accused of writing “Fuck You” on the wall.  And while I would have loved to have been the one to express this sentiment I certainly did not have the courage to do so at the time.  In this case, Jerry Burzin made us stand in a shower room for two full days.  We were not allowed to sit down and we were not allowed to talk.  I remember the patterns in the formica walls to this day.  While this was one of those rare cases where a demonstrator was actually taken to task for their abuse, this related more to the fact of who David’s parents were, and not anything else, for the accusations and punishments for perceived violations continued.  Another very famous example is the case of the fire in the play barn.  All of the children believed that Kristian Wattle had done it but a confession was beat out of Michael Navarro.  They took him into a back room at the Spa as we sat on the floor and got the answer they wanted.    Another time, there was a screen door that was broken in Bunkhouse C.  Nobody copped out to it, so the demonstrator’s rounded us up in the playbarn in morning and grilled us.  When no confession was forthcoming we were all sent up the mountain to the second water barrel.  I believe we had to make that jog about 20 times that day while being grilled in the time between runs.  Nobody ever did find out who did it, but we were all punished.  Most of us thought it was a cow or dear as there were so many around just behind the bunkhouse and we were convinced that if someone in the group had actually done it they would have spilled the beans after so much torture.

The idea that you could be punished for something that you did not do carried a lot of weight with me at the time.  I distinctly remember being terrified that anyone would accuse me of anything because it was the same in effect as actually having done it and the punishments were severe.  That meant that I tried to keep my nose as clean as possible, however given the strictness of the rules that wasn’t exactly easy.  One of our strategies for this was to disappear.  We spent a great deal of energy in the woods building hidden forts that no other kids knew about so that we could escape whenever possible.  If you were gone, you couldn’t be accused, drafted, late, punished or anything else.  You could actually just play and fantasize and act like a kid for a while, even if it was only temporary and fleeting.  In college I studied Political Science and remember that there was a prison in Uruguay where nobody got out with their sanity.  They way they did this was through a combination of rules changes, sleep deprivation, schedule changes and punishment for infractions (implied or real).   For some crazy reason this resonated exactly with me.  They were being punished for breaking rules that had just changed, we were at a real risk of being punished similarly for things we actually did not do.  They were sleep deprived and made to always feel that they were powerless as were we.  They were confused, disoriented and otherwise mentally compromised by an ever changing routine and having nothing they could count on on turn to, we were similarly put in this exact space.  Pulling us from school for a couple months of Back to Basics comprised of marching and back breaking labor, moving us from property to property, keeping us away from our parents or any other perceived ally were all ways that they made our lives living hell.  Chuck used to say, and it was prominently featured on the walls, “You people have one foot in the future and another on a Banana Peel.”  Chuck and his sick band of followers made sure there was a Banana Peel under every step  you took so there was never any complacency or comfort.

Another manner of keeping people on their tows and always looking over their backs was the idea and practice of the Positive Contract.  In the beginning that meant that nobody would allow anyone else to break the rules.  It is coupled with the idea from the military that everyone is responsible for everyone else, so if anyone misbehaves and nobody owns up to it, then everyone is punished.   But that idea can work in a lot of ways and some of them are quite terrifying for young kids and adults alike.  The first is that you are always aware of the fact the you are being watched all of the time which is always disconcerting.  This may not sound like anything problematic because you would be fine as long as you were not breaking the rules.  But the second aspect is where it gets ugly.  The second aspect is people implicating others falsely in order to not be punished, or making things up entirely to get other kids into trouble.  I was once hit opened handed in the face so hard that I didn’t realize what happened until I hit the ground because my dorm-head had accused me of insubordination or something else even more trivial.  The bottom line is that nobody felt comfortable because anyone could turn against you.

 

Class Structure

There are many communities in the world where the goal of the organization is an egalitarian lifestyle where everyone has the same worth and voice; Synanon was not one of them.  Chuck started the commune to help addicts, abandoned that plan and tried to claim it was a religion, but ultimately turned it into a cult.  He was the dictator.  He was known as the “Old Man” or the “Founder” and his deification was complete by the time my parents moved us all in, with his quotes prominently displayed on the walls around the facilities.  Whatever he said was the word of god and any dissension was dealt with swiftly and decisively by him or one of his henchmen. Chuck acted like some type of thug or “Don” that controlled an organization that was above every law but that of his making.  In the end that included the classic tactics of intimidation and abuse on the enemies of the organization as well as those within it.  Former residents were literally beaten into comas for simply trying to get their children out of the commune or because they visited without previous notification.

Chuck held a daily court called the “Think Table” and his words were beamed across the land to every facility so that the people could follow his edicts and understand his thought process.  He was charismatic and strangely believable.  He had the ability to captivate people which was his gift and everyone else’s nightmare.   By the mid 70’s he had already made a series of mind boggling decisions but it would get worse after 1977, due to his fall from the proverbial wagon.  It went from the bizarre to the surreal.  In the end it was recordings of his rants in “Court” that became his downfall and that of others that attempted to conceal his message through the destruction of evidence.   Chuck reigned supreme.

Directly beneath Chuck were the Board of Directors.   They were the “court” and Chuck was the king.  And I believe everyone is familiar with type of heirarchy that represents.  The “Court” were a sounding board only, and a way to have his insanity validated, but his was always the final word.  By constantly badgering and humiliating those that seemed to be rising in power, he could keep them in check.  Sometimes he was subtle, while other times he would loudly and publicly shame people into doing his bidding, however heinous. Even after he was convicted and barred from having a direct role in the governance as a result of the attempted murder of Paul Morantz , which he ordered, we all knew that he still ruled the roost through his very young and malleable daughter who he installed as the de facto Chairman of the Board.

The “Court” very much acted like one.  One of their favorite past-times came directly out of the playbook of Monarchy as they would “Tour” facilities where the “commoners” lived.  Just as fake villages were set up for Catherine II by Potemkin in order to mask the horrific reality, so too the the Demonstrators and Facility Managers spend endless time cleaning and preening for that illusive visit which sometimes did not even materialize.  When the “Court” did arrive they breezed through with an swagger of arrogance and authority equally as strange as the reverence paid to them by the plebs.    That is because many of those in power were simply mouthpieces who had no skill or intrinsic value to the community save for their appointment and Chuck’s ability to control them.  The real work was done at the level of the commoner while the “Court” played make believe with other peoples lives, planning and scheming ways to manipulate and control.  Their lack of connection with the plight of those in the community was just as vast as that of any monarch.  And the euphemisms and serious distortion of language and meaning was Orwellian in all regards.  After all, we were the “Blessed Children” and as we were made to sing, “We are the rich kids of Synanon”, as we shared underwear and overalls from communal closets or later lived in camping tents during the winter months in the Seirra’s due to lack of housing.

The Court was based at the Homeplace which has been described by various media outlets in the past as his personal Estate or Lair.  It was luxurious and no expense was spared.  Cadillacs, convertibles, pools, fine woodwork and food were all a part of life at the Homplace, a quadrillion miles apart from the world in which we lived.  Later it was booze and entertainment to the degree that would make the Brat Pack proud.  To be invited to the Homeplace, even to wash dishes, was considered an honor to be cherished and an opportunity to be seized.  By the end, if Chuck wanted three naked girls to deliver cocktails to him while he sat around the pool in the buff, it would be done.  Nothing was really out of the question and NOBODY questioned Chuck; at least nobody who survived to tell about it in the community.   He was every bit the Banana Republic Dictator as he was the Emperor with no clothes, and nobody tells either the truth.  In the human condition, this is always fatal.  When we believe our own bullshit and withdrawal from feedback or criticism, our decisions get worse and worse.  It is inevitable.  And so it was with Chuck.

Every property had a Property Head and often they were reasonable people, but sometimes not.  Within each facility their was a definite hierarchy, and those at the top had all of the trappings luxury as well, including very nice housing, staff, cars, preferred tables and even money and “liquor licenses” in the end.  Although they preached an equality among all, the practice was for from that.  Chuck knew very well how the Military and other organizations grant merit and prestige and it does not have to be money.   You can change the decoration on a uniform from a leaf to a star and the person would feel entirely different, and much more powerful.   A leaf to a star; it did not have to be financial in nature.  Chuck could keep the lion’s share of the financial rewards for himself if he simply doled out titles and assigned the nicest tables and houses to those he wanted to favor.  Similarly, he was very quick to rip those things from a person if they slipped on that ole’ banana peel that he kept laying in front of everyone.  In this way, he kept everyone in line.

In addition to the people with formal titles, there were others in the community that were highly favored and lived a very different life from the rest of us.  Those were the families or people who donated large sums of money to Synanon.  There was nothing that they could not purchase or obtain.  Motorcycles, cars, trips to Europe, even yachting around the Caribbean were are standard for this select group.  They would take the unimaginable trips to exotic places and come back to show slides to the peons.  And Chuck never messed with them.  As long as they had money to donate, they were royalty.  My parents sold their house and gave all of their money to Synanon.  These people were allowed to have millions in outside accounts as long as they gave some to the Old Man.

Ultimately, Synanon was not ever an egalitarian society as was preached.  It was a highly stratified and class based dictatorship which revolved around the whims and desires of Chuck and nobody else.  Those at the lower levels felt privileged even to work for the royalty.  They felt special just to be able to be near the “Old Man”.  Such was his ability to charm, manipulate, intimidate and essentially “Brain Wash” the residents.

I saw a video once where Chuck said roughly, “Synanon is an experimental community.  If I knew where it was going, I wouldn’t do it.”  Very prophetic words considering the double entendre.  The obvious way of viewing this is that if it was all scripted then it wouldn’t be worth doing.  The other more ominous and glaring interpretation obviously insinuates that if he had a conscience and knew the atrocities that he would eventually bring about then he would (should) not do it.

Humiliation as Treatment

As everyone can attest, being the brunt of embarrassment or humiliation in front of one’s direct peers is among the most difficult things in life to endure.  People will do almost anything to avoid it, including lying and cheating.  Chuck Dederich knew this.  He used it to masterful perfection.  It was one of his core methods for control and manipulation of people.  Who would risk breaking a “Cardinal Rule” or other tenant of the community if they risked being exposed for this in the most public and demeaning way?

There were three main ways that Chuck used humiliation to not only discipline, but to control.  The first was the direct use of costume and hair changes and the addition of signs and slogans to highlight one point or another.  In the beginning men’s heads were shaved and women were forced to wear stocking caps as signal to the community that they had committed an offense.  Those that had “Split” (left the commune) and returned actually had a T shaved into the top their heads for further demeaning recognition.    This evolved into a host of other punishments including costumes and signs for public debasement.  A good example of this is a not-so-fond memory of being dressed in a diaper over plaid knickers (I don’t remember the top part of the outfit, perhaps because it was covered), and wearing a massive sandwich board sign which read, “I am a Baby, ask me to run my story,” as a result of a crying incident that happened when I was about 9 or 10.  I certainly don’t remember what I was crying about, but I do remember the punishment.  I was forced to walk around with this outfit and sign for days and tell everyone that I encountered, “my dirty rotten story.”  Now I don’t know about you, but kids cry, that is what they do sometimes.  Adults do too.  But we were supposed to be growing up and getting ready for the community, there was no place for that at all, so the punishment was heinous.

The second way that Chuck liked to use humiliation and degradation of people was to always mention people’s past when you wanted to get them in line.  If they were a former addict or alcoholic it was easy to remind them that without Synanon (Read: Chuck), you would be dead or dying.  And if you were to leave the community, the same fate would befall you.  He would do so loudly and prominently and his tactics were certainly followed by those in management positions.  On the other hand, if you were a square, like my father or many others, he would call you a bureaucrat or an outcast and remind you that you had failed to do well on the outside world and that is why you were here.  Even if you were a doctor or held an advanced degree, he would still find some way to belittle you.  He used to call those with higher degrees, “Leather Elbows” and it was not an endearing term.  It was a way to remind them that they had sought out something greater than themselves due to some failure to get along in the outside world and they had found the community, (Read: Chuck).

The third way that Chuck used humiliation to control and otherwise coerce is through the material world, including clothes, housing, dining, cars, etc.  Those in the highest positions obviously had the best tables, the best housing, access to the best cars, while those just moving in had access to a broom, some overalls and a place to work.  Any notion of an old fashioned egalitarian commune would be astronomically out of place.  There was a clear cut hierarchy of structure.  Chuck surrounded himself by people that he could manipulate and when he couldn’t he had them removed and dropped off at the nearest town or simply on the side of the rode.  Once and a while someone was courageous enough to just say no and walk away but that was very rare.  Most of the time, if he sensed a whiff of power accumulating or dissension brewing he would banish the offender to another property (Usually leaving the Homeplace, Chuck’s personal Estate), or to a much lower level of housing and table position.  Chuck understood power.  Simply removing the title and placing someone at the newcomer’s table and sleeping back in dorms was enough to keep everyone in line.  Nobody wants to lose what they have, especially after such hard work to achieve it.  He would keep people always on the edge with the idea that at any time he could rip your world from beneath you and make your life a living hell.  He seemed to enjoy it particularly when it was done to squares.  In my memory I always used to think of my Dad as the human yo-yo.  On the board, off the board.  Beat up in games publicly.  Moved to the strip, back to the homeplace, etc. etc.  Chuck kept everyone thinking that they had better kiss his ass or they would not like the consequences.

I think it is important to not that the idea of “accountability” can be seen at the route of this humiliation process and I think we would all agree that accountability leads to better results in human interactions.  The old paradigm of the “Tragedy of the Commons” has shown us that without proper accountability someone will always abuse the “commons” and take more than their share.  We have seen this today the excesses of government, war and corporate rape of the planet that is allowed to continue due to a complete lack of transparency and accountability.  But Chuck took it way too far.  When you are setting policy that allows a 9 or 10 year old to march around for days in a sign wearing diapers, there is no doubt in the world that you are being abusive.  You cannot treat a child like a reformed drug addict unless you want the child to become one.  You cannot break people down so much that they lose their sense of bearing and place, and of self worth.  Facing humiliation, people would go along with almost anything that Chuck could dream up, and his dreams were made of the worst fruit.   It is what we would call “Way past the money,” if anyone had had the courage to do so.  There is not a single doubt in my mind that these incidents left scars on those that endured them.  They did for me.

 

Corporal Punishment

In 1972, when my parents decided to make the leap, sell their house, donate all of their money to Synanon and put my older brother and I into the school, the community was very overtly a pacifist organization.    This aligned perfectly with my parents’ ideas about violence.  In fact, my mother made the extra step of having us baptized in on of the only churches recognized as non-violent by the United States government, despite the fact that she was not a practicing Christian.  Their vision was that Bert and I would have a way to avoid serving in an unjust war like the one they were witnessing in Southeast Asia at the time.  My father had received deferments as a result college enrollment, then graduate school enrollment and finally children.  While he was fortunate enough to not have served, they were not going to take chances on this for us.  In addition, Synanon represented a counter-balance to the overwhelming displays of violence by the our government both domestically and internationally.

Although the Synanon Game itself had an element of violence, there were specific rules against threats of physical violence and actual touching.  This was enforced both in the game and “on the floor” as we said in those days, so you were led to believe that your physical being would not be violated.   Although this myth was shattered for me within months of my arrival as a result of the molestation that occurred, I remember the use of humiliation and public scorning rather than actual violence to coerce those toward better behaviors and conformity with the rules.  In those days, men would have their heads and facial hair shaved, or be made to wear costumes and signs to show everyone the error of their ways.  Women would be made to cover their heads with stocking caps which was a glaring sign to all that they had broken the rules.  However, physical abuse directed from above and integrated into the methodology did not exist…until one day it did.

One of the clearest memories I have of the switch happened one day at a dinner table in the Walker Creek shed.  I am not sure what year, but I believe I was about eight or nine.  I noticed a piece of paper with writing on it, but what caught my eye were the words clearly written, “Corporal Punishment”.  I was not sure what this meant, so I found a dictionary and looked it up.  From Webster we learn the definition as it reads today.  I imagine that what I read was very similar and equally chilling:

1:  punishment applied to the body of an offender including the death penalty, whipping, and imprisonment

2:  punishment administered by an adult (as a parent or a teacher) to the body of a child ranging in severity from a slap to a spanking

All of a sudden there was a palpable realization and distinct fear of the ramifications of this memo.  Every time we were called to task on something or had broken the rules, however slightly, we now ran the risk of physical bodily harm and because I had read these words in the notes of my so-called “Demonstrator”, it was clear to me at that time that things had changed.  I can honestly still remember the fear that I carried from that moment forward that any deviation from the rules could mean a beating.  That was one of those ruptures in life where everything after that point was different from the way it had been before and it had no chance of returning to the way it was.  Even more frightening to me at the time was that the words were written on the paper.  Chuck used to always say ” It’s all done with words,” and the power that these particular words held was amazing.  They represented a fundamental shift in the policy and ideology of the community.  They also demonstrated that this was not coming from the school or those that ran it, but rather from those at the top.  However, this was only the seed of the violent fruit that would dominate the politics and policies of Synanon until it closed.

The most egregious abuses I witnessed were not leveled at me, however, I did face my fair share.  I once was slapped open-handed by Buddy Jones with such force that I hit the ground before I knew he had hit me. The crime in this case was that my dorm head had told him I was not listening.  The rings on his fingers did nothing to lesson the blow.  Chris Benton often spanked us for being late for class.  He liked to use a custom made paddle that was long and slender and full of holes.  As a Carpenter and psychopath he must have experienced a perverse pleasure in crafting using this instrument of violence, for he wielded it with apparent glee.  He also made certain that your pants were down to your knees so that he could beat your actual skin which was hugely embarrassing in front of a room full of children,  and even more-so for the girls I believe.  I remember an incident where he was punishing Nicole Spisack for something and made here strip nude from the waist down in front of the entire school before he spanked her.  I still remember the helplessness and fear on her eight year old face.

 There were also the thugs around the community that could be summoned such as the time that Joe Musico was asked to beat me up at the Strip School.  I can’t remember the offence but remember that I was grateful for the Judo classes that the now-violent community had been giving us because I was knocked down so violently that in order to avoid head trauma I rolled out of it and to my feet.  Joe seemed to like this for whatever reason.  There were many other cases like this in my life, but I was pretty smart and knew how to avoid the wrath of the man, so I was fortunate.  There were many that were not.  Terri Haberman used to beat Stephanie Sclafanie’s legs until they were black and blue because she could not feel her bottom due to the fact that her congenital spina bifida had rendered those nerves useless.  I still remember the very sick feeling I always had when I saw this.  It almost makes me cry today.  Chris Benton once beat Tony Loza up so badly that we heard him screaming and crying as he was slammed into the walls and doors of the vestibule in the Maze at Walker Creek.  He was accused of stealing some apples from a visiting kid.  The kid later found his apples where he himself had put them, but no apology was ever made to Tony for the violence he was subjected to, nor to those of us that witnessed it.  Another time I remember Rod Mullen slamming a boy to the floor and kicking him repeatedly in the ribs as he lay screaming there.  In reality, those that were less fortunate took the brunt of the punishment.  If they had parents or another protector in the community they stood a much better chance.  Those of us who had allies, or were smart enough to follow all of the insane rules, got through mostly unscathed, but what we witnessed was enough to change all of our lives forever.

Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that violence is never the answer.  As in War, it only produces losers.  There are no winners.  When children are being systematically abused, beaten, sleep deprived, made to live in tens in the snow, etc. etc. etc. that amounts to gross abuse.  Period. Like other children, we did not get to choose our parents or our place of birth.  But unlike people in a greater society, there was no Child Protective Services or some other advocacy group to turn to.  We were alienated in the heart of the countryside with almost no contact with the outside world.  Even it we had known about CPS or any other option it is unlikely that we would have risked the blow-back that such a call would have elicited.  Nor did we have access to any means of communication.  So that was our world.  It was violent, unpredictable, filled with thugs and villains, and there was no way out.

One of my last experiences with community violence was a night where Chris Cook and I decided to try and run away.  We had been listening to the wire for hours while the people in the Super-Game talked badly about us kids.  Never mind that they had relegated us to living in tents of our own making miles from the center of the community.  Never mind that we were often guilty of nothing more than “rolling our eyes” or not being “enthusiastic” enough.  No, they were talking about all types of things that they were going to do to us and we knew their playbook well.  Back to Basics was the mantra, but pure hell was the reality to come.  You see, the adults had entered the world of salaries, alcohol, and private residences.  The kids were a thorn in the side of their party, so we were marginalized and demonized.  Never mind the rank hypocracy, it was all the kids fault.  We had already been ordered to shave each other’s heads twice that same day because our hair was way too long at 1 inch, so when we heard this banter from the wire we got scared, and we got angry.  What the fuck were these people talking about.  We obeyed every rule practically all of the time, we woke at dawn to jog and exercise, worked, did chores, etc.  We KNEW we were not the problem, but were terrified about the escalation of the conversation and how badly our lives were going to suck the next day.  Previously they had taken us out of school for months to dig ditches and clean creek beds and to march endlessly in lines on the runway, so we had good idea what to expect.  So in a blast of emotion and fury, we each packed backpack and hit the road.

There had been a huge brush fire that night in the mountains and Synanon ran the largest volunteer fire department in the area which meant there were a huge number of trucks and cars on the road responding to the fire, not to mention several that eventually were looking for us.  So our seven mile walk to the Home Place from the Strip probably took five or six hours since we were constantly forced to duck under the barbed wire fence and into hiding.  Our original plan was to somehow make our way to the nearest town and call Chris’s father Ron.  He was sure that Ron would get us money for a bus ticket or whatever.  But as the night wore on our plan changed.  As we talked we realized that someone needed to tell these fucking adults just how crazy they were.  They were drinking every night, banishing the children, thinking only of sales and money and then blaming the most well-behaved children in the world for being out-of-hand.  That is how we felt and we were going to tell them.  Our plan was to enter the property and go directly up to the Game Lab and say our piece on the wire for all to hear, but when we arrived the late our meant that the game was over and only security was around.  Arnette Jamison met us as we walked on the property, and typical of the mooks that Chuck kept around he threatened us, told us he was going to kick our asses and then brought us to the connect where we were put in two chairs to await our fate.  In short order Jady and Larry arrived with Herma I believe and began the lecture us.  What ingrates we were they said.  We were the richest kids in the world, we were told.  At one point during all of this, Larry chimed in.  Chris quickly told him to shut up.  “You are just a shadow” Chris said, uttering the purist truth ever told but sealing our violent fate.

About an hour later we were picked up in a car by Wendel Stamps and Ron Raymond, the trend being clear.  Violence, force, or threats of such were the manner in which we got conformity in the community.  These two were sent to remind us of this.  A long slow drive back to the strip included me telling them that I could simply refuse to comply with their wishes if I wanted to and they would be powerless to compel me.  They could not make be work or jog, or anything else if I simply refused.  They sat their silently as I sowed my fate.  They would get their compliance.  They knew that for certain.

When we arrived we were taken up to the Boeing which was also our classroom and meeting room at the time.  We were sat in chairs and confronted by Buddy Jones, Brooks Carder, Bert Carder, and Ron Raymond and Chris’s mother Lori.  They began to lecture us and at one point Chris seemed to be wearing a smirk, or so the thugs believed, and that was not acceptable at all.  He was ripped from his chair and Buddy held his hands, one of Chris’s in each of Buddy’s.   He began to slap / punch Chris with one hand as he held the others, alternating from left hand to right hand.  Chris probably took about 10 or fifteen blows at which point they sat him back down.  “Are you ready to take on your father,” someone asked.  “Not yet,” I replied, at which point I was knocked from my chair with a blow from my dad.  I am not sure if this is where my shiner came from that I was wearing the next day because what happened next defied belief.  They told us we were going to shave each others heads!  As I already mentioned, we had been forced to cut our hair twice already that day.  But being that we had no option, I grabbed the clippers and began to cut.  But the clippers were old and over-used and would not cut at all.  They were just pulling Chris’s hair out.  I impatiently mentioned that the clippers were not working and that by the way we had already cut our hair twice that day.  Either my tone or my message were not well taken because at that point I found myself brutally knocked to the floor.  There was someone sitting on my legs and someone on my torso and someone else administering a beating as I yelled and screamed.  I can’t imagine what those on the outside must have heard or thought, but when I awoke the next day, my eye was black, my ribs broken or badly bruised and my torso painful to the touch.  Our crime was to attempt to call out the hypocrites on their bullshit.  The response was as swift as it was severe.

The next day we were put to work on a work crew literally digging ditches.  We were brought in after the work day, lectured on character and made to write an essay on why we wanted to remain in Synanon.  This was difficult but my writing ability got me through.  In fact, Chris’s essay apparently wasn’t nearly as convincing so he stayed on the work crew for a lot longer than I did.  After a couple of days, they injected me back with the other kids but made a point to demean us and highlight our misdeeds in front of the others.  In addition, our status was dropped to the bottom of the barrel.  At the time, I believe all of the kids were involved in a Massive Dose, which I will explain in another post, but suffice it to say that was no picnic either, with days of sleep deprivation and long hours of intense study.

I have hear a lot of talk about how the violence really stopped after the Rattlesnake in the mailbox.  I cannot speak to what happened outside of the community or with our neighbors, but within the community, violence and humiliation were still the way for some time, at least where the kids were concerned.

Lifestylers

Synanon was at the height of its popularity and public reach when my parents started playing games there in the early 70’s.  The legendary alcohol and drug free Saturday Night Dance Parties were hugely popular with the Hollywood set as members paired with guests to play music and dance the night away.  People came from far and wide to experience the community first hand and to join the game club where they would play the Synanon game with members and non-members alike.  The game club had become strong conduit which brought new members to the community.  It served not only to allow non-members the opportunity to interact with members in the game, but also helped indoctrinate them to the very unique culture which flourished during that time.  It afforded prospective new members the chance to experience the lifestyle and the ceremonies before they made the transition into the community.

By the fall of 1972, my parents were struggling to raise my brother and I and maintain their relationship.  In keeping with the times, my folks were anything but faithful to one another.  Although both had attended Ivy League schools, their choice to re-locate to Los Angeles was the result of my father getting a teaching position at UCLA in 1968 when he graduated from Penn.  But his work was consuming and the time that Pat and Brooks spent together was limited by his long hours and so their relationship began to break down.  My mother was overwhelmed with both the relationship and the task of raising two children in the crazy world that is Los Angeles.  After some time in the game club, they made the decision to move in to Synanon, and that was the end of my childhood.  I often see child soldiers in the news and have a very sobering empathy for them.  In retrospect my I feel just like those children.  Because once the veil of childhood innocence has been torn away by the violence and inhumanity it is gone forever.  And so it was with me.  From a loving, albeit slightly dysfunctional nuclear family I was thrown into the school to find my way among the 200 or so other children.  Nothing could have prepared me for what would transpire over the next 13 years, nor will many believe it.  But this is my story.  I have to tell it because it is ripping a hole in me.  If for nothing else than to get the story down on paper and then literally Burn it!

It is difficult to imagine now how I could have kept quiet for so long, but I guess there is an obvious sense of shame and sadness that a 4 year old must feel when they are abused. Within the first couple of months of moving into Synanon I was molested by an older boy who coerced me into performing oral sex on him and then forced me to consume human feces. I remember it like it was yesterday.  My sense of security was instantly shattered.  Years later, as a teenager, I managed to gain access to my personnel file and it said that for the first couple of years I that I was in the commune I cried almost non-stop.  There was no mention of the reason, and it was chalked up to separation anxiety or something like that.  It wasn’t until undergoing hypnotherapy in my 30’s that I was able to come to terms with the origin of this deep, deep pain.  A pain that unfortunately has stayed with me and comprised my health and sanity over the years.  I have always felt that we are the sum of our experiences both good and bad and that all of these things that happened are what made me who I am today. I just never wanted to believe that I was damaged goods as a result of the abuse, so I buried it with so many other insane memories that I have from the commune.  Yet, now I find myself closer to this pain than ever and know that I must bring it up, get it out and move on.

Now it may be hard for some people to understand just how alone one can feel in a community of more than a thousand, but imagine the idea of going to sleep and waking up every day in a loving home and then one day waking up in a dorm room.  For those kids that were born in Synanon, it was the norm.  They did not know any differently.  But for those of us who had experienced the unparalleled bond between mother and child, this separation was overwhelming and intolerable.  Now each night a man would come around and tell us to turn the lights off.  No bedtime stories, no “I love you”, “Sleep Well.”  The cold hard fact was overwhelmingly clear, if you were going to make it in the commune you had to be tough and you had to forget about that “other” life you had before.  Just like a free man who finds themselves incarcerated, the only way to survive was to accept that this was your new reality.  The friends that you could made became your family because there was no alternative, but there was NEVER any security or sense of place or belonging.