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

by C. A. Wittman

  “Do you know what this is?” She spread her arms wide. “It’s an experiment, a working experiment. That’s what I mean when I say you are the models for the future. One day everyone will want to come to Synanon. All of you were lucky enough to be the first.”

  During my time in the school, I came to see other children’s parents as a kind of curiosity, their relationships a concept rather than a reality. Some parents visited now and then, most did not. Some worked as demonstrators, although after a while, it was easy to forget that a demonstrator had a child in the school because the parents did not seem to have any special bond with their offspring. I knew which adults were the parents of which kids, and in most cases there was a strong physical resemblance, but that was where the relationship ended. Adults led completely separate lives from us.

  One of our many father figures in the school was Don Leitner, who showed up at some point as a demonstrator. Short and stumpy-looking with limbs not quite proportioned with his torso, Don had thin lips that disappeared when he smirked, which was often, and small round eyes set unattractively close together.

  I hated him. It seemed that whenever Don and I were in the same room, his sole purpose was to publicly humiliate me. My only relief from his malice was Sophie, whom he loved to torture equally.

  By the time Don started working in the school, I’d grown tired of seminars and lectures that often made no sense. Forced to sit through so many games and talks, I created a detailed fantasy world, to which I’d retreat whenever the need arose.

  Don immediately spotted that I was not paying attention. The first time he demanded that I recite back to him everything he had said during one of his meetings, I remained silent and miserable, embarrassed that I could remember nothing.

  “You can’t tell me anything? Why is that?” He waited.

  I said nothing.

  “I think you can’t tell me because you’re an idiot. Are you retarded, Celena? Are you a retard?”

  I felt my body grow hot while he laughed out of the side of his thin lips, the rest of the kids joining in. “I don’t like retards, Celena. Next time you better pay attention.”

  But I couldn’t.

  Every time Don spoke, my mind closed. Desperately I tried to listen, but my heart beating in my ears took precedence over the words.

  With him, it became a game. “Okay, let’s see if the idiot picked up anything this time,” he’d announce.

  All eyes would turn to me while I sat as mute as ever. Sometimes I’d recite back fragments, trailing off after a bit and wondering why I couldn’t remember what he’d said. Fortunately, I did not have to deal with Don often, as he was a male demonstrator and usually oversaw the boys’ dorms.

  Years after I left Synanon, the constant probing into my psyche by the school staff and greater collective of the commune took the form of nightmares. In my dreams, I lay on an operating table surrounded by doctors dissecting my brain and discussing among themselves what they found. It was clear, one of the doctors always concluded, that my brain was no good at all. They would need to insert something into it to improve my intelligence and keep track of my whereabouts.

  The assassination of Theresa’s role as my mother succeeded only in creating a deeper longing to see her and venerate the mother’s role. I had no greater wish than to be with her and become a mother myself. By the close of my first year in the commune, I developed an all-encompassing desire to be in a nuclear family with a mom and dad and a hunger for traditional domesticity that was out of reach outside of the cult, and nonexistent within it. The TV show Little House on the Prairie put images to my longings, creating an idealized vision of American frontier life and later a deep desire for self-sufficient remote living.

  Not all Synanon children experienced my intense want for family life. Some had been born into the commune or arrived as babies, spending the first formative years of their lives in the Hatchery. For them, parents were of little consequence.

  The demonstrators, who were supposed to replace the role of parent, appeared, disappeared, reappeared and dropped out of the school and were replaced by new demonstrators, suddenly on hand.

  We children experienced this same randomness in our living arrangements through regular moves. I would live in one room for a while, and then move to a different room or different building, or another child would share my room, replacing the previous child. I also never knew what grade I was in because I usually found myself in two grades simultaneously.

  Years later, when I read old archives of Synanon school logs at a UCLA library, I learned in an entry dated August 13, 1977, that there were forty-four members on staff. Twenty-one of them where younger than twenty-one and a need was expressed for older, more mature adults. Half of the demonstrators responsible for raising the children were barely out of puberty themselves. Many were recently reformed drug addicts.

  Thirty-four of the demonstrators had work schedules that consisted of seven days on and seven days off. Three of the staff worked five days with two days off, or five days with nine days off, while seven of the staff worked a consistent schedule of five days a week with two days off. Looking back, I believe this inconsistent scheduling was another method to keep us children from becoming too dependent on our providers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back to Basics

  I stared at a small brown turd that floated in the toilet bowl.

  “Is this yours?” Mary Sue said, gripping my shoulder.

  I shook my head.

  “Go sit down.”

  I turned around and sat on the linoleum floor of the bathroom with the other children while the next child was led up to the toilet to take a look and likewise deny responsibility for the little floating poop. The room was getting crowded, and a short line snaked out to the hallway, where another demonstrator, Linda, stood in the doorway, guiding kids in to make the pilgrimage.

  “Well, somebody did this!” Mary Sue screamed, pointing her thick finger at the toilet.

  Mary Sue was short with lumpy legs and wide hips. Her eyes were big and round. When she got in a rage, it seemed as if very little held them in place and they might dislodge and roll away. I found her personality jittery and unpredictable.

  I had learned from Mary Sue when she was new on the scene and still excited about being a demonstrator that she and Theresa were good friends. As I grew to know Mary Sue better, it was hard for me to imagine her having anything to do with my mom.

  When no one claimed the poop, Mary Sue changed her tone to well-modulated calm. “Whoever is guilty of this, step forward and admit it. We will have a talk about hygiene.”

  No one came forward.

  “Okay. Fine. You can all just sit here for as long as it takes.”

  I scrunched up my knees and buried my face in my lap. I wished I’d been playing farther away from the bunkhouse when we were all rounded up.

  The interrogation continued until there were no more children who hadn’t looked at the turd in the toilet.

  We sat in silence.

  Linda left.

  When she came back, Mary Sue left.

  More kids were found and brought to the bathroom. It became even more crowded.

  “We can sit here all day and all night,” Linda said.

  After an hour I noticed an uncomfortable feeling. My bladder was full and my feet numb from sitting. I inched my body against the wall to stretch my cramped legs.

  “Sit your ass down!” Mary Sue shrieked at me. “No! No! Come here!”

  I stood up and walked to Mary Sue, who looked bug-eyed again.

  “You did this, didn’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yes, you did! Admit it! Doesn’t your shit look like that?”

  Obediently, I glanced down at the puffy, water-logged poop that was starting to fray, stringy pieces pulling away and sinking.

  “No,” I whispered.

  Mary Sue shoved me back toward where I’d been seated. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this
,” she said.

  The long shadows of afternoon passed over us. The light grew dim. Afternoon turned to evening. The demonstrators became tired. They excused us, announcing that tomorrow we would return to back-to-basics mode.

  Our walk to breakfast the next morning became a mandatory silent march. The lack of chatter with just the sounds of our shoes crunching gravel opened my ears to a stillness I’d never noticed before. Hearing a bird call now and then and a whisper of wind rifling through the leaves on the nearby trees, I think I would have enjoyed the silence had it not been a punishment. Instead, I felt stilted and unnatural, not sure how careful I should be in keeping noise out of my movements.

  All our free time was confiscated in service of back-to-basics. We were told we’d been lazy. Not flushing the toilet had been the last straw.

  As we marched in the sharp cold of morning, our two long rows were intersected by another group of marchers. The Punk Squad consisted of teens who had been in trouble with the law or sent to Synanon by families who felt they’d lost control of their child. Punks typically had a rabid aversion to Synanon and were notorious for acting out. They were monitored closely, had little freedom and lived a near-constant military lifestyle. Punks wore overalls like we did, but instead of tennis shoes, their feet were clad in sturdy military boots.

  The Punks marched uniformly through the mists in two parallel lines, breaking the quiet with their military singing, heads erect, eyes forward, arms swinging in unison. Their booted feet struck the ground all at once, defiant to our own silent progression.

  Together, they sang, “There was a girl who wore a yellow ribbon. She wore it for her sweetheart who lived in Tomales Bay.”

  “Tomales Bay!” the girl’s voices rang out.

  The boys’ baritone voices echoed, “Tomales Bay!”

  “She wore it for her sweetheart who lived in Tomales Bay!” They marched strong and shouted robustly, gazing neither right nor left as if they were a single entity.

  We children watched until they disappeared down the road, and we continued our own scraggly march.

  “No talking,” we were reminded as we went into the Commons.

  First came the milk. I’d learned to drink it big gulps with several seconds’ rest and normal breathing between gulps. Pleased to see pancakes with little tabs of butter instead of eggs, I prepared to tuck into the warm cakes set in front of me. Pancakes had always been my favorite breakfast food and I hadn’t had any since I’d come to Synanon.

  A dimpled girl I’d come to know as Deb asked me something I didn’t hear.

  “What?” I said.

  “You,” one of the demonstrators called out, pointing at me. “Leave. We said no talking.”

  I gripped the edge of the table.

  My pancakes.

  “What did I say?” The demonstrator lowered her hand and walked toward me.

  “Please. I won’t talk anymore. I want to eat.”

  “Up!”

  “No.” I sobbed, gripping the table harder. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Another demonstrator joined the first. They stood over me, arms crossed, waiting.

  “I won’t talk. I promise.”

  “You’ve lost the privilege. Get up. Now!”

  My chest felt like it was closing with the mounting frustration that was bursting in gasps from my lips.

  “I want to eat my pancakes,” I whispered.

  Their arms extended toward me.

  As they pulled me from my chair, I grabbed two pancakes from my plate, shoving one into my mouth. The mounting pressure of frustration exploded from me in bits of doughy chunks that flew from my mouth.

  “I want my pancakes! I want my pancakes!” I screamed, somewhat surprised at my loss of control over my temper. I refused to walk, so my feet dragged across the floor while the demonstrators pulled at my arms. One of them tried to pry my fingers from the crumpled pancake as I strained to get it to my mouth. I received a sharp slap across my face and was tossed out the sliding glass door to wait on the graveled road until breakfast ended.

  Outside, there was no one. The sky, white with a blanket of cloud cover, stretched endlessly beyond the surrounding hills that engulfed the property. The dry yellow hills were empty and indifferent to my plight. Even nature appeared aloof, orderly and precise like the Synanon people the land sustained.

  We didn’t go to our usual classrooms after breakfast that day because, we were told, it was more important that as part of our back-to-basics lesson we children learn about environmental preservation. The lesson took place in the playroom in the form of a music class.

  A man we’d never seen before sat on a chair in the middle of the room with a guitar in his hands. We were ushered in and guided to sit cross-legged on the floor around him. Then we waited while our demonstrator Keith stood off to the side, repeatedly smearing ChapsStick over his lips. The tallest demonstrator and most reticent, Keith kept his communication with us children to the bare minimum of information.

  In contrast, the man with the guitar seemed to speak volumes with his body alone. When he smiled, he flashed white even teeth and his brown eyes snapped and sparkled, reminding me of a golden retriever.

  “Who here can tell me how we waste energy?” he said.

  One of the boys raised his hand.

  The man pointed to him.

  “When we let the water in the sink run and we’re not using it.”

  “What else?” the man asked.

  “Leaving the lights on,” a girl said softly.

  “Yes. Yes. Whaddaya say we write a song about it? Who would like to write a song about the environment?”

  Some of the kids, including me, perked up. Writing a song seemed like it might be fun.

  The man strummed a few chords and hummed to himself. “Let’s see, what should we say?”

  “People all around wasting energy!” one of the kids yelled.

  “That’s good.” The man hummed a little more to himself. After a few moments, his voice piped out, “Wake up! What do you see? People all around wasting energy.”

  The boy who’d suggested the line bounced on his knees, grinning.

  “What else?” the man said.

  Keith moved quietly for the door, applying more ChapStick. He exited the room just as several kids called out their ideas for the song.

  In the end, we came up with:

  Wake up! What do you see! People all around wasting energy.

  Double it up, the temperature’s down. Time to get up and turn it around.

  Hey, hey, hey, how much have we saved today?

  Hey, hey, hey, I know we’re going to find a way.

  I know we’re going to find a way.

  We sang the song over and over. A few hours later, we filed out of the room, remembering to keep silent on our walk back to the bunkhouses for our drill on hygiene.

  Some of us girls were directed to the larger communal bathroom where we usually showered after physical education. Our group was greeted by a naked young woman. She instructed us to strip and step into the large shower stall.

  We padded onto the damp tiled floor.

  “Is everyone here?” she asked.

  We turned our heads, looking around.

  “Yes,” a few of us replied.

  “The two-minute shower,” she said as if she were announcing the title of a book she was about to read aloud. “Watch carefully. First, you wet down.”

  She pulled up the metal shower handle, releasing a warm stream of water over herself and turning her body until she was completely wet. Then she snapped down the handle, shutting off the water. “Next, we soap.” Grabbing a bar of soap, she lathered it between her palms, the suds bubbling and dripping down her slick wet legs and feet. Quickly, she ran the soap over her body, missing nothing. She lifted her large pendulous breasts, scrubbing the skin under them. She opened her thick muscular legs while her busy hand raked the soap over her vagina, pushing aside the folds to get into the smaller areas with
a finger. Next the backside was attacked and last the head and face lathered. She set aside the soap, turned on the water and rinsed. “Two minutes. No more, no less. Your turn.”

  Under her scrutinizing gaze, we did as instructed. The demonstrated shower wasn’t particularly different from the way we showered every day, yet we followed the instructions, keeping silent as we did.

  Days went by and back-to-basics continued. When we children were not in a seminar or game, we listened to the adult games, broadcast, live or recorded, through radio speakers that were set up everywhere. Adults jogged up and down the roads, reinforcing exercise requirements that had been put in place a few years earlier.

  Our calorie-restricted meals were a back-to-basics homage to the original “Fatathon” of communal weight loss, conceived as an incentive and encouragement for Chuck to follow his own doctor-ordered diet. It was much easier for him if the whole community became involved in his program, which was limited to a strict eight hundred calories a day. During the Fatathon blitz, there was tremendous pressure from the community for the overweight to shed pounds fast. Some members who were already lean grumbled about the mandatory health program. The complainers were verbally blasted into compliance, forced to winnow away pounds as well.

  In back-to-basics, all of this came back, the diet requirements trickling down to the children in the form of toast without butter, meal portions cut sometimes by half and the abolishment of snacks.

  Parents were told to stay away. We kids needed our space, management dictated. It mattered little to me because my mother was still in San Francisco.

  On weekends our free time was confiscated for various projects. We were divided into small work groups. On my first job, I washed windows along with several other girls. We were given a bucket of mildly soapy water, a squeegee, roll of industrial paper towels and a short ladder. A demonstrator took us to the first bunkhouse and washed one of the windows for our benefit, wiping every smudge and streak away with the towel in the meticulous way that all chores were done.

  We began on the first building, washing the windows inside and out. After an hour, my arms ached and my stomach grumbled from the hollow feeling of the calorie-restricted diet.