The woman turned the last page in the file, then folded her hands on top of it and looked at me.
“Are you aware of what these reports say?” she asked, her lips pursed, one eyebrow arched.
I thought my pounding heart was going to erupt in my throat.
“I think so,” I replied sheepishly.
I could almost taste her revulsion.
“Okay,” she said. She laid out a stack of paper in front of me: two Tech Bulletins this time, plus the Hubbard Chart of Human Evaluation, or Tone Scale, all of which declared that homosexuals needed to be wiped out of existence. Oh my God! I thought. I had no idea that what I’d done was that bad. How will I ever work my way out of this mess? This is so embarrassing! I’m such a piece of crap!
Larry never made me feel wrong or ashamed. Of course, I didn’t know his job was to be kind and reel me in, and not to arbitrate my failures. That was the job of an ethics officer, and this one was clearly repulsed by me.
My ethics officer reached for her ethics book and turned to the chapter on “Ethics Conditions.” “Conditions” define how spiritually and emotionally stable you are. There are twelve Conditions, arranged in order from the highest condition of “Power” to the lowest condition of “Confusion.” “Preclears,” or newbies to the church, like me, were classified as “Nonexistence,” a kind of “let’s get to know each other” condition that falls in the middle of the list.
The idea is that, over time, you work your way from Nonexistence to the top of the Conditions list, which you do through auditing sessions and coursework and by never doing anything “out ethics” to get yourself dropped down to the lower levels, which led to misery, worry and even premature death. Higher Conditions, on the other hand, promised happiness, security and overall well-being. It seemed like a clear choice to me.
“Read the list,” ordered the ethics officer.
She sat stoically as I read the definition of each of the Conditions. When I finished, I looked up at her. What must she think of me? I wondered. She’s an ethics officer. She’s probably never done anything wrong in her life. I’m still on probation and here I am . . . I just wanted to please her.
“Where are you falling now on the Conditions?” she asked.
“I think I’m in the Condition of Danger,” I said finally. The Condition of Danger was one step above the entry level Nonexistence and, defined loosely, meant I had done something wrong and needed to get honest with myself and others and stop my abnormal behavior by taking assigned steps. Nice try. Wrong answer.
“Read further down the list,” the ethics officer said.
So I read, lower and lower, until I hit the very bottom.
I looked at her, wishing I could read her thoughts. “I guess, Confusion?” It was more of a question than an answer.
To my surprise, for the first time during our meeting, the ethics officer smiled, although only slightly.
“Good,” she said. “That’s where we need to start.”
The ethics officer assigned me readings about homosexuality from Hubbard’s books, Dianetics and the follow-up Science of Survival. I had a lot of work to do to dig out of my lowly level 1.1, which was illustrated by a drawing of a gnome hiding a knife behind his back. Hubbard describes it as “the most dangerous and wicked level on the tone scale. . . . Here we have promiscuity, perversion, sadism and irregular practices.”
The only way to move out of that category and up the Tone Scale to a better emotional Condition was by exposing and slaying my demons.
I was confused. “But I’m not gay,” I said weakly. “I don’t even know anyone who is gay.”
The ethics officer sighed. “‘Gay’ is a ‘psych’ term that makes homosexuality less of a crime,” she said. “Homosexuals get sick easily. They get AIDS. They cannot procreate. Many have committed crimes of sexual deviance. You don’t know one because they hide their crimes. Is that the group that you want to be part of?”
“No!” I said, my eyes welling with tears.
“Which group do you choose?” she asked.
“The heterosexual group,” I replied with newfound confidence.
“Good,” she said. “You have been pretending to be part of a very bad group and in order for you to be accepted back into this group of ethical, successful, happy and healthy heterosexual Scientologists, you will have to do the work.”
I knew what I had to do to be accepted by the church. The rulebook said that for me to move out of Lower Conditions I had to “strike a blow to the enemy.” In my case, that meant forsaking homosexuals and finding a boyfriend.
I wasn’t about to tell the ethics officer, but the idea of being with a boy left me feeling empty. I decided there must be something hormonally wrong with me and made an appointment to see a gynecologist. When I explained my lack of interest in the opposite sex, the doctor smiled reassuringly. “Oh, honey,” she said. “You’re so young. We can check your hormones, but you’re only eighteen. Some people just mature later.”
Just as she’d predicted, my hormone levels were normal. The doctor concluded that, because I’d started my menstrual cycle late, I would probably be in my twenties before I had sexual urges. My twenties? I couldn’t wait that long. I needed a boyfriend now.
The subject of dating came up during my ethics sessions. Each time, I responded honestly that I couldn’t find anyone I wanted to be with. The ethics officer complained that I was too picky. At the rate I was going, I would never find a mate.
I decided that lowering my standards and keeping an open mind was a small price to pay for a second chance with the church.
Not a year later, I met my future husband, Sean.
CHAPTER THREE
Sea Change
I didn’t have spare time to devote to a social life. I had a lot of responsibility for an eighteen-year-old. Lucky for me, the church placed ambition at the top of its list of desirable human traits. My average workday at Sterling was fourteen hours. It started first thing in the morning and ended when I made my sales quota for the day. I was selling packages of Hubbard management courses with thirty hours of private consulting time for $10,000 a pop. It took a lot of sales savvy and I was just a teenager with a high school education, but I was one of Sterling’s top producers, and maintaining that status came with a lot of pressure.
At first I loved my job, especially when my sales were up and I was showered with accolades. But the work environment changed from harmonious to militaristic after Time magazine published a cover story about Scientology in which Sterling was revealed as a front for the church. The blockbuster story, with the headline “Scientology: The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power,” was a scorching indictment of the church, calling it “a hugely profitable global racket that survives by intimidating members and critics in a Mafia-like manner.” It quoted a spokeswoman for the Cult Awareness Network who said, “Scientology is quite likely the most ruthless, the most classically terroristic, the most litigious and the most lucrative cult the country has ever seen. No cult extracts more money from its members.” As for Sterling, the Time story said it used “bait-and-switch” tactics, selling inferior products—“seminars and courses that typically cost $10,000”—when its “true aim is to hook customers for Scientology.”
Understand, I didn’t read the article until years later. Scientology had unwritten directives that were passed down through the ranks by word of mouth—usually by auditors and ethics officers. One was that we were “strongly advised” to avoid the news because the church was never given a fair shake. Translation: Don’t do it. We were taught to believe that everything written by journalists was fraught with misrepresentations and lies. News sites were blocked on all church computers. We were told that whatever “news” we wanted could be provided by the church; all we needed to do was ask. Everyone I knew abided by the rule—or at least said they did.
Nevertheless, we heard rumblin
gs and felt the shock waves that reverberated through Sterling’s headquarters when the Time story ran. Sterling’s management was so rattled they called an emergency staff meeting to refute the story. The story was garbage, they said. They had it with their lawyers for review. We were not to discuss the matter among ourselves. If we had questions, we were to book time with an ethics officer, who would provide us with any information we needed to know.
What Sterling couldn’t hide was the fallout from the story. It was swift and severe. Sales plummeted and clients who’d already paid for courses called to demand their money back. In the months that followed, the pressure to sell—and the difficulty of making sales—intensified. We were expected to work more hours and were paid less, and sometimes not paid at all. Even Mom, who was in management, went weeks without a paycheck. She got so deep in the hole that she couldn’t make her car payments and still pay for courses, so her car was repossessed. After six months of upheaval and relentless badgering from the president, she left Sterling to take a management position with the Los Angeles church. At least her courses would be discounted.
For me, things got tougher when I began putting in more time at the church to atone for my “crime,” which meant less time honing my sales pitch at work. Sterling management didn’t like me taking time away from the phones, even if it was for courses and auditing at the church. My bosses insisted I make up the missed time by staying late, sometimes until midnight, which was three or four hours later than my usual quitting time. The company had to sell to survive!
On those very late nights, one of the owners, a fast-talking alpha woman with flaming red hair and a nicotine gum habit, paced the halls maniacally while I left messages at doctors’ and dentists’ offices from Los Angeles to New York. She was supposed to be there to encourage us to sell, but she was hardly a mentor. The exercise was more about punishment than profit. Who was going to take my calls in the wee hours of the morning? When I was finally allowed to leave, I’d drive the forty-five miles home, sleep for three or four hours, then drive back to work for an early start. Sometimes I was so tired I closed the office blinds and put my head on the desk for a nap.
After a few of those grueling days, a woman who worked in the company’s L. Ron Hubbard bookstore suggested that if I wanted to get out at a decent hour, I should do what she did and inflate my sales figures. We weren’t being paid anyway, she said, so what was the harm in telling a white lie? I was desperate and sleep deprived enough to try it. The following night, when my supervisor came by to check on my progress, I told her I had good news. “Sale done!” I said. She looked pleased. “To whom?” she asked. I made up a name, wrote it on the sales board and left the office in time to get a decent night’s sleep.
It didn’t take long for the company to catch on to the ruse, of course. Faking a big deal was different than reporting a bogus book sale, like my coworker had. What did I know? I was still just a teenager, and the pressure to sell was so intense that I hadn’t given much thought to consequences—not until the morning I was intercepted on my way into work and marched to the office of Sterling’s very own and very unhappy ethics officer. My tearful confession was met with ridicule and scorn. The company ethics officer called me a criminal.
“But I didn’t take any money!” I cried.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, she accused me of being a “CANPLANT,” a mole for the Cult Awareness Network, one of the church’s most fervent adversaries. (Members would rather be stuck in the eye with a pin than hear the church referred to as a cult.) I didn’t even know what she was talking about. My punishment was a company Sec Check. Now I wasn’t just “out ethics” with the church; I was “out ethics” with my employer. And just when I had thought I couldn’t get any lower.
It surprised me, but my church mentors were supportive in my time of trouble with Sterling. Mom kept them informed about what was happening, and every day, no matter how late I left work, people from the church were waiting to take me for coffee. Mom was caught in the middle of wanting to keep her job but also wanting to defend her daughter. Mom had not been paid either, and she knew that the grueling pressure was too much for me to bear. After a few weeks of watching me suffer, Mom suggested that I leave the company and come to work for the church. I could serve in the Sea Organization, or Sea Org, the order responsible for running the day-to-day operations of the church. Sea Org members lived together in crowded dormitories in communal compounds and worked for room and board, but despite the conditions it was considered a privilege to wear the uniform. Mom spoke to one of the top recruiters, who said they would be happy to have me.
I was ashamed that I’d faked a sale. After so many days of feeling worthless at Sterling, and the lack of sleep that accompanied my late-night hours, I decided to follow my mother’s advice. Joining the Sea Org was the way to redeem myself. I would leave Sterling for what I believed was the most elite group on the planet. I was sure that once I was on the front lines of saving humanity, my Sterling indiscretion would be forgotten.
I signed the church’s official “employment contract,” in which I pledged to work for the Sea Organization for as many lifetimes as I had “for the next billion years.” I was eager to get started. I was finally going to do something I’d always wanted to do: save lives!
My training for the Sea Org began with boot camp for new recruits. They called it Estates Project Force, or EPF. I reported to the church’s “Big Blue” building, a former hospital on Sunset Boulevard that served as the local Sea Org barracks. Mom and Gavin, the recruiter, accompanied me. I was apprehensive because I wasn’t sure what to expect, but super excited at the prospect of devoting my life to the church.
Enthusiasm quickly turned to apprehension, though, as I was ushered by my mother and Gavin through a series of dimly lit tunnels and down into the bowels of Big Blue. “Where are you taking me?” I asked, giggling nervously.
We finally reached the windowless basement. It reminded me of the Celebrity Centre dungeon, where the Ethics Department was. A fluorescent light cast a spooky glow over the reception area, where a large man with a permanent scowl met us. He introduced himself as “the Bosen.” (German Die Bösen translates to English as “the wicked ones.”)
The Bosen handed me a pair of tattered overalls that could have held two of me, and scuffed black combat-style boots. I swiveled around and looked at my mother in disbelief. “Do I really have to wear these?” Mom looked nervous. Gavin, who outranked the Bosen, intercepted the question. “I’m sure you can find a new pair of boots and better-fitting overalls, can’t you, Bosen?” he asked.
The truth is, even with my mother there to support me, I was terrified. It was all so peculiar. The setting. The uniform. Especially the Bosen. I felt like I was trapped in a real-life scary movie. The urge to run was overwhelming, but where would I go?
A few minutes passed and the Bosen returned with newer gear. I pulled the overalls on over my clothes and handed Mom my white tennis shoes for safekeeping. As frightened as I was, and no matter how wrong everything felt, I did what I had been taught to do my whole life. I pasted on a smile and went along.
I relaxed a little when we went upstairs and I had a chance to meet some of my fellow recruits. All of them were around my age. We bunked together in dorm rooms on the upper floors of Big Blue. Female recruits stayed in one section, male recruits in another, with absolutely no sex allowed. (Premarital sex is forbidden for Sea Org members.) We were awakened at dawn by instructors who acted like robots and performed like drill sergeants. We addressed them as “Sir”—even the women. After morning classroom time to memorize church policy, we spent the next twelve hours performing our assigned tasks, from household chores to hard labor. We scrubbed floors and painted walls, pulled up bushes and planted saplings. The only purpose of some of our assignments was to humiliate and demean us—for instance, cleaning public toilets with my toothbrush.
I knew better than to
question how picking up garbage or scrubbing urine stains off the insides of toilet bowls was teaching us how to save humanity. Complaining got you assigned to the lowliest of chores. Compliancy was rewarded. Once I learned the ropes, I sometimes got pulled off the dirty jobs to work at Bridge Publications, the publishing arm of the church. Those were better days, when I got to wear the navy Sea Org uniform and do office work. Still, I had grown to hate the long hours and the lack of freedom. I was working six and a half days a week—a hundred-plus hours—on three or four hours of sleep a night. I was told when to get up, when to eat, when to report for work and when to call it a day. My half day off was devoted to personal chores, like laundry and changing my bed linens. It was not the life I had imagined when I signed up.
After six weeks, I came down with the flu. I couldn’t shake it. When Mom realized how sick I was, she pulled strings and got me a pass home to recuperate. That brief taste of my former life was enough to convince me that I wasn’t going back to Big Blue. I told my mom that I would still be a member of the church, but I wasn’t ready to commit my life to the Sea Org. Maybe when I was a little older. I could tell she was disappointed, but she appealed to higher-ups and I was allowed to put my billion-year commitment on hold. I was lucky Mom had sway, but I really think the Bosen knew I wasn’t Sea Org material and was happy to get rid of me.
I didn’t work for the rest of that summer. For the first time in my life, I could be carefree. I reconnected with old high school friends who had tired of my constant nattering about Dianetics and repeated attempts to recruit them. They welcomed me back into the circle, as long as I didn’t talk about Scientology. I was still devoted to the church, but I felt like I needed time away from all their rules and restrictions, not to mention the complex and loaded language they used. Half the time I still didn’t know what the words meant: He committed an “overt”—a sin or crime. She was “downstat”—not producing enough. It was “entheta”—negative.
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