by Leah Remini
Troublemaker is a work of nonfiction based on the life, experiences, and recollections of Leah Remini.
Copyright © 2015 by Leah Remini
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Unless otherwise noted, all photos are from the author’s personal collection.
ISBN 9781101886960
eBook ISBN 9781101886977
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Susan Turner
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Photo Insert
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
In a time of universal deceit—telling the truth is a revolutionary act.
Let me start with this:
I am an apostate.
I have lied. I have cheated. I have done things in my life that I am not proud of, including but not limited to:
• falling in love with a married man nineteen years ago
• being selfish and self-centered
• fighting with virtually everyone I have ever known (via hateful emails, texts, and spoken words)
• physically threatening people (from parking ticket meter maids to parents who hit their kids in public)
• not showing up at funerals of people I loved (because I don’t deal well with death)
• being, on occasion, a horrible daughter, mother, sister, aunt, stepmother, wife (this list goes on and on).
The same goes for every single person in my family:
• My husband, also a serial cheater, sold drugs when he was young.
• My mother was a self-admitted slut in her younger days (we’re talking the 1960s, before she got married).
• My dad sold cocaine (and committed various other crimes), and then served time at Rikers Island.
Why am I revealing all this? Because after the Church of Scientology gets hold of this book, it may well spend an obscene amount of money running ads, creating websites, and trotting out celebrities to make public statements that their religious beliefs are being attacked—all in an attempt to discredit me by disparaging my reputation and that of anyone close to me. So let me save them some money. There is no shortage of people who would be willing to say “Leah can be an asshole”—my own mother can attest to that. And if I am all these things the church may claim, then isn’t it also accurate to say that in the end, thirty-plus years of dedication, millions of dollars spent, and countless hours of study and training didn’t really “fix” me? Perhaps Scientology doesn’t work.
—
SINCE I LEFT THE CHURCH of Scientology in 2013, I am often asked the question “How does someone like you get involved with an organization like Scientology?” Or some people may phrase it more like “How the fuck did you get into some crazy shit like this?”
Describing Scientology is no easy undertaking for anyone. There are plenty of people (many of whom are smarter than I am and have more formal education) who have worked to define and examine the church and the sway it holds over its members. This book, written from my heart and based on personal knowledge, is my attempt to portray my experience within Scientology and the repercussions I endured as a result.
So while I may not be able to say in a few brief sentences why I became involved in Scientology and remained a member for decades, I can tell you that whether you were raised in the organization or came to it after falling out with your own religion, traditions, or family, the central tenet of Scientology, as stated by its founder, L. Ron Hubbard (LRH), is incredibly alluring. Scientology offers a clearly laid out scientific process that helps you to overcome your limitations and realize your full potential for greatness. It is presented as a well-defined path to achieving total spiritual freedom and enlightenment and a full understanding of yourself and others. LRH wrote that the aims of Scientology are
“a civilization without insanity, without criminals and without war, where the able can prosper and honest beings can have rights, and where Man is free to rise to greater heights.”
He went on to state:
“What is true for you is what you have observed yourself. And when you lose that, you have lost everything.”
As well as:
“Don’t take my word that Scientology works or doesn’t work, use it and see for yourself. Take what works and throw away the rest.”
I, along with many others, found these approaches to be hugely empowering. I was taken with the idea that a deep, systematic, and straightforward wisdom on how to live the best life for myself (and the planet) could be presented before me in a direct, tangible, and comprehensive way. Through rigorous study and regular counseling (called “auditing” in Scientology), I could work toward the ultimate goal of “going Clear,” meaning I would no longer be affected by the part of my mind ruled by pain and irrationality. This promise of a higher living and way of thinking drew me in, along with thousands of others who were looking for an alternative to therapy or more traditional self-help.
I, like many current Scientologists, was a second-generation practitioner (meaning you were either born into Scientology or brought in by your parents as a child). When you are raised in the church, your whole life—each and every day—becomes all about the church. Unlike members of other churches or synagogues, who attend Sunday Mass or Shabbat dinner once a week, as a Scientologist you are expected to spend a minimum of two and a half hours a day, every day, seven days a week, at church, studying and/or in counseling. The same goes for your family, friends, and business associates. It’s no wonder the indoctrination quickly sets up an “us against them” mentality. To leave, to question it, would mean leaving anything and everything you have ever known. And because you were raised in the church, your world consists almost exclusively of Scientologists.
For those who are not born into the church or brought in as children, the attraction to join is most definitely there. Imagine you are struggling in your life, in your career, or you are maybe an actor with little or no fame. You walk into a Scientology church or a Celebrity Centre (a Scientology church that caters specifically to artists), having been enticed by an ad you read in a magazine about improving your life or career. You are impressed with the beautiful building, and the welcoming people there. They offer you food, listen to what you have to say. Maybe you talk about how your parents are not supportive of your endeavors, and they respond, “Wow, that is not cool. You can achieve your goals in life. Maybe you need to step away from your parents’
negativity for a bit and do a course here that will help you to reach your goals.” You feel vindicated. This person understands me. He or she is my ally. This group believes in me. In the real world you may feel like you are nothing, but here you are treated with respect.
The other aspect of Scientology that draws people in is the recognition the church bestows on its members for their donations. Let’s say you are a successful businessperson. Where else would you be pulled up onstage with crowds cheering in admiration for the million(s) you have donated? You are doted on by the church at this level, recognized, and made to feel special. Very enticing. Or what if you are someone who earns $45,000 a year? You’re now going to be celebrated and acknowledged for your $2,000 contribution (even if you have no money the church will find a way for you to borrow it) with a framed certificate in calligraphy certifying your donation. This in turn, again, makes you feel special. You believe you are doing great things for not only yourself, but for all of mankind. This type of celebration and recognition works on members of all levels.
During my thirty-plus years in Scientology I spent close to $2 million for services and training, and donated roughly $3 million to church causes. Most members, regardless of their income, over a lifetime in the church spend upwards of $500,000 to get to the highest levels, which often takes more than twenty years. During this time, they are required to purchase roughly 300 books, 3000 lectures, and 100 courses.
Scientologists funnel their hard work, money, and emotional capital right back into the church, often to the detriment of their own lives. They may sacrifice relationships with family members, contact with friends, and their life savings to move up through the assigned spiritual levels that are dictated by the church’s principles. They do this because they’re indoctrinated with the belief that Scientology has the answers not only to their own ills but to the ills of all humankind.
—
I HAVE NO DOUBT THAT when this book comes out, Scientologists will scream about religious intolerance, say that I am a liar, that I was kicked out of the church, and call Troublemaker the work of a hateful bigot or a self-absorbed person with an “insatiable craving for attention.” (That last part might not be totally untrue; I am an actress, after all.) What they will likely not do, however, is actually read this book, because that would be going against one of the basic tenets of Scientology. A member should not read or watch anything generated by someone whom the church has declared a Suppressive Person, or SP, someone who in the church’s eyes and by LRH’s policy is found to be a threat to Scientology. Once the church has labeled you an SP, you are “Declared,” and as a result, you are cut off from all practicing Scientologists.
So I have been declared by the church to be a Suppressive Person because I questioned, spoke out against, and refused to abide by the hypocrisy that had become my life. The church has lashed out at me in the press and will continue to do so, but the reality is that the church has benefited from me, my money, my time, my celebrity status, and my family. Everything I had dedicated myself to for all those years was taken away in an instant when I was declared an SP. I was the one left with the heartbreak of feeling that the unraveling of my faith and fate, and life as I knew it, was primarily influenced by two people: Tom Cruise, the church’s most coveted, celebrated, and protected celebrity member, and David Miscavige, the tyrannical leader and current head of the church. Ironically, for me and for most other people who have left the church and spoken out against it, the very qualities that we’ve been penalized for—defying, questioning, thinking independently—are the same qualities that made us prime candidates for Scientology in the first place.
According to church policy, since I have been declared a Suppressive Person, all church members, including dozens of my closest friends and family must “disconnect” from me, meaning cutting any and all ties (though thankfully my mother, stepfather, sister, and brother-in-law have stood by me). No more contact. Ever.
I am not the first to leave and speak out against Scientology. Many, like me, have questioned a faith that erratically labels its followers, constantly encourages its parishioners to donate their life savings (and beyond) to its coffers, kicks its followers out of a religion they have believed in and dedicated themselves to. It is to the Church of Scientology that I say this: I wrote this book because I feel an urgency and responsibility to reveal the injustices and hypocrisy that were perpetrated against those who left and spoke out before me. Those who again and again have been harassed and bullied into silence. This book is also a personal act of defiance—against intolerance, which I have witnessed, lived with, and been part of for far too long.
Chapter One
AS FAR BACK AS I can remember, I was always performing and trying to make people laugh. I grew up on I Love Lucy, Welcome Back, Kotter, Happy Days, Gilligan’s Island, Three’s Company, Sanford and Son, All in the Family, Good Times…You get the idea. Watching all of these shows always made me feel something. I knew early on that I wanted to make people feel this same way.
As a kid I was always putting on shows—re-creating skits from The Carol Burnett Show and singing Donny and Marie songs in the living room. My older sister, Nicole, reluctantly played my sidekick; although she never had any enthusiasm for these skits and performances, she obliged. I also took to giving her notes like “Nic, Donny loves Marie, so when we do ‘I’m a Little Bit Country,’ you gotta look at me like he looks at Marie, with a smile and maybe a wink.” She would respond with “Or how about I just punch you in the face?” Okay, we all make choices as performers.
—
WHEN I WAS NINE YEARS old, I heard that the Broadway musical Annie was holding open auditions for the lead role. I didn’t let the fact that I had no singing talent or acting experience deter me. My mom supported me, believing that I would one day be an actress, and she got a playwright friend to teach me the song “Tomorrow” and take me to the group audition. Her boyfriend at the time photographed me for my “headshots,” in which I wore my very best Little House on the Prairie shirt. When I got the pictures back, I was seriously floored at how beautiful I looked. Clearly, the Annie people would see this little gem from Brooklyn and want to hire me on the spot—but I was still willing to sing for them if need be.
The audition was a cattle call, which meant everyone was assigned a number and sat in the audience section of a huge theater until that number was called. The image running through my mind was that of a front-page headline in the New York Post: “Brooklyn Girl with No Experience Nabs Annie Role.” Whatever I lacked in terms of dancing or singing, someone could teach me. I had the chutzpah to land the part. And as for my long, straight brown hair—well, that’s what wigs were for. And with that, I was off to hand the director my picture.
But as soon as my name was called and I got onstage, facing the director and all those people sitting in the darkened theater, I went blind with panic.
The pianist hit a key and I started to sing immediately. “The—”
“No. That’s for the key,” the director interrupted.
“Okay. Well, maybe you should tell people…Do you want me to start again?” I said.
“That’s okay. Go home to Mommy,” the director said as he looked down at his clipboard.
I burst into tears before I had even gotten off the stage. I was crying the way kids do when they can’t catch their breath. My mom’s friend, the one who taught me the song, who had brought me to the audition, took me for a slice of pizza and an Italian ice, over which we discussed how that director would regret not hiring me and how Annie would bomb without me. The Broadway show Annie would suffer and suffer big without me in it!
—
WHEN I WASN’T ACTING OUT my favorite TV shows, Nicole and I could be found hanging out on Eighty-sixth Street, near Bay Parkway, where loud music thumped from the cars to get girls’ attention, even though the guys in their gold chains, Old Spice, and gelled hair acted like they were too cool to
care. I aspired to be one of those girls whose attention the guys sought—tight Jordache and Sergio Valente jeans with a brush jammed in the back pocket, lots of makeup and Aqua Net, and even more attitude. All they ever seemed to do was hang out on the corner—like a hooker, but not—and I wanted in. I vowed that when I was older—maybe twelve or thirteen—I would be just like them.
This was Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, circa 1980. We talked tough, but ultimately it was a protective neighborhood for those who belonged. When a car alarm went off, there would be five Joeys and Frankies out on the street with bats within two minutes. There was no such thing as minding your own business. If a boyfriend was fighting with his girlfriend, another guy would start yelling at him: “Yo, don’t fuckin’ talk to a girl like that.” ’Nuff said.
When we were kids, our neighborhood—basically consisting of a bakery, a pizzeria, a bagel store, a Baskin-Robbins, a Chock full o’Nuts, a Te-Amo, and an Optima—was our whole universe.
While Manhattan, just a quick train ride away, was foreign to Nicole and me, places like Long Island and New Jersey were another planet. When our mom took us to the Poconos for vacation (a rarity), we met a group of girls who asked us if we wanted to help “collect things for a collage.” First we had to clear up what a collage was, because my sister and I didn’t speak French. When it rained, these kids stayed inside and played Atari, unlike us Brooklyn kids, who were used to hanging out in front of the candy store come rain, sleet, or mini-hurricane.
Our regular neighborhood haunt was the local Te-Amo convenience store, near the D train. We could also be found at other people’s houses, where it seemed there were always better toys and better food than at ours. I spent a lot of time at my friend’s place above our apartment on Bay Parkway. She had a Barbie Dreamhouse, which back then, to little girls, was pretty much the equivalent of crack. That’s where I was playing one day when my mom called Nicole and me down to share some news.
