Troublemaker: Surviving Hollywood and Scientology (4 page)

I never met LRH, the popular sci-fi writer who founded the church in 1952 and died in 1986. Still, he made a huge impression on me. The first time I walked into the New York Org, I was struck by the big bronze bust of him. He looked like a god, or at least someone standing in judgment. There were pictures of him everywhere, and he was always standing behind a big desk or writing something that looked like it had to be important.

I felt pretty special—everyone was telling me that I wasn’t a kid but a “spiritual being” with past lives, and that we were all on the same mission to clear the planet—to eradicate insanity, war, and crime across the whole world, and create a peaceful earth by helping all beings free themselves with Scientology. I was told that I was now a part of an elite and important group who were the only ones doing anything about the planet. I decided that this man was going to
know me. There was a little locked wooden box with a pen and paper so that you could write messages and leave them directly for LRH.

“Hi, Ron, my name is Leah,” I wrote, by way of introducing myself. “I am doing a communication course with my sister.”

Shortly afterward I got a letter back! It was typed out on a clean white piece of paper, folded perfectly, and at the bottom it said, “Love Ron,” not a stamp but his actual signature. This was proof; I was special.

In general, I was now starting to grow used to and liking how the adults at the New York Org treated me with respect, which was so different than back in Brooklyn, where I was nothing more than an annoying kid. Scientologists praised me and my sister for “finding our way back.” I was a grown-up to them.

Scientology was so very powerful to me as a child, because finally, after feeling subpar for so long because I never had the right clothes, apartment, furniture, food, toys, you name it, I now had something on other people. Traveling to the city, taking responsibility for my actions, working on my communication skills all contributed to my sense of superiority. I could do things my friends couldn’t (like steal leg warmers without getting in trouble) because now I had this “technology” and they didn’t. I used words like “affinity,” which as a kid was pretty awesome. Or “You don’t have to yell, just communicate,” I would say to my friends’ mothers. They were impressed that I could use a multi-syllable word.

My dad, however, wasn’t so impressed. After he moved out of our apartment, he moved into a big house with Donna, the woman who became my stepmom. My sister and I spent weekends there with him and Donna, and then their two daughters, Elizabeth and Stephanie, and Donna’s daughter, Christina.

During visits to my dad’s, more often than not he would complain about my mother.

“Does your mother ever brush your hair?” he said, looking at me. “What are you, homeless? Doesn’t your mother take care of you? Or is she too busy with that cult?”

Now that I had been doing my communication course, I was going to get my “TRs in” to confront him. So over dinner with Nic and my stepfamily, all seated around a huge table covered with the best whipped potatoes, corn, salad, and warm Italian bread with butter, I summoned the courage to take on my dad.

“I don’t think you should be talking about my mother,” I said in a voice that was a little less assured than I had hoped for.

“Wha?”

“I don’t want you talking about my mother.”

“Or what?”

“Well, no ‘or.’ I just don’t want you to…It’s, like, not nice.”

“You don’t come into my fucking house and tell me what’s nice—”

The heat in my body rose so quickly I wanted to crawl into my own face. Whenever my dad spoke in that tone, it always felt like being slapped.

Don’t react. Don’t react. Remember Bullbait, Leah.

“Dad, I really think it’s better if you just communicate with us without putting us or our mother down.”

“Oh. Is that what we should do? We should
communicate
? Is that what L. Ron told you to say?”

He was laughing now, and despite my best efforts to keep it together, I started to lose confidence in what I was saying and how I was saying it.

Why couldn’t my dad treat me like an equal the way people at the church did? Why couldn’t he value me as someone who had something to say?

These were the kinds of exchanges that proved what Scientology was teaching us—that people who don’t get the ideals of Scientology are not as able, or not as healthy and mentally sound, as we are and will attack it. And now I believed that was right. It
was
us against them.

I
T WAS AROUND THIS TIME
that the Sea Organization recruiters came to talk to my mom and Dennis, and us girls. The Sea Organization was founded by L. Ron Hubbard in 1967 to staff his three ships, on which he’d taken up residence after the UK denied his visa extension. He wanted to live outside the jurisdiction of any governments and away from the media, and he said he was continuing research—he produced the “OT” levels on the ships. These levels—OT is short for “Operating Thetan”—are the secret advanced levels of the Scientology Bridge that you move onto only after you achieve the State of Clear. Originally the people with him were sailors, brought on to keep the ships running. The crews then started taking on more functions within Hubbard’s Sea Org, and the main ship
Apollo
grew into a center for training Scientology staff from around the world. Subsequently those people who were with Hubbard and the Sea Organization were entrusted with the highest-level functions, secrets, and control of Scientology internationally, tasked with clearing the planet through multiple lives as they were reincarnated over and over for all of eternity.

The Sea Org continues to be made up of the most devout and dedicated Scientologists. A clergy of sorts, who work for the church and are held to the highest standards within the organization. Although there are no official numbers, I have heard that there are close to 4,000 Sea Organization members in the United States and roughly 20,000 Scientology parishioners total. So roughly one in five members tends to be in the Sea Org. (The church claims to have roughly 10 million parishioners worldwide, but this number apparently includes anyone who has ever bought a book, taken a course, or entered a church building. Estimates of the actual worldwide members are closer to 35,000.)

The recruiters told Mom and Dennis, “This is the best thing for you, for the planet—you have a responsibility. Look at your girls, what are they doing? They’re going down the wrong path. They’re hanging around bad people. A criminal element. What kind of a life is that?”

By this time I was going through a combo package RunDMC/Puerto Rican phase where I wore only Adidas, had a mullet, sang Menudo songs (even though I didn’t speak Spanish), and hung out in Cropsey Park with a bunch of break-dancers. At least that’s what I thought they were. As it turned out, they were also part-time drug dealers. But I didn’t know about that. Back then everybody carried a fanny pack.

The recruiters preyed on my mom’s concern for us to have a better life and her devotion to the religion. They said, “Your girls can do what they want to do in the Sea Org. Leah can act right away in the Scientology movies, and Nicole can train to be a lawyer for the church. The planet is going downhill, your help is needed, and in the end what will be your answer to this question: ‘Did you help?’ ”

Mom and Dennis had already committed themselves to Scientology, bought it hook, line, and sinker, and now they were told they needed to do more.

So not only would we be saving the planet as Scientology dictates, but we would also be doing the things we loved. And Mom and Dennis could move up the Bridge for free (this was provided only to Sea Org members) and with no distractions from the outside world. Plus no more paying bills, as the Sea Org would provide us with housing, food, clothing…It was all just too good to be true. Who could blame Mom and Dennis for signing us all up for that?

B
Y THE
TIME
N
ICOLE,
M
OM,
and I got off the plane in Tampa, it was two in the morning and I was exhausted but excited. I was leaving home for something big. I had already made huge sacrifices—like leaving behind my Smurf collection—but that’s what you do when you are on a mission to clear the planet.

We were headed to the Gulf Coast city of Clearwater, Florida—the mecca of Scientology, otherwise known as Flag (a carryover from the Sea Org term “Flagship,” which itself was a carryover from Hubbard’s ships when he moved back to land in 1975). We had come there to get the whole planet up to Clear—the goal of Scientology. Clear is the state on “the Bridge” that you achieve through Scientology auditing when you no longer have a reactive mind, which is defined as the “hidden source of irrational behavior, unreasonable fears, upsets and insecurities.” The Bridge is the route or guide to each higher state. As the Scientology literature states, “One walks it and one becomes free.”

It would be a fresh start for all of us, including Mom and Dennis, who were now married and expecting a baby in three months. Dennis had stayed back in Brooklyn to deal with getting rid of everything in our apartment and to accumulate more money knowing
that we wouldn’t be making much after this point. He planned to join us in a few weeks.

While on the plane, I had imagined the welcome we would get when we landed. I pictured men in suits waiting for us at the gate. “Ron has been expecting you,” one would say to me before handing me a freshly pressed military uniform. Then they’d lead us to a stretch limousine with tinted windows. I wasn’t sure if Scientology had a flag, but if there was one it’d be flying from the hood.

Instead, the airport was pretty much deserted upon our arrival, aside from a guy working a floor buffer.

We made our way down to baggage claim, where I took my suitcase and Nicole took the other two, since my mother was pregnant.

Mom kept looking around as if someone she expected to be there was missing. Nicole and I followed her out of the terminal. Once we got outside, Mom looked left, then right, and her worried expression began to scare me.

“Ma, is anyone going to pick us up?” I asked, but she ignored me and walked back into the airport, where she found a pay phone. She fished out a quarter and made a call, but no one on the other end picked up. Nicole and I shot each other a look and stayed quiet. Mom tried calling again. This time she let it ring for a long, long time until someone finally picked up.

“Where are you?” she yelled.

“…I don’t have money for a cab…Okay, fine. I’ll get one now, but somebody better be there to pay for it.”

After a half-hour drive, we arrived at the Fort Harrison, a historic hotel that had fallen into disrepair before L. Ron Hubbard bought it in 1975 with the idea of turning Clearwater into the spiritual headquarters for all of Scientology. The large old-school lobby looked like the kind you see in movies—horror movies. There were marble staircases that descended to a large room with soaring columns, iron chandeliers, a black-and-white-checkered floor, and creepy chairs that looked like they belonged in Dracula’s castle. It was dead quiet until Mom started hitting the bell on the front desk.
No one was there to receive us. When someone did finally show up, we were escorted to a cabana room near the pool. We were allowed to stay here, among paying parishioners, until space opened up for us at what was to become our regular berthing, or housing for members of the Sea Org. We were among Scientologists who had flown in from all over the country to do their services and/or upper OT levels (those above Clear on the Bridge).

Eventually we moved thirty minutes away from the Fort Harrison to what would be our new home. We pulled into what looked like a deserted motel. It was a Quality Inn.

The motel housed Sea Org members and some staff who worked at the Fort Harrison and surrounding orgs, or churches. This Quality Inn was running very low on quality. It was shabby, disgusting, and depressing. The pool we passed on the way to our room was literally a swamp.

The Sea Org member who was showing us around said to my mom, “Vicki, you come with us, and the girls are going to the girls’ dorm.” The only way you could get your own room was if you were married or had a baby. My mom’s room was in the back of the motel, while we were in the front. Our room, one that would normally accommodate one double bed, was crammed with three bunk beds, which slept six girls. In our tight acid-washed jeans, cropped shirts, mullets, Nic wearing a puka shell necklace and me with a rope chain featuring a charm that read “Little Brat,” we definitely didn’t look like any Scientologists they knew. After we walked into our room and over to our beds, one of the girls said, “Ummm…you are not allowed to wear perfume. You might want to do something about that. I can’t breathe.”

Another girl on the far right top bunk blew the smoke away from her cigarette like it was bothering her even though she was the one smoking. It took a second, but then I remembered: the girl from the New York Org! She looked at me tentatively, but in another instant I could see she remembered me too. Sherry jumped off her bunk and gave me a hug.

From there we were shown the galley, which is where we were to report if we wanted meals. They served breakfast from six to seven-fifteen only. The floors were sticky with old food, and the plates so slick with grease that my eggs slid right off and onto the filthy parquet below. I held out my plate for more eggs, but the cook said, “Get out of my line and learn to get in present time,” and just like that, I wasn’t going to eat.

Later, we met my mom at the recruitment office. The head of recruitment put down on the desk a white piece of paper with two sea horses flanking the words “Sea Organization Contract of Employment.”

“You have to sign a contract to be here,” the officer said.

I looked at the contract and was baffled. I was asked to pledge myself for an eternal commitment to the Sea Org for a billion years in order to bring ethics to the whole universe. In accordance with Scientology beliefs, members are expected to return to the Sea Org when they are reborn over time in multiple lives.

“Mom, we’ve got to sign this?”

“Yes, you have to sign it.”

“Nic, are you going to be here in a billion years?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Are you?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“What are you going to look like?”

“Really fucking old.”

We both started laughing, but Mom shot us a look. Then we both signed.

Ironically, even though she was promised by the recruiters that she could become a member of the Sea Org, my mother, who at this time had been affiliated with the church, worked for it, and been on course for a few years, didn’t qualify for the organization, because she had done LSD over a decade ago.

After we signed our billion-year contracts, Nicole and I were put on the EPF, or Estates Project Force, part of the basic Sea Org training for new recruits. It was a lot like boot camp. All EPFers spent
twelve hours a day doing hard labor, like pulling up tree roots with our bare hands, working heavy machinery on the grounds of the Fort Harrison and the Sandcastle, or cleaning bathrooms and hotel rooms. Then for two and a half hours each day, we would do the basic courses for the EPF, in which you learned the Sea Org policies and rules and what it meant to be a member. We were all given detailed check sheets, which listed all the actions we needed to take in order to complete each course. The first course being how to study Scientology.

In studying the policies, we quickly learned that there is no middle ground or room for interpretation. Any question we asked was answered with “What does LRH say?” You couldn’t ask your supervisor for help, other than “Where can I find the policy that says what I do here?” If you disagreed with something, the supervisor would answer that with “Okay, well, let’s see what you don’t understand here.”

Once, as a requirement during my coursework, my supervisor gestured toward a Demo Kit, one of which was located on every student’s study table. It was a little basket filled with everyday objects like paper clips and chess and checkers pieces.

My supervisor told me to physically act out the sexual policy for Sea Org members with the objects in the kit, in a room filled with other trainees—some reading, others doing drills.

“By using these things here, show me what the sexual policy is,” the supervisor said. Policy stated it was forbidden for Sea Org members to have sex or physical contact of any kind before marriage. So I took a paper clip and a chess piece, to stand for the girl and boy, and rubbed them together, saying, “This is not allowed.” Then I had the girl and boy touching each other side by side. “This is not allowed.” I put the girl and boy on opposite sides of the Demo Kit basket and said, “This is allowed.”

The supervisor took my check sheet and signed it, so that I could move on to the next assignment.

One day when I was working, Mike Curley, an older man who
was the head of the EPF, singled me out right away. He was tall and gaunt, reminding me of a cowboy from the movies.

“You’re a little troublemaker, huh?” he said.

“I don’t know. I’ve been told that,” I replied, trying to be cute.

“I can tell you right now, you will address me as ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ Or ‘Mr. Curley.’ Nothing else.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.”

“Not ‘Oh. Right.’ ‘Right, sir.’ ”

Nicole chimed in to say, “We don’t know the rules here.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to figure them out, because I’m putting you in charge of the Sandcastle Hotel crew,” he said, looking at me.

Me?
I was all of thirteen. Again, in Scientology children and adults are viewed equally. So it wasn’t odd to them that I might be in charge of some adults on my watch as well. I now had responsibilities that no teenager back in Brooklyn could imagine. I was learning something here in this weird environment that combined lots of freedom and lots of structure. Yeah, they made us do hard labor all day, but I was no longer being treated like a child.

I rose to the occasion and did the job I was tasked with, and came up with a plan to reward my “crew.”

If we got the Sandcastle cleaned in half the time, with good feedback from the guests via questionnaires they filled out, then the next day we could spend the other half of the day sitting on our asses at the pool. I was a boss running a crew and I was going to make some serious executive decisions. And I had read on my course that you reward good work. In my mind I was taking my orders directly from LRH.

With the incentive of possible time off, the crew was motivated to clean better and faster. We got positive feedback from the guests and headed to the Sandcastle’s pool after we finished cleaning.

We were all lying by the pool when Mike Curley walked by. He did a double take when he saw us.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said, his face turning a deep shade of red.

The thought that I might need to clear my plan with anybody
hadn’t even crossed my mind. I considered myself an executive of the Sea Org now.

“I’ve read the policy—”

“Get up, clean up all these deck chairs, and meet me at the dock,” he said, then stormed off.

When we got down to the marina, Mike was waiting for us in a motorboat. After we crammed into the small boat, he started driving out of the marina and into the bay, into the real ocean. He was dead silent, his eyes in his weather-beaten face staring out at the horizon, until we were so far out that the marina was no longer visible. Then he cut the engine and started screaming at me.

“Never do you sit in a public place. You are Sea Org members. Don’t you know that the pool at that hotel is for paying guests only, not for you to be enjoying?

“Do you understand me?” he yelled.

Actually, he was shouting so loud that I almost couldn’t decipher what he was saying. Was he even speaking English? I wasn’t sure.

“Mm-hmm,” I said.

“It’s ‘Yes, sir!’ ”

I thought I was following LRH and rewarding my team. And I didn’t know who these paying Scientology people were, but I was a Sea Org member, a bad motherfucker from Brooklyn clearing the planet. So, just like I’d practiced with Nicole back home, I pushed down my emotions, got my TRs in, and stayed silent. I mean, maybe Mike didn’t know LRH had written me personally. That I had come back from another life?! Hello?