By Geoff Becker
I feel safe in saying that most people would agree that Synanon, even at its best, was not a perfect community. Others are vested in the notion that Synanon was a ‘violent criminal cult.’ The reality is way more complicated. I knew some people (including its founder) were responsible for some pretty awful events that contributed to the downfall of Synanon. They deserve whatever karma, or the law dictated at the time.
It’s intellectual laziness to look at Synanon as a monolith of like-minded, brainwashed, violent, criminally inclined people who all participated in the most heinous actions Synanon was guilty of. I do not recall a morning meeting where, with a show of hands, we all voted on putting a rattlesnake in a mailbox. There was no huge crowd cheering for departing pickup trucks of thugs off to beat up somebody perceived as the enemy of the week. Synanon didn’t do bad things. But some Synanon residents did terrible things. Thousands went through the doors. Decent, well-intentioned people looking for alternative lifestyles and addicts just looking for a way out of whatever horror show their life had become.
All Synanon residents, especially those closest to Chuck, in the end, were guilty of being enablers. By the late seventies, it was common knowledge that Chuck was deep into his addiction. We all heard the stories of his outrageous behavior. While he may have been too intoxicated to get behind the wheel of a car, and most bars would have stopped serving him, he was still in a position to affect the lives of hundreds of people who lived in Synanon.
Some people moved into Synanon, desiring to be part of a revolutionary community. They were warriors in the war against alienation. They wanted to raise their kids in an integrated community, save lives, etc. Maybe they were just bored and lonely, which is as good a reason as any. Maybe they expected that CED would appreciate their intellect and passion, and together they would lead all of us to a better future, only to find out that this was naïve bullshit. Chuck was a one-man show. Eventually, they left Synanon, filled with disappointment and regret. To this day, they are still bitter, angry, and resentful over their experience. That’s fair. I would never dispute somebody’s bad feelings about their Synanon experience. That’s theirs. They own it. I have no interest in debating whatever their recollections are.
There is a common misconception, reinforced by the media, that Synanon stopped providing rehab services for addicts in the early 70s. I came to Synanon in 1977 and can attest to the fact that I had breakfast every morning with close to a hundred character disorders with assorted life-destroying addictions. Some are awesome people who are still my friends and family today, over 40 years later. Others went down the proverbial manhole, never to be heard from again. Even the ones who disappeared, I remember them so well. Juan, who, after an unsuccessful “guestroom” date, got up from breakfast to use the restroom and never came back. There was my friend Luis, who had sex with a reasonably attractive newcomer behind the curtain on the stage. It turned out she thought she was turning a trick to gain advantage. Realizing he was a ‘John’ and not a suave, sweet talker was too much to face up to. He left.
Ricardo, who I usually sat with at breakfast, told the same joke every morning.
Ricardo: What’s the hardest thing in Synanon?
Any of us at the table: We don’t know. What’s that?
Ricardo: My dick!!. HAHAHAHAH
I was very fond of Juan and Luis and missed them both. Ricardo, not so much.
I’ve been asked why I stayed in Synanon, the question reflecting that when I showed up at the door in 1977, the joint was fucking crazy. Changing partners, nude weigh-ins, vasectomies, ‘Hey Rubes,’ guns, and violence against people who did nothing to deserve it. I signed up for a vasectomy because I wasn’t that interested in passing on my genes. I was told I was too new in Synanon to make that sort of commitment. So, the events swirled about me but didn’t have much to do with my day to day life.
What I strongly remember and what did affect my life was the first old timer to sit with me and run his story. First, he took me fresh from kicking on the couch for a run on the beach. I thought I would die. I hoped I would die. However, I did become a lifetime runner as a result. His junkie story was horrific, like my own. We had similar backgrounds, so he was easy to relate to. But unlike myself, who was sober for three days, I saw a healthy, well-dressed, articulate, sober guy. It was difficult for me to fathom because I never met a junkie who had gotten his life back. Not in my neighborhood. He was my first role model. Another old-timer stopped to talk to me when I was sweeping the club’s stairs. He gave me a Barlow pocket knife. This was my only possession for a long time. He seemed to take an interest in me. He checked up on me. That was Lou Scarano, and we became friends and colleagues until his death. My eyes were opened to the possibilities for my life. It was the first time I could imagine myself having a somewhat normal life. “If these guys can do it, maybe I can. wtf?.” So there was a lot of crazy shit going on around me, but there were also lots of men and women around me that had gotten their lives together in Synanon. These people meant so much to my journey. Some are still part of my journey.
I didn’t go to Synanon to change the world. I had no such lofty goals. I went to Synanon to get a needle out of my arm and not go to Gratersford Penitentiary, where I was most definitely headed. There were no more second chances. I had spent most of the year before going to Synanon, locked up in jail on the psychiatric block of Holmesburg prison and then Spring Meadows prison. The day I was arrested, I hung myself in my cell with my blue jeans. Luckily my jeans were such crap they ripped after I was unconscious dead weight. I wound up in restraints in solitary. Before I was locked up, my health had deteriorated so severely that every time I fixed, I would get a fever and horrible shakes that became excruciating leg cramps. But I wrapped myself in a blanket and still fixed 2-3 times a day.
I had broken the hearts of my wonderful parents and sisters. My dad used to tell me I had the opposite of the Midas Touch. “Everything you touch turns to shit’. He was not a motivational speaker. I don’t disagree with his assessment. I was an agent of chaos. I went from a year in jail to a psychiatric hospital and was finally released with a clean year to stand on. As an agent of chaos, I managed to get a lovely student nurse pregnant while in the hospital. Like my dad said…. But I couldn’t get back to shooting dope quickly enough. Months later, there were three warrants out for my arrest, and my habit was so bad I was trading my clothing for dope. This is the definition of ‘rock bottom.’ Most junkies are not fortunate enough to come back. Thankfully, my mother, who hadn’t given up on me, put me on an airplane and sent me from Philadelphia to Synanon in Santa Monica. I was interviewed and taken in with $6.00 in my pocket. It was January 14, 1977.
I hadn’t planned on staying in Synanon for long. I remember after maybe a week, I was feeling good. Looking out the window of Hobby Lobby at the ocean in Santa Monica, on the beach below, several beautiful, albeit bald, women in bikinis were playing volleyball. Finally, after four years of heroin addiction, my libido had returned. I was awed by the plethora of beautiful women in Synanon. At that moment, I decided to stick this out a little longer. I think those bikini clad ladies helped save my life. Hey, whatever it takes!
Chuck was not Synanon to me. He wasn’t a daddy figure or role model. I had lunch with him 2-3 times in 13 years. I’m glad he started the place; I’m sorry he tore it down. Synanon was, for me, the people who had become friends, family, and role models. I am aware that some people have genuine reasons to be bitter. I’m just not one of them. I know enough and saw enough to know that some pretty fucked up things happened. People got hurt. But I also know that there mainly were amazing, talented, good people who came through the doors. Thousands. Dope-fiends and Squares. Some went on to have good, full, productive lives. Some just came full circle to a life of misery and death. If not for my experience in Synanon, I would have been dead from an overdose, disease, or violence many years ago.
I would not have the wife and daughters I have. I would not have a career that made it possible for me to take care of my family. I would not have reunited with my parents, who had a chance to see me as a businessman, husband, and father. Nobody was more shocked than my father, who had lost hope. He called the front desk after I was in Synanon for six months to check up. He did not believe that I was still there and doing well. The person at the connect finally came, got me, and put me on the phone with my dad. He was still not convinced. I had let him down so many times before.
The lifelong friends I made in Synanon are still some of the best people I know. They are great parents, successful, funny, and pretty goddamn smart. They coach their kids’ teams, have successful businesses, have gone back to school and gotten degrees, they provide jobs for others, they write they make music, and they are contributing members of their community. Some are Democrats, and some are Republicans. When I ended up in the hospital in Las Vegas years ago, eight of my Synanon friends showed up at the hospital, loudly making sure I got the care I needed.
So, am I grateful for my experience in Synanon? Fuck yeah. The doors weren’t locked. It was always my choice. If, reading this, somebody were to dismiss me as a Pollyanna, then they really, really don’t know me. I am more than capable of being a complete asshole.
So, I don’t begrudge or dispute anybody’s bitterness, pain, or suffering. That’s yours. Just let me have my gratitude.
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