We were up in the sky, Gabriel and me, on a flight to Chicago. Below, in a South American country, I had never heard of, members of the Peoples Temple were poisoning their children and then themselves.
I was returning home for the first time in 13 years, since the day after high school graduation in 1965. I had attended UCLA and Pitzer College but dropped out to explore California on a red Yamaha 80 motorbike with my backpack. Gravitating to San Francisco, into the Summer of Love in 1967. I carried the mail for the US Postal Services, managed The Dancer’s Workshop office, taught dance classes, and participated in Street Theater. I cooked the Digger Stew and performed at the Human Be-In. Other jobs included editorial assistant, artist’s model, and masseuse. At 19, I married a Yorkshireman twice my age. We divorced within a year. I hitchhiked up and down the shining coast of California.
In 1968, the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was a terrifying wake-up call. Hells Angels and drug dealers moved into the peaceful, Haight Ashbury. I longed for safety, sanity, and racial harmony, in a place that felt violent and polarized.
Synanon was both productive and revolutionary. Racially diverse people, from all walks of life and economic levels sat in circles and told each other the truth. They agreed to civil behavior outside the circles. They stopped using drugs and lying. Some repaired severely damaged relationships and redressed past crimes and sins. Barriers were broken down.
In the Game and Out of the Game
There were no doctors or designated leaders in these circles. No easy answers and nothing predictable. What went on in the Game stayed there. After each Game, players hugged and high-fived then sat down socially for coffee, tea, and snacks.
Outside the Game circles, the agreement was to treat each other with courtesy and be as friendly and helpful. Residents could “as for one “call a Game” whenever they needed to blow off steam, work on a relationship, or make a confession.
Music, Dance, Art
Topnotch musicians played every Saturday Night where a Tribal Dance called the Hoop-la could be learned and joined by all. Almost every night after dinner there was music in the Wood Shed. There were young guys from Puerto Rico who taught us Salsa. Synanon was a haven for artists whose colorful works decorated the walls and hallways.
They provided food for the Black Panther Breakfast program and hosted a peaceful sit down between the Oakland Sheriffs and Black Panther Leaders. Everyone checked their guns at the door.
The Real Estate included a vintage posh historic hotel and club on the beach in Santa Monica, a hip revamped warehouse in the heart of San Francisco, the 12I-story elegant, once exclusive, Athens Athletic Club in downtown Oakland, ranches, and a conference center in Marin County. Each property had been rehabbed and improved. They were warm and welcoming, always immaculate. I found a conscious and mindful community. There was never a bit of trash on the ground or a bathroom unstocked. There was a sense of ownership and pride. People worked together.
I joined the “Square Game Club” at Seawall in San Francisco. Nine months later I was “hired in” to work and live in Synanon as a member and employee. For the first time in my life, I was all in and fully committed.
My father was intrigued and as always, supportive. He hoped that I would “rise through the ranks” of the organization. My mother was nervous, doubtful, and as always, disappointed.
THE RETURN
My father, a peacemaker, adored his four children and doted on my mother. He lavished her with presents, poems, and praise. After 13 years of self-imposed exile, he urged me to come home with my four-year-old son to surprise my mother for her birthday.
Much as I loved the Game, I did not want to be judged and scrutinized at home, where I was boxed in a corner unable to respond.
My Dad was in advertising and a terrific salesman. We began to plan the surprise and I hoped for a loving reconciliation.
My mother had tried hard to be perfect. She sang lullabies in a mix of German and English and was an assistant Girl Scout Troop leader. She drove us to our many events and activities, parties, play dates, dancing, and horse lessons. She hosted birthday parties, served on the PTA, and shopped at the finest stores for gifts and clothes for her children. She provided ritual, ceremony, and tradition; Christmas, and Easter, as well as the Jewish holidays of Chanukah and Passover. She hosted the family Thanksgiving gathering with all the Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins. Adult tables and children’s tables in very full houses. Mishpuchah.
How could I not appreciate all of that? Was it so hard to give her the praise she craved and deserved even if her need for it seemed unquenchable?
What had gone so wrong between us? I looked more like her than either of her other daughters. I inherited her difficult skin, wide face, sturdy but jiggly short thighs, and thick brown hair. I had, what she called the ‘Kraus Kopf’ which meant I had the square head that our patriarch. Her grandfather had to pass on to her and my uncle Victor, sparing other family members. This was supposed to be an honor of sorts as he was deeply respected and spoken of in hushed reverent tones.
Her sport and passion was tennis. She was the undisputed champion at the Country Club. Her older sisters Ruth and Marion preferred golf, roaming the lush tree-lined acreage in their Talbot wear, a caddy in tow. Cocktails at the Clubhouse at the 19th hole.
My Mother was fierce. She worked up a sweat banging that ball in her tennis whites. She liked to win and always did, be it singles, doubles, or mixed doubles. Our sun porch was filled with her trophies and six potted non-fruiting grapefruit trees that she insisted she had planted from “morning breakfast seeds” when she was a little girl. The trees were over 20 years old when I met them and taller than me. I was told they would never fruit unless they were grafted. I wondered if I would need to be grafted to ever bear fruit.
My Mother was not like the other Country Club ladies. She did not care if she looked pretty on the tennis court. She wanted to win. She liked to sweat and although she wore a visor did not care what the sun did to her face which was tan, deeply wrinkled, and pocked marked from teenage acne. Her hair was never dyed or styled. Simple bowl cut and short her entire life. Her powerful muscled thighs were strong but riddled with cellulite and shook furiously as she thundered around the court mercilessly whacking the felt hide of the ball.
Our parents loved to entertain their many friends. They were in a play reading group and loved Gilbert and Sullivan. The women in the neighborhood who drove their husbands to the Northwestern train station were friends. Often they carpooled to the train station in the morning and picked them up in the early evening. The Fathers in suits and fedoras carried briefcases and folded copies of the Chicago Sun-Times. Our Father rode the Northwestern Commuter train from the Highland Park station to the Merchandise Mart in Chicago. He came home for dinner each night to carve the roast. He loved to serve food and feed his family.
One Weds. of each month the wives met at rotating households for cocktails. They called themselves “The Boozers.”
When they met at our house, the ice clinked and the laughter rang out in our living room. I liked these ladies, I had not seen in 13 years. I hoped they would be at the party.
Gabriel had fussed a little but not cried once on his first airplane ride and trip out of California. He squeezed the red corduroy dog Ilmi had made for him, when the engine roared to take off. He pressed his nose against the window at lift off, turning back every few seconds, before gluing his face to the glass as we rose. He fell into a deep drooly sleep for most of the flight and was drowsy when we landed.
I dressed him in a powder blue snowsuit and a white knit cap with a pom-pom, for the cold. My Father greeted us at baggage claim and hustled us to the Buick through a light snowfall.
My parents had recently done an empty nest downsize from our large brick house on Maple Ave to a split-level Ranch on Linden Ave. The evening news was blaring on the living room TV as the front door swung open.
“Surprise,” we said.
Her jaw dropped as she took in my close-cropped head and her sleepy curly-headed grandson on my hip.
As she peered back and forth between Gabriel and me, her eyes grew wider and liquefied.
“Here comes the Drama,” I thought as the tears streamed down. Her jaw was clenched, I was unsure if she wanted to hug or slap me. She leaned in. I stiffened as Dad nudged us inside. He showed me to a room upstairs. I changed Gabriel into his pj’s, tucked him into bed, and lay next to him patting his back, still entranced by the sweet smell of his head and his silky golden hair. “Gabriel and Me” by Joan Baez, was his special lullaby which I sang till he was breathing in a deep even sleep.
They were in the den. On the floor model TV console were shaky aerial images of corpses on the ground around what looked like a large metal warehouse. Shots of the bodies were interspersed with talking heads, experts on cults, families, and disgruntled former members.
“They killed themselves.” my mother said, “Those people drank poison. …They murdered children.”
“My friends called today,” she continued agitated, “With condolences!”
“For what?” I sputtered
“For you, for you! They thought you died there.”
“They are idiots!” I blurted, indignant that my life and the lives of these poor dead people, 900 in all, were being conflated into a ridiculous drama starring my mother. My hopes for a healing visit were fading till she said with pressured speech between clenched teeth,
“Marilee went to India. She changed her name and refuses to talk to the family. Helen thinks that maybe you can help…”
My Chance for Redemption
Helen, petite, elegant, and generous, was one of my mother’s best friends and frequent doubles partner, Her architect husband built a capacious Prairie style house with tennis courts for their family of six. He was a large cheerful handsome man with a wide square face and jaw. His eyes crinkled in a perpetual smile. They hosted a Memorial Day party. Their three sons were hardy and hale like their father, virile and athletic. Their daughter Marilee, large for her age, had a deep gravelly voice. What was so attractive about the father and brothers, did little for a girl child. Marilee was shy and often teased. Her three older brothers excelled at swimming, tennis, and scholastics. This large square heavy girl so different from her graceful dragonfly of a mother, plodded with slow deliberation. We went through kindergarten, Sunday school, and high school together. Our families belonged to the same synagogue and country club. Marilee came to our birthday parties, and we went to hers. We were in the same homeroom, but we never shared a secret or real conversation. She was timid, stocky, and uncomfortable in her own skin. I was brash and insensitive. She probably winced when I came around. I gravitated towards her mother, who played a hard game of tennis but did not take winning so seriously. She laughed like a little bell and looked you in the eye, genuine, kind, and curious.
We met at a dainty tea and gift shop and sat on tiny wire chairs around a small round lime-green table in the corner. Helen, usually poised and upbeat was pale and shaken.
“So horrible,” she began, clasping my hand. “Why? Why would they…?”
I wasn’t sure why she thought I would know, but said:
“We still don’t know what really happened to them.” The media had already begun taking our community. I was skeptical with an open mind.
I believed they had been murdered and doubted the story about suicide drills. I had always been a questioner. This story did not add up any more than Lee Harvey Oswald being the lone gunman.
I was a card-carrying member of SCRAP (Synanon Committee for a Responsible American Press) and SCRAM (Synanon Committee for a Responsible American Media). The media’s motivations were to scoop each other and sell more advertising.
“Marilee…, “ Helen quavered, “Oh, we can’t call her that anymore… She wants to be Asmara. She doesn’t want us to contact her.”
Helen wanted me to help her understand how this well-loved and gently reared youngest daughter could flee her happy secure home.
“Why did you leave, and join a…a?” She stuttered, uncomfortable.
I wanted her to understand why I loved my community and allay her fears.
“I feel whole, healthy, and empowered for the first time in my life. We were a racially integrated community working on social issues I care about. Our Distribution Network sends surplus goods to disaster zones, schools, and others in need around the world. We are saving the lives of those who could die from addiction or end up in prison. I am traveling the country, presenting to Fortune 500 CEOs and decision-makers, and working with creative, articulate people, doing meaningful work for causes I believe in with people I love…”
“You do look well,” she said, stopping my diatribe. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“Do you think she is brainwashed, that she could…
She placed her hand on mine and peered into my eyes with her earnest and endearing squint.
“Marilee will be fine. I assured her. “She needs to find her way, her place…” I was winging it. Marilee and I had little in common. I wished that I had been kinder to her and I could talk to her now. I wasn’t worried or surprised by her choice. I was glad she found a place where she was accepted and could find her path. I was also blissfully ignorant of what was brewing back at my chosen home, my community.
That evening, at my mother’s birthday party, I greeted the guests and took their coats. I knew most of them but not the first man to ring the doorbell. He peered at me intently.
“Are you the daughter?”
“Yes, I am one of them— the youngest.”
“Well you are beautiful,” he said with surprise, gazing at my very short, shiny hair. “You look like Audrey Hepburn.”
I guffawed as I took his camel hair coat and showed him to the buffet. As a fat girl whose every mouthful had been under scrutiny, I was thrilled by the compliment though it was far from true. Our Fat-a-thon and aerobics program inspired me to lose 100 pounds since my pregnancy. But I did not resemble Audrey Hepburn in any way besides the short bob and large brown eyes. I wondered what he had expected of “the daughter” from the cult.
“Great party Mom!” I offered the next morning.
“Yes,” she agreed and smiled sweetly as though remembering. Then abruptly she spat out
“Do you do suicide drills in Synanon?”
Stunned and insulted I wondered. “Does she have a clue who I am and what I do?”
At that point, I did not believe that the people at Jonestown could possibly have killed themselves or had suicide drills, and I saw no connection between our two groups. Miffed, I departed early.
I held Gabriel close on the plane ride home. It was difficult to return him to the Synanon school. I watched him play with his peers in the large muscle workshop with several sizes and shapes of climbing blocks, slides, rope swings, and tunnels. The small muscle workshop had challenging toys to build and construct for hand-eye coordination. The Demonstrators, as teachers were called, encouraged the children to work together and share. I helped serve dinner. They ate together around the custom-designed low tables with tiny chairs their size.
The sinks in their bathroom were at child level and the custom toilets were small and low enough for their independence. After baths and bedtime stories, I patted Gabe’s back and sang his lullaby for all the children in their sleeping room.
Eventually, I learned The Peoples Temple had been recipients of food, shoes and clothing from our Distribution Network. A powdered drink mix called Flavor-Aid had been among the items. Mistakingly referred to as “Kool-Aid,” it had already found a place in our lexicon and zeitgeist.
“They drank the Kool-aid”
Reductive and insensitive, this is often said with a sly superior knowing smile or sad shake of the head. The surreal nightmare changed the way Americans would label those who challenged the norm of the nuclear family and tried other ways to live together. “Cult” became a word pejorative and cringe-inducing, shutting down reason and curiosity. We lost friends, customers, donors, and supporters.
Enter Laura
They were not all dead. Two years later one of the few survivors came to live with us. She had soft curly brown hair and a sweet gentle manner that belied the ferocity and determination I came to know.
Fragile and broken, she carried herself with grace and dignity. A hard worker with intelligence and needed skills, she was raw but willing to confront the tragedy and her personal losses. She threw herself into the community and her own healing, helped by those with tools for exploring trauma in a safe setting. Laura had demons to confront.
I was shaken by her guttural feral howls as she relived her Guyana nightmare via Games and psychodrama. Every year on November 18th, the day of the Jonestown tragedy, a special Game was held for her.
She had tremendous courage in confronting her loss. The memories became more manageable, the survivors guiltless. She was dedicated to telling the stories of her friends and those who perished, what she and they had hoped to accomplish. She sought to unravel how it had happened and deeply examine the signs she ignored. She was part of Jim Jones’s inner circle and was in town shopping when the murder/suicides took place. When she returned home her housemate and her two children were dead.
There was a note instructing her to participate in “revolutionary suicide” and the poison to use. She thought hard about it and then made another choice. She chose to live and tell her story.
When we knew each other well enough for me to broach the subject, I asked,
“There weren’t really suicide drills were there?” I had never believed that part of the story.
“Yes, there were.” Her eyes focused down on her hands.
Surprised, I had thought it was a lie.
“Did you ever do it, Laura— a suicide drill?”
“The drills were a loyalty test. I never thought that it could really happen. That he would go that far. It was just a strange test.
“I fell in love with the Peoples Temple from the minute I walked in. I loved it there, it was my home. I completely bought the vision of social justice and equality. I was in charge of an agriculture crew by day, taught Spanish by night, and helped out in the legal office into the early hours of the morning.
I would see little things that I knew were wrong. I sold out my inner voice to the larger vision of Jim Jones. I didn’t spend enough time watching him carefully. I need to figure out what happened on my watch, along with some very bright, well-intentioned people who all got pulled into his labyrinth of insanity.
How did this happen, and how did I not even see it coming?”
MEA CULPA
Laura and I were both Love Blind and could not imagine the place, idea, and people we loved could go so far off the rails.
Jim Jones once pointed a loaded point gun at her head and threatened to shoot her for falling asleep in a ten-hour meeting. She was scared but not enough to leave, or even talk about it. He talked for years about revolutionary suicide, yet she had no fear and did not believe he meant it.
There was once a place where we shared and mingled our lives, bread, and souls. Our dreams and fears were broadcast into a once-safe atmosphere. Something I was proud of and would fight for unable to see the tiniest crack or fault.
“This just in from Synanon,” said Jane Curtain on SNL Weekend Update, “The post office is swamped this Christmas so get your snakes in the mail early.”
A troubled Viet Nam vet and misguided teenager had done the deed though many of us at the eye of the storm were blind to this reality.
The genius of Our Founder was gone when and started drinking in the community dedicated to stopping those addicted.
Having been conditioned that “the only constant is change” and being open to new things, I stayed in Drunk Synanon. Sadly, I watched money spent on the vanity of frivolous women, convinced by shallow ‘friends’ that their breasts were not large enough and their skin had too many wrinkles and now they were rich enough to do something about it…. The place was becoming everything I had fled from. Still, I held fast, thinking I had a voice to influence change and an obligation to help our Founder as he had helped so many.
I recorded his words“I really do want an ear in a glass of alcohol” and put these words on the label of a tape I excerpted. “The New Religious Posture: Don’t Fuck with Synanon” and played it on the wire for all to hear, in and out of our little community. Yet I never dreamed anyone would get seriously hurt. I heard a devastated old recently widowed man, blowing off steam. He was always a blowhard.
I was blind and invested in the flag I carried.
The snake went into the mailbox in October of 1978, less than a year after we Changed Partners, and still, I waved my flag, In fact, my flag had a rattlesnake. DON’T TREAD ON ME. Members of the ‘other’ team carried the same flag in 2021 as they stormed the Capital tried to over throw the government.
We further separate from each other by the team, flag, slogan, political party, or church we have joined.
There were things that went on I knew nothing about, and had nothing to do with my daily life. Did I suspect, like Carmela Soprano wondering what her husband really did for a living?
As in George Orwell’s 1984, it was slow, insidious, and gradual from “Four legs good, two legs bad,” to “Two legs good, four legs bad,” as the power and money shifted and the guidance of Betty’s Spirit drifted into the wrong hands
I was too Love Blind to believe we could ever go wrong, I was invested in the flag I carried and ineffectual to prevent the slow corruption, as our community was migrating from one of Social Justice to one of domination and acquisition
Asmara returned to the Chicago area when her mother died. She returned to a traditional life, but never went back to her given name.
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