Inside Scientology (46 page)

Kendra felt better. She thought to herself, Okay, I'm six now, so when I'm ten, I should look for a four-year-old who's a Scientologist, and that'll be my dog. She did that quite a bit when people died, made that mental calculation, though she never really followed it up. But she had a general notion that the world was going to be full of Scientologists soon, each one reincarnated from the last, and that one day, in the cycle of one of her lifetimes, she would again meet everyone she ever loved. "It was comforting, and it helped you get over death," she said. "I guess it's parallel to the idea of heaven."

Heaven, though, was a concept Kendra never knew much about. Like the idea of God or the messiah, it belonged to the world of wogs, who Kendra believed were evil at worst, but simply helpless at best, caught in what Hubbard called the "labyrinth"; only Scientology provided a clear route out of this confused state.
Unlike Natalie, who was once reprimanded for referring to a non-Scientologist as a wog, Kendra's family and their acquaintances used the term liberally.

Frightening concepts about the wog world permeated Kendra's childhood. Wog society, she believed, was a place where psychiatrists, whom she was raised to fear and considered "the devil," had total control, particularly over children. In wog schools, she was told, kids, particularly the smart and active ones like her, were force-fed medication to calm them down. The fear that she might be sent to a dreaded public school, where she'd be diagnosed with a learning disability and given Ritalin, loomed over her every time she got in trouble. "I remember hearing, 'If you went to public school you'd have to tiptoe around being too smart in case they try to drug you,'" she recalled. "That totally freaked me out, since there was no protection from psychiatry in public school. I even heard that sex ed was taught in public school with a psychiatric agenda."

Kendra's own school ran much differently. Scientology schools all claim to be secular but replicate the org experience to a greater or lesser extent. At Delphi, a formal "org board" hung on the wall, listing many divisions and job titles found in a Scientology church; the school ran so much like a Scientology organization, former students say, that it mirrored the experience almost completely.

Teachers were known as "supervisors," as they also were at church. Counselors were called "ethics officers." Those who administered discipline were "masters at arms." When it came time to be tested, students would report to a separate division known as Qualifications, or "Qual," where, to make sure kids were being honest about how fully they understood what they had learned, they were quizzed verbally while hooked up to an E-meter. The exact same procedure is used for students in courses at Scientology orgs.

Socially, Delphi worked like an org as well, maintaining ethics files on every student, which included reports of every rules violation a child ever committed. From the time that they can write their name, Scientologist children, like their parents, are taught to report on one another, as well as on themselves, if they have taken part in a "crime," such as chewing gum when it wasn't allowed or stealing a kiss with a classmate, which is considered "out-ethics" behavior.

Located in the foothills of the Angeles National Forest, Delphi looks like any private school in southern California, with grassy playing fields; expensive facilities for art, music, and computer work; and a research library, which includes all of the classics as well as numerous history and foreign language texts and a great number of encyclopedias and dictionaries. The school, which enrolls about 175 students, most of them Scientologists, offers a standard academic curriculum as well as a Scientology curriculum.

At the primary school level, students begin their encounter with the basics of Hubbard's study tech through a book called
Learning How to Learn
. As they progress, they are introduced to other Scientology concepts, such as ethics and the "conditions of existence," which they learn through an abridged version of Hubbard's
Introduction to Scientology Ethics,
a core Scientology text. Other books teach them about the harmful effects of drugs and the basics of "money and exchange," the Hubbard concept that nothing worth having comes for free, which is the principle upon which all churches of Scientology operate.

Because study technology is based on the idea that it's possible to teach oneself anything simply by following Hubbard's core precepts, there is often no actual "teaching" in Scientology schools; indeed, many teachers at Delphi, as at similar schools, have earned no accreditation outside the Church of Scientology. There is also no classroom discussion. Instead, students work alone, following individualized "check sheets" that list the books or tasks required to finish the course. Maggie Reinhart, the former director of the Delphi Academy, told me that this technique forces a student to take an active role in his or her education.

Natalie Walet was educated this way at Chesapeake, and thrived. And so did Kendra, a voracious reader, who spent most of her time reading and writing papers. But her best friend, a girl I'll call Erin,
^*
yearned for a more rigid academic structure. "I'd look at the supervisor and think, 'Why can't you just teach me?' But they never did," she said. "All they did if you had a question about anything was tell you to refer to the materials, or find your misunderstood word." A bright and articulate girl, Erin nonetheless finished high school unable to name the two houses of the U.S. Congress.

But this training is vital if a child is to become a Scientology parishioner, something all children raised in Scientology are expected to become. Natalie went "on course," or enrolled in classes at the church, at the age of seven. Kendra started even earlier—around five, she believes. There was no refusing: it was expected of Scientologist children and their parents too, so the adults would not seem "off-purpose" to the goals of the church. In a vast array of programs, children learned alongside adults, and Kendra, like Natalie, enjoyed them. "You played with dolls or made little figures out of clay," she said, recalling one course, Overcoming the Ups and Downs in Life, which required that she learn the twelve "anti-social personality types" in society by memorizing the definitions and then demonstrating the principles using dolls as actors. Another course, known as Key to Life, taught aspects of study tech with the help of picture books.

One course that kids particularly enjoyed was Success Through Communication, the entry-level rung on the Bridge, which teaches both children and adults the basic training routines. To children, staring at a partner without blinking or making funny faces to try to break the other's composure feels like a game. But some of the other TRs, notably the drill known as "bull-bait," in which one partner heckles the other mercilessly in an attempt to shake the other person's resolve, can be excruciating for sensitive adolescents.

Erin, a slender, somewhat shy blonde girl, was thirteen years old when she did her bull-bait TR. Her partner was a teenage boy. "I'd just gotten boobs and I was wearing a tight shirt, and he made fun of me," she said. "Then, at one point he started to unzip his pants. I was
horrified,
but I just had to sit there. It was mortifying. But since it was part of bull-baiting, it was okay. The whole idea is that you're supposed to be able to handle anything that comes at you with no reaction, just totally self-contained."

These drills, particularly bull-bait, are a crucial part of auditor training, which children also begin at a young age. Kendra was being audited by the time she was in kindergarten and learned to audit others when she was around eleven or twelve years old, working with a partner who'd play the role of the preclear. Her job was to ask her partner questions, and then, using the techniques she learned in her TR drills, repeat them if her partner didn't answer or refused to give her the answer she sought. If the preclear got up, she would force the person back into the chair, something she was taught was for the subject's own good, as it might be harmful to leave the session before the person was deemed "ready" to do so. If a subject still refused to do what he or she was told, Kendra, using another technique she'd learned, would yell to show her "intent," as Scientologists put it. A tall, naturally assertive girl, Kendra had no trouble doing as she was trained to do, which was to "be in control of the session one hundred percent of the time," she said. "Even if it meant blocking the door if the person wanted to leave the room."

Kendra learned her TRs at church; Erin learned hers at school. Some kids learned them in both places. This is by design; a Scientology education provides a natural flow between the two institutions. The idea, noted Sandra Mercer, the former Scientology registrar from Clearwater, Florida, is to create a seamless world through which children can travel without any outside influence. But the Scientology world is viable only as long as a member agrees with its precepts. Natalie Walet, despite her independent spirit, never doubted these ideas. Kendra Wiseman did.

In 1997, when Kendra was fourteen, she developed a fascination with a bookstore across the street from the Celebrity Centre, where she was then on course after school. The shop, a Hollywood landmark known as the Daily Planet, sold eclectic books on different subjects as well as an assortment of New Age products: candles, crystals, tarot cards. Kendra had peeked in the window and thought it "looked really cool inside" but was afraid to go in. "The Scientologists at church said it was very degraded and woggy," she said. "I can still remember that feeling. I was fourteen, and I was afraid of going into a bookstore."

One day, on her lunch break from a course, Kendra and a friend mustered their courage and ventured into the Daily Planet. Entranced by the bohemian atmosphere, Kendra picked up a vial of incense, something she had never smelled before, and inhaled deeply. Immediately, she began to worry that she was "out-ethics," and fearing that the girl she was with would write a report on her, Kendra left. But the next day she returned, alone. She bought a vial of gardenia oil and furtively hid it in a T-shirt inside her gym bag. When she got home, she carefully unwrapped it and stowed the vial in the back of a dresser drawer. "I'd just take it out sometimes and smell it," she said. "It was like my little secret."

Before long, she'd shared her secret with Erin, who then sneaked into the Daily Planet and bought her own vial of gardenia oil. This initiated a period of exploration. The girls began to read about other philosophies—Buddhism and Taoism. When the singer Madonna famously embraced Kabbalah, they explored that too. Then Kendra and Erin discovered Wicca. And like many teenage girls at the time, they fell in love with the occult.

They collected books with mysterious Wiccan symbols on the cover. They grew herbs, lit candles, and recited spells. They baked "mooncakes" and hiked into the hills to eat them. "It was a phase," Kendra said, "but at the time I thought it was so cool—it was like an entire religion for
Lord of the Rings
fans."

Kendra's Scientology counselors, however, were not sympathetic. Feeling guilty that she might be breaking church rules, Kendra admitted to her auditor that she'd been lighting incense and meditating. At once, she was sent to a tiny room in the basement of the Celebrity Centre, where she was grilled about her newfound interest in "other practices." And, to her horror, the same thing was done to her at school. "The thing about Scientology is that everything is connected," she explained. "So if you're skeptical about something or don't agree with something, you get this entire society coming down on you: your school will call the church, the church will call your parents, or your work, or both; your parents will call somebody—you're locked in."

At school, students, teachers, and even the school's headmaster avoided her. Finally after several days, a friend confided that he'd been ordered not to speak to her. Kendra's phone then began to ring off the hook, with parents of her friends calling to tell her that she was unwelcome in their homes and not allowed to spend time with their children. She would continue to be unwelcome, they said, until she came to her senses and was back "in good standing" with the church.

At home, Kendra's parents, with whom she'd always been close, believed their daughter's rejection of Scientology was a phase. When Kendra insisted it wasn't, they quoted Hubbard's sayings related to sin: one single wrong act—an overt—could result in a series of events that would make a person want to leave a group. What was it? What was her sin? Kendra countered by citing L. Ron Hubbard's most famous statement: "What's true for you is true." She'd done nothing wrong, she said. Scientology just wasn't true for her any longer.

Fearful that Kendra was losing her chance at eternity, her parents turned to the church itself, which dispatched members of the Sea Organization to their home to handle the problem. Kendra hid in her room. "They'd cluster in little groups around the coffee table, discussing my case, while I made my point by blasting Rage Against the Machine at full volume from behind the closed door," she said. The church officials came day after day. Kendra's parents begged her to talk to them. Finally, she agreed.

"I was so angry, I just wanted these people to drop dead and leave me alone," she recalled. "But on the other hand I was really scared." For weeks, she said, one Sea Org official after another would take her aside and "use Scientology on me," as she put it. When Kendra didn't answer their questions, they'd ask them again, just as they'd been trained to do in their TR drills. If she was sulky or defiant, her interlocutor, following Scientology teachings, would try to "raise her tone" by hitting a note just above hers—"antagonism," one tone higher than hostility, was the most common note they struck.

"After a while I'd want it to end so much, I'd end up crying and agreeing to whatever"—which was usually to talk to yet another Sea Org member, Kendra said. "But I knew what I wanted, and I so didn't want to have that conversation, because all they did was break me down. They'd throw things back at me until I felt like
I
was the guilty one for not wanting to stay in Scientology. Every conversation I'd had with the Sea Org for years had been like that."