[A young scientologist finally gets to see her parents. At dinner...]
"Your mother and I have been reading about this Scientology," he told me. He took some newspaper clippings from his briefcase. "Here. I want you to read these."
I picked up one of the clippings. It was from Time Magazine. The writer was obviously biased against Scientology. In the article Scientology was called a cult.
"Scientology's not a cult," I informed my father. "It's just a group of people trying to make a difference in the world. This writer obviously didn't talk to anyone in Scientology or he wouldn't have written these things." I handed the article back to him.
"Well, there are other articles," he handed me several other articles. I looked through them. The orientation of the writers was obvious.
"Dad, this is just entheta," I told him, remembering what Hubbard had taught about this kind of journalism on one of his tapes. "That means it is against theta, or goodness. We're not supposed to read this stuff," I told him coldly, pushing the articles back to his side of the table.
"But just read some of them," he pleaded with me.
"I don't need to read them. I know what they say without reading them. They are written by the suppressive press. These writers are paid by their bosses to write this stuff. They want to destroy Scientology because it works.
There are vested interests in this country who don't want to see Scientology expand. It is a threat to them because they want to enslave people and Scientology is in the business of freeing people." Out of my mouth were coming the phrases I had heard over and over on Hubbard's training tapes.
"You are in a dangerous cult," my father argued with me. "We want you to quit this foolishness and come home. That's why I am here. I have come to get you and to take you home."
I looked at my dad with disbelief. He was beginning to sound like a Suppressive Person. A very unpleasant thought began to form in my mind.
Could it be possible that my dad was an SP? "How does mom feel about this?" I asked him.
"She totally agrees. We both want you home. You can go back to the university. If you come back now, you can still enroll for the spring semester." He was looking at me hopefully.
"I don't want to come back. I don't want to go back to school. This is where I belong. I have a job here. I am helping to Clear the planet. There is nothing on this whole planet more important than Scientology. These writers are wrong about Scientology. Scientology is the only hope on this planet that any of us have." I was beginning to get desperate. Could my father force me to go back with him?
"No, you are wrong," my father said, beginning to sound angry. "This Scientology is nonsense. You are in a cult. And I am going to take you home. I want you to get your things and come with me. I have a ticket for you to come back with me to Michigan." He pulled the ticket from his pocket. It was made out in my name.
I started to cry. "Dad, I can't come back with you. I don't care what you think about Scientology, you just don't understand. You can't tell me what to do anymore. I'm eighteen. Scientology is my life. I've signed a contract to work here and I'm not leaving."
"What kind of contract?" he asked suspiciously.
"A Sea Org contract. I signed a contract to work for the Sea Org for a billion years. We're going to clear the planet. Then we're going to clear all the other planets in the universe. Scientology is the first chance in millions of years for us to be free. And I'm not going to mess it up. There's nothing in the world out there that I want to do. How could I go back to music school when I have a chance here to help with something really important?"
He looked at me with a combination of exasperation and disbelief. "How can I get you to see the truth about what you are involved in?" he asked me. "Can't you see the absurdity of what you are saying? A billion year contract? Clearing the planet? This is nonsense. You need to come to your senses." Now he was really sounding angry.
"Dad, I'm not coming back with you. I'll have dinner with you and talk to you, but I'm not coming back to Michigan. And you can't make me." I was not about to give in.
He stared helplessly out the window. Then he turned to me and started speaking in a kinder, less angry voice.
"Look, I know we have never shown much affection in our family. But you know that we love you. We care about you. Why do you think I came all the way out here to see you? We all care. Your brothers and sister miss you too. We all want you back home."
"And what will you do if I don't come?" I asked him.
"We'll try something to get you back. Legally. We'll fight. We'll sue this cult if we have to. We're not going to give to up to some harebrained cult," he threatened.
Now I knew the truth. My father was an SP. Hubbard had made it clear. I had read all the teachings on the Suppressive Person on the course. The basic crime of Suppressive Persons was to attack Scientology, the only force for good and reason on the planet.
I had read about this in the Ethics book. The Suppressive Person was also called the "anti-social personality," or the "anti-Scientologist." "There are certain characteristics and mental attitudes which cause about 20% of a race to oppose violently any betterment activity or group," Hubbard had written. Such people, he said, cause untold trouble for betterment groups such as Scientology. "The anti-social personality supports only destructive groups and rages against and attacks any constructive or betterment group." Of course, I thought. My father works for the government. According to Hubbard, the government is completely suppressive. I had listened to tapes where he had told us all about the suppressive agencies in the federal government: the IRS, the FDA, the FBI, the National Institute for Mental Health. The government, explained Hubbard, was a suppressive organization that controlled this country. But the real truth was that behind this government was an invisible govenrnment that most people didn't know about. It consisted of a secret group of twelve extremely powerful men who were the real source of power in the world. They were particularly connected with the World Health Organization in Europe. And they pulled the strings that ran this country. And the people who worked for the government, like my father, were just minor suppressives that were attracted to this kind of work because it was consistent with their real inner evil natures.
I stared at my father with amazement. My eyes were being opened. Now I understood why there had been so much trouble in our family. My father was, as Hubbard put it, a "blazing SP."
"Look, I'm not coming home. And I don't want you to cause any trouble for Scientology. That would just get us both in trouble." I looked at him coldly. I got up from the table. "I'm going back to the center. I can't stay here with you. I'm sorry you wasted your trip but you did that on your own determinism, and I can't take responsibility for it (more Scientology-talk)."
I walked out the door, not looking back at him.
I ran back to the center, and burst into Aileen's office. "Aileen, my dad is threatening to sue Scientology. He says it's a cult. He wanted me to go back home with him," I said, obviously upset.
She looked at me, concerned. "Why? What happened? Tell me exactly what happened and what he said."
I related the whole event to her. She looked troubled.
"I'm afraid I'll have to write up a knowledge report about this," she told me. "It seems that your father could be a source of trouble for us. You'll have to work this out with Ethics. And until it's handled, I'm afraid you won't be able to go back on course. But the first thing that you need to do is to go and report everything that has happened to the MAA."
She pulled a routing form out of her top drawer. At the top it said, "Ethics Routing Form."
Several minutes later, I sat in the chair opposite the teenage Ethics Officer, telling him the same story I had told Aileen.
"I would like to indicate that your father is a Suppressive Person," he looked across the desk at me as if I were infected with a deadly virus, "and the policy on suppressives is very clear." He handed me a policy letter written by Hubbard. I read through it carefully. The policy on suppressives, according to Hubbard, was to "handle" or "disconnect."
"What does that mean?" I asked the young boy sitting across from me. Wrong question. "What word don't you understand?" he looked at me with emotionless eyes.
"I understand the words. I just don't understand what I'm supposed to do," I said.
"Very simple. Either you handle your father. That means to the point where he is willing that you continue in the Sea Org, or you will have to disconnect from him. You will have to send him a disconnect letter."
"Disconnect letter?" It sounded ominous.
"Yes. I can help you write it. You will tell him that you want no contact with him or with the rest of your family now or at any point in the future. You will formally disconnect from your suppressive family. And until you handle the situation in one way or the other, you won't be allowed back on course. That's policy. I'm going to give you twenty four hours to make your decision. You are to report back to me at this same time tomorrow." The policy, I realized, was black and white. Like everything else in Scientology. There was no room for feeling. Not that I minded the lack of emotion with which this and similar situations were handled in Scientology. I had already done enough TR 0 bullbaited to not feel much about anything. But to tell your parents goodbye forever... I squirmed inwardly at the thought. Yet I believed in the policy. I was already conditioned to believe that if Hubbard said it, it must be right. I knew that Hubbard's way would always be the best and most rational solution because he was "Source." In just a few short weeks, Hubbard had already assumed occupancy of the place in my mind allocated to Father, or Dad. He loved me, I believed, even more than my own father did. He was father to us all.
I walked back to the house, having been barred from the course until this problem was resolved. I thought of my dad. He'll be home in a couple of hours, I thought. I'll call him and maybe he'll be more reasonable. Maybe he can be "handled."
But in my mind the decision had already been made. My father had taken on the color of the enemy. I no longer thought of him as father. All these years, I thought, I had been living with an SP and not known it. This explained all the conflict in my family. And by virtue of being married to an SP, my mother was by (Scientology) definition a "PTS," or Potential Trouble Source. And both of them were now endangering my Scientology career.
If they didn't agree to back off, I thought, I will have to disconnect. I have to get back on course. Already my stats for the week are crashed, I thought dismally, wondering what ethics condition I would be assigned for the week.
I lay on my bed, thinking back over all the years with my father. I thought of the twelve characteristics Hubbard lists in the Ethics book as being characteristic of an SP.
"1. He or she speaks only in broad generalities." Yeah, I thought, my dad is always talking about "they this" and "they that."
"2. Such a person deals mainly in bad news, critical remarks, invalidation and general suppression." Bulls eye, I thought. My father had a definite tendency to be critical. I thought of all the times he came home complaining about his co-workers, criticizing what they had done during the day.
"3. The anti-social personality alters, to worsen communication... passes on `bad news.'" Again I thought of times when my dad told us less than flattering stories about the "imbeciles" he worked with.
"4. He does not respond to treatment or psychotherapy." Once, I remembered, my mother had tried to get my dad into counseling to work on their marriage and he refused to go.
"5. Surrounding such a personality we find cowed or ill associates or friends who, when not driven actually insane, are yet behaving in a crippled manner in life, failing, not succeeding." My mother is always sick, I thought, and what about my problems. And my sister is always having trouble in school. I didn't need to read any further. There was no doubt in my mind. My dad was an SP. And now he was trying to interfere with me trying to help Scientology clear the planet. I began to feel angry. I'm not going to let him do this to me, I thought. I'm going to get ethics in on my family. If I have to disconnect, then that's what I'll do.
I waited for the hours to pass. I was dreading the call. Finally I walked down to the convenience store a couple of blocks away and placed the call. My mother answered the phone. She sounded cheerful. "Hi, dear. We were just thinking about you."
"Is dad there?" I asked her coldly. I knew what I was up against. My mother had no idea of the situation she was in, that she was PTS to a deadly SP. "Yes, he just got in. I'm so disappointed that you didn't come back with him. But you need to know that we love you and we'll always be here for you." "Could I just talk to dad?"
He came on the line. "Margery, we're not going to give up without a fight. You tell Scientology that they will hear from my lawyer. I'm not going to stand for this nonsense."
"OK, dad. I'm sorry you feel that way. Tell mom goodbye for me," I said, then quickly hung up the phone.
There's no going back now, I thought. I went back to the house and spent a sleepless night tossing to and fro, my sleep haunted with nightmares about my father. In one dream, he had a gun and was standing outside the center shooting through the windows.
The next morning I walked over to center and went directly to the Ethics office.
"I need to disconnect from my family," I stated calmly. "There's no hope of ever dealing rationally with my father. He's insane on the subject of Scientology. Hubbard was sure right about SP's. They hate what we are doing to save this planet."
"So what do I have to do?" I looked across at the teenage Master at Arms. "Here's what you have to write," he replied, handing me a blank sheet of paper and a pen. He began to dictate. "I am writing to notify you that I hereby disconnect from you." He paused as I wrote. "I want no further contact with you at any time or under any circumstances. This decision is irrevocable." I wrote down exactly what he said. "Now sign it," he commanded. Then he handed me an envelope. "You can make this out and we will mail it for you."
I addressed the envelope.
"That's all there is to it," he said matter of factly. "I will give you a form to get you back on course. You're going to have to push to get your stats back up."
"I know," I answered. "But I'll do it. Thursday is still three days away." I walked back to the courseroom. Just like that, I thought. I tried to comprehend the fact that I would never see or write to my parents ever again. Somehow, it didn't seem real. I couldn't quite imagine life without mom and dad to fall back on.
"Well, I guess I'm on my own now," I thought. "I know I did the right thing. I just wish I felt better about it."
For a moment I had a fleeting thought to run back up the street to the store to call my dad and ask him for the ticket back home.
But I quickly pushed the thought from my mind. "Family," I thought to myself, "is the second dynamic. The Sea Org is the third dynamic." Then I repeated to myself the phrase I was to hear many times in the coming years. "The greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics," I thought. "Scientology must survive. My relationship with my family is not important. All that is important is clearing the planet."
I can't think about them any more, I told myself as I approached the center. They are no longer my family. Scientology is my family. And this is my real home.
I walked resolutely into the courseroom. I was more determined than ever to do well in Scientology.
I didn't think about my family again for a long time. I read the letters from my mother that would arrive periodically at the center, but I would throw them in the trash, feeling no emotion whatsoever.
I had passed my first initiation.
I was now a real Scientologist.