Stories From The Self-Help Therapeutic Community Movement - Escape to the Left Coast
My Road To Ruin. I grew up with melodious Motown sound, wafting through the air along with the pungent aroma of weed that engulfed NYC projects and tenement housing. This…
Escape to the Left Coast - First Days at Synanon
by Gary Williams
"You can observe a lot by just watching" Yogi Berra
Altar boy, boy scout, subway rat, but most important baseball player/fan.
In the '50s I became an altar boy at age seven. My church, St. Mary's Episcopalian on West 126th is located in Harlem. In addition to church duties, I religiously attended scout meetings in the church basement, where I became a Star Scout of Troop 756 . I must confess that for one memorable summer I went to Camp Keeowah. But that's another story.
The 1960’s St. Mary’s Episcopal in Harlem Included community-based organizations including Head Start, a Job Corps program, legal assistance and social services
"Little League baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets."
Yogi Berra
Baseball was my first love. I played in The Junior Yankee League, located 10 minutes from Yankee Stadium. By the way, this 1955 was the first year that an all-black Little League Team was allowed to play in the Florida Little League Championship.
From '55 to '64 there was nothing about the Yankees that I didn't know. I attended at least 10 games that historic year when Roger Maris hit 61 homers and Mickey Mantle hit 56. Doubleheaders were a fantastic deal when I could get a grandstand seat for about 18 bucks. And there were some stretches when I would go see the Yanks, Giants and Dodgers all within a 10-day period. Summer in New York was baseball heaven. New Yorkers were seriously dedicated baseball fans. As a black guy growing up in New York you might think that my favorite player was Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays or even Roy Campanella. But no. My hero was Yogi Berra. He was an amazing clutch hitter, who hit for both power and average.
My Road To Ruin. I grew up with melodious Motown sound, wafting through the air along with the pungent aroma of weed that engulfed NYC projects and tenement housing. This is where I learned how to score, sell and use drugs. The music stopped when I got busted for carrying a gun. And that was when I became a prisoner at Rikers Island.
By the time I had hit Rikers Island, I had committed petty larceny, armed robbery, burglary and an occasional purse snatch from some poor, unsuspecting woman. A criminal and a coward.
I had been out of Riker’s Island for four days when my marching instructions were announced. Somehow, some way I was given a chance to get my act together. I didn't have to kick my drug habit because at Rikers they gave me methadone biscuits. Disappointed, my dad bought me a one-way ticket to the Left Coast with the hope that I might quit using drugs.
"Give it a try. You'll either sink or drown"
Excerpt from Malaprops From Synanon, Gathered and edited by Leon Levy, Dian Kenny/Law, Julian Kaiser, Dan Sorkin, Cordelia Levy
January 12th, 1972 I was interviewed and accepted into the Synanon Santa Monica House. I had immigrated with my remaining three suitcases of Italian knit shirts and alligator skin shoes. I was directed to a large room that was referred to as the Crash Pad. At first, I was a stranger in a strange land. I knew absolutely nothing about rehab programs. Why were the inmates so friendly? Why were these people smiling at me?
There must have been two hundred of us in that Crash Pad. Street hustlers from Detroit, Chicago, New York. I overheard whispered conversations in between the retching and sporadic heaving that comes with kicking smack cold turkey. They were talking about kicking their habit for the last time. Talking about jumping on this track to recovery. I closed my eyes, so I could soak up this new feeling. Until that moment I did not know how much I wanted to believe there was another way for me. Before that day I was just another 25-yr. old heroin addict, with a guaranteed one-way ticket to the morgue. Really and truly. I wanted to change but without a plan I was lost in the consequences of my self-destructive dead-end existence.
Then, I noticed this new, left coast soundtrack playing throughout the building. Some form of psychedelic shit. California Dreaming, Mama's and Papa's. Not my style.
And then I heard:
“Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?”
Don McClean singing American Pie. I must have listened to American Pie at least fifteen times. This song became my new anthem. It seemed to capture the spirit stirring in that Crash Pad. This new feeling of hope.
Next morning, I was escorted to the gym for a shower and a change of clothes. Taking a quick look around this converted beach resort, I realized that this was a posh place (Santa Monica Del Mar Club). The gym was equipped with a steam and sauna rooms. After dawning my new outfit, I joined the line for scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon and coffee. There was a lot of buzz about the Morning Meeting. Now I am singing in my head, “there’s something happenin here, what it is ain’t exactly clear.” Hippy music, invading my brain?
Conversations died down and the music was stopped. Everyone had a seat, including me, with all chairs facing the center of the room. In the center of this large room a makeshift stage had been assembled.
"Good morning everyone", the speaker announced. We begin every morning meeting with the Synanon Philosophy. Who would like to read it?" Taking that first step out of my old life, I volunteered to read. I ventured through the crowd, stepped onto the stage, introduced myself and began to read the Philosophy in front of this crowd of strangers.
"There comes a time in every man's life....." That was the day I decided to make a change. That was the beginning of my Synanon life.
Gary Williams
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