“It’s known as large group awareness training.”
As he spoke Red spread red-eye gravy over his grits. We were at Anderson’s, and through the window I could see the hedges and brick of Presbyterian Hospital.
“They’re packaged to sound like seminars, or college courses, but the sessions are scripted to get participants emotionally and psychologically aroused. That part isn’t mentioned in the brochure. Neither is the fact that attendees will be brainwashed into accepting an entirely new worldview.” He forked a piece of country ham.
“How do they work?”
“Most programs last four or five days. The first day is devoted to establishing the leader’s authority. Lots of humiliation and verbal abuse. The next day pounds in the new philosophy. The trainer convinces participants their lives are crap and that the only way out is to accept the new way of thinking.”
Grits.
“Day three is typically filled with exercises. Trance inducement. Memory regression. Guided imagery. The trainer gets everyone to dredge up disappointments, rejections, bad memories. It really lays people out emotionally. Then the following day there’s a lot of warm fuzzy group sharing, and the leader morphs from the hard taskmaster to the loving mommy or daddy. It’s the beginning of the pitch for the next series of courses. The last day is fun and happy, with lots of hugs and dancing and music and games. And the hard sell.”
A couple in khakis and identical golf shirts slid into the booth to our right. He was seashell, she was foam green.
“The damaging thing is that these courses can be incredibly stressful, both physically and psychologically. Most people have no idea how intense it’s going to be. If they did, they wouldn’t sign up.”
“Don’t participants talk about the program afterward?”
“They’re told to be vague, that to discuss the experience would spoil it for others. They’re instructed to rave about how their lives have changed, but to conceal how confrontational and unnerving the process was.”
“Where do these groups recruit?” I feared I already knew the answer.
“Everywhere. On the street. Door to door. At schools, businesses, health clinics. They advertise in alternative newspapers, New Age magazines—”
“What about colleges and universities?”
“Very fertile ground. On bulletin boards, in dorms and eating halls, at student activity sign-up days. Some cults assign members to hang around campus counseling centers looking for students who come in alone. The schools don’t condone or encourage these outfits, but there’s little they can do. The administrations have the flyers removed from bulletin boards, but the ads go right back up.”
“But this is a separate animal, right? These awareness seminars are unrelated to the type of cults we discussed before?”
“Not necessarily. Some programs are used to recruit members to background organizations. You take the course, then you’re told that you’ve performed so well you’ve been singled out to go to a higher level, or meet the guru, or whatever.”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. Harry’s dinner at the leader’s house.
“Red, what sort of people fall for these things?” I hoped my voice sounded calmer than I felt.
“My research shows that there are two important factors.” He ticked them off on greasy fingers. “Depression and broken affiliations.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone who is in transition is often lonely and confused, and therefore vulnerable.”
“In transition?”
“Between high school and college, college and a job. Recently separated. Recently fired.”
Red’s words blurred into the breakfast clatter. I had to talk to Kit.
When I refocused Red was eyeing me strangely. I knew I had to say something.
“I think my sister may have signed on to one of these group training courses. Inner Life Empowerment.”
He shrugged. “There are so many. It’s not one that I know.”
“Now she’s gone incommunicado. No one can raise her.”
“Tempe, most of these programs are fairly benign. But you should talk to her. The effects can be very damaging for certain individuals.”
Like Harry.
The usual mix of fear and aggravation seethed inside me.
I thanked Red and paid the bill. On the sidewalk I remembered another question.
“Have you ever heard of a sociologist named Jeannotte? She studies religious movements.”
“Daisy Jeannotte?” One eyebrow rose, sending lopsided furrows across his forehead.
“I met her at McGill several weeks ago and I’m curious about how she’s viewed by her colleagues.”
He hesitated. “Yes. I’d heard she was in Canada.”
“Do you know her?”
“I knew her years ago.” His voice had gone flat. “Jeannotte is not considered mainstream.”
