I Went to the ELAN School by Cristine Martino Slingerland
Thank you Morgan Mitchell for courageously telling your story. I totally agree with you that Elan is not the place to send your children. My parents were clueless and to this day, not that I bring it up anymore, they shut down anytime I bring up what happened to me there. My mother one time said, “I know you went through hell there, but as horrible as it was, at least it saved your life.” Really? I am alive in spite of Elan. I came to the realization after 15 months at Elan, countless general meetings, and being shot down nine times, that I was the only one that was going to save my own life.
It was July of 1981 and I was scrubbing the bathroom floor in a costume that made me look like a mental patient. Earlier that day I was given a general meeting and I was told that the house was sick of me. My biggest offense was cracking jokes and clowning around. Joking around and finding humor in the horror that was Elan made being there bearable, or at least it kept me sane. I mean who could stare at a corner for hours at a time without looking away. And, GOD forbid you did, someone would scream Cris Martino Stupid, Stare at the Corner! If I took that seriously, I would have lost my mind. Once Mark Rosenberg threw me in the boxing ring for laughing at a general meeting. He announced to everyone as he threw me in the ring with these three hefty women, that they were going to beat the guilt out of me.
Getting back to the story, I was thrown out of my house, dressed in a lunatic costume, and I had to do hard labor outside lifting rocks, and digging holes. I was not allowed to speak to anyone, and I ate my meals outside. I had a resident personal overseer who watched me. At night I scrubbed pots and pans in the big house, and I slept on a mattress in the bathroom. That day it was raining outside so my personal overseer asked the director of the house what to do with me, she said I could care less, throw her in the bathroom. So there I was seventeen years old scrubbing the bathroom door seriously weighing the options of splitting or killing myself. In my mind I was not going to live through this “learning experience.” So, I held my breath. In my seventeen year old mind, I am going to hold my breath, pass out and die. NOT! I kept letting go. I figured it was a sign I wanted to live. Next, I explored splitting. Where is a seventeen year old with no high school education dressed in shorts and laceless sneakers going to go? I will run through the back woods, get to a main road and hitch hike. To where? Where am I going? I am a walking advertisement for vulnerability and take advantage of me. Sadly, many years later, a girl my age did the same thing, got a ride from a trucker and was killed. I had enough sense to know that I did not want that life or lack of it for myself. It was at that point that I realized I was the only who could save my own life and get myself out of there.
I lived through that learning experience for two weeks. I am grateful to the humane personal overseers who would talk to me, and let me rest once in a while. Although I know Joe Ricci was not a saint, it was he who took the time to talk to me and tell me I was not crazy. He was the one who told our director to end this “learning experience.” Thanks to the help of Joe, I was out of that place in nine months.
So here I am a 47 year old woman who is writing about something that happened 30 years ago. ELAN HAS LEFT ITS SCARS! This is just one in many horrific incidents that I either directly experienced or witnessed the hell of someone else’s horror. Even after 30 years I still have nightmares about that place. Anytime I hear the name, or read a story like Morgan’s it resonates so deep in me. WE ARE TRUE SURVIVORS. Sadly, there were many who walked our path and did not survive.
I am so grateful to all of you who have told your stories, and for starting this page. It is so healing to have a place to write, and express myself. It is difficult to articulate to those who have not been there what it was like to live through it. For people like my husband, it is just too painful to listen to. Thank you to all of you who are reading this, and for giving me space to show my unhealed wounds to give them the light and air they so richly crave.
For those of you who are part of the Core campaign who are publishing these stories, you have my permission to publish this or anything else I have written on the various Elan web sites. I have written comments on I WENT TO THE ELAN SCHOOL.
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