Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

No wonder people stayed. The commune was the perfect place to be if you were lost, afraid to take control of your life. It was the opposite for me. Something about Aaron made me shy and nervous, and I was frightened of Joseph. Looking back, I now understand it was because I was a child of abuse, too, and could sense volatility in others. Aaron was intense, and for a child who’d grown up with a manic mother and an alcoholic father, intensity equaled danger.

By the end of May, we’d swelled to sixty members, and the commune was a constant hum of activity. Aaron had handpicked two male members, Ocean and Xavier, to be Spirit Counselors to work with anyone Aaron felt needed more help, or whom Joseph had gotten a bad feeling about. Maybe that was when the tide started to turn, when things stopped being so simple. Ocean and Xavier would stand there, eyeing us and whispering to each other, as we waited, sick with tension, wondering who wasn’t living up to their potential. Then Aaron slowly began to implement a system of punishment.

At first the infractions were usually something simple. If a member had taken an extra share of food, they wouldn’t be allowed to eat our next meal. If someone broke their meditation to go to the bathroom, they’d have to sit away from the group. Then things grew more serious. If a member argued with another member, they were tied together and had to work in the fields side by side. When a few members went to town for supplies, one later said he’d seen another use some of the commune money to buy a newspaper, something Aaron had strictly forbidden.

Hearing this, Joseph flew into a rage and started to whip the man’s legs with a branch, screaming that he’d bring evil influences into the commune. We watched, horrified, until at last Aaron intervened, and it was decided that the man should be made to drag the plow through one of the fields for a day. We were all upset, but not at Joseph. We were angry at the man for disrupting our peace and harmony, and even after Aaron declared him rehabilitated, we ignored him for weeks.

When a young man smacked his girlfriend in the face because she’d been flirting with another member, he was told to pack his belongings. He was driven a mile away and left to find his own way back to town. No one ever checked to see if he’d made it.

Then Aaron created a small group called the Guardians, who were to patrol the commune at night, watching for wildlife or anyone trying to steal our supplies, especially once we started growing marijuana and magic mushrooms. Robbie was ecstatic to be chosen, along with Levi, for this task.

The women didn’t have many roles—caring for the children, cooking, and working in the fields or greenhouses mostly. But they did a lot of hard labor, and our mother’s arms became tanned and sinewy, her hands rough. I saw less and less of her that spring. Late in April, Aaron had decided that children over five years old should be kept in separate cabins, near another small building that was used for the school, and raised collectively. He said, “Children belong to everyone. We’re all their mothers and fathers.”

Some parents balked, but Aaron explained that this was necessary for our spiritual growth as we needed to connect to our true selves and not our earthly attachments. I remember being confused by this and ashamed. And so the parents agreed, terrified that if they didn’t, their children wouldn’t achieve the perfect state of spiritual insight and tranquillity that we were all trying to attain.

One morning, after we’d been there for several months, Aaron gathered us together after breakfast. The air still smelled like coffee and baked bread, fresh mint and sweet fruit, but I’d barely eaten. I was upset at my mother that day. I’d asked her if I could see some of my old friends from school, and she’d drifted away with a vague smile, saying, “We have new friends now. Just be happy.”

Aaron warned us that it was easy to grow apart, even in a large group, and said we needed to practice a “sharing” exercise, to bring us closer. He asked us to write letters, confessing any wrongdoings and negative thoughts, no matter how shameful or darkly hidden. He said it was to seek our own truths, an inner examination that no one will see, but when we were done, he’d gotten another vision. We needed to read them in front of the commune, to let go of all separation, even in our thoughts.

When people protested, he said, “It’s the only way to clear yourself from your past. If you aren’t ready for this step, then you shouldn’t be here.”

The crowd quieted. No one wanted to leave.

Aaron pointed to the young man who looked after our horses, and said, “Billy, I know you’re ready.”

Billy stepped forward, his face flushed, and read from his letter, admitting that he’d experimented sexually with a cousin when he was a teenager—a male cousin, and that he still had fantasies about men. We listened, embarrassed, as he stammered through it. We waited for Aaron’s reaction, and when he reached out to embrace him, we all breathed with relief. Other people ventured forward to share their sins, and each time Aaron praised them. It was painful. People were sobbing, or silent, heads downcast. Others stared around with glazed eyes, looking shell-shocked.

Then it was my turn.

I confessed that I’d snuck food to the animals and had angry thoughts about other members. My hands shook, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t finish. Aaron grabbed the list and read my final confession. Then he handed the list back to me.

“You’re not done.”

“I can’t. Please, I don’t want to.” I met his eyes, begging for leniency, but he was impassive, his only expression one of disappointment.

“Don’t you want to be like the group? Everyone else shared theirs, and if you don’t, you’ll disrupt our harmony.”

I looked around at the angry faces, Heidi touching her belly, her face scared. I read my last confession, my voice quavering. “I love my mom, but sometimes… sometimes I hate her. I wish she was more like my friends’ moms. I wish she was normal.” I searched the crowd, finding my mother, her blue eyes filling with tears. I held her gaze, my own tears dripping down my face. Trying to convey my thoughts: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.

She turned away.

By the time we’d been at the commune for five months, I had retreated into myself, barely speaking. I spent all my time with the animals and began to have fantasies about running away. I might have tried if it hadn’t been for Willow, a pretty, doe-eyed teenage girl, with caramel-colored hair that hung to her waist, who joined the commune that June. She told me about the places she’d hitchhiked to, the people she met on her way. She also told me I was going to be beautiful when I grew up. She gave me a beaded necklace, draping it around my neck, teasing me with her husky laugh for being shy. That day she’d been wearing faded bell-bottom jeans and a man’s cinnamon-colored leather vest with tassels, which hung on her small frame, her feet bare, and one toe sparkling with a ring. I didn’t know if I was going to be beautiful or not. I just knew I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be free.

Before I started my rounds, I consulted with the nurses. Michelle told me that after Daniel left the day before, Heather had gone back to bed and slept through the night—she had to be coaxed out for a shower and breakfast. Then she’d gone back to the seclusion room and had been sleeping ever since. She was only responding briefly when spoken to and was still lethargic. I wasn’t surprised that she’d retreated into herself after our initial meeting, as patients’ moods often ebb and flow. When I entered the seclusion room, I found her in the same position as the day before—curled into a ball.