From then on, I willed myself to be as perfect as possible because I didn’t know what would happen to me if I wasn’t. I was terrified of having an aberration in any way. I was sure that having any kind of flaw would spell doom. But first I had to figure out what all my flaws were. And so began a habit of being extremely hard on myself, seeing myself from the outside in. I started to look at my hands and feet daily to make sure I didn’t have any bumps growing. There were no mirrors that I can remember in the cult. When I would later arrive in a culture that was so externally focused—America, and then Hollywood—this caused a tear in the fabric of my being.
The funny thing was that in almost direct opposition to the message the cult sent us about perfection, my father was preaching to me and my siblings that we were not, under any circumstances, to develop an ego. Our focus was to be on our internal development, the development of our souls and our intellects. I suppose we were supposed to be perfect physically, but remain humble in the face of our perfection? I was never really sure. All I knew was that I was not supposed to think good thoughts about myself. That God would punish me for thinking that I was awesome.
Never once growing up was I told that I was intelligent, smart, or beautiful. I don’t know what that feels like. I was never told I could do anything I wanted if I set my mind to it. I was told I was worth nothing in the eyes of God. I was told I was going to be a whore. I was told I was dirty. And the thing is, I knew they were wrong, but the words still stung.
From an early age, I remember being furious that nobody would listen to me just because I was a child. It was so unfair. I hated being little and powerless. I would look at the people in Children of God and think, But all these things you’re all talking about, I could solve them in two easy steps if you adults would just
My only friends during my time in Children of God were my older brother, Nat; my pet lamb, Agnello; and an old gray-haired farmer named Stinky Fernando. Stinky Fernando was deeply suspicious of bathing. You could almost chew his smell, it was so thick. I had to breathe through my mouth whenever he was around. One day I heard Stinky Fernando screaming. My father and some of the other members took him by his arms and ankles and threw him in a river. Much to Stinky Fernando’s surprise, his skin did not melt off.
Stinky Fernando took Nat and me into an old barn and showed us faded Playboy magazines while feeding us stale Kit Kats. A real treat. I wondered about the women in the magazines. They didn’t have hairy legs. It was confusing. I loved the rancid Kit Kats, though. I loved candy way more than I loved their God.
I bottle-fed my friend, the little lamb Agnello, and helped take care of her. My first pet. One night at the long dinner table I took a bite of food, and a thin woman with a mean face and center-parted hair started to laugh. Others joined in, and soon everyone was laughing. I didn’t understand what was funny until they told me it was Agnello being served. And so I realized my pet was being fed to me for dinner. I sat stunned while everyone at the long table laughed. I pushed my tears down and felt a coldness wall off my heart toward these people, something crystallizing into a stone of pure hatred as I looked at their monster faces. They had a particularly cruel streak, and they liked to destabilize the younger members. These were lovers of Christ, right? To this day, I’ve never eaten lamb again.
I started to become angry. Angry at the injustices that were adding up. Angry at the rules that seemed, and were, so arbitrary. I decided the best course of action was to light it up. And so, one day my older brother decided to light a stable on fire. He was mad, too. I for sure wanted to be there for that, so I ran after him to help. We were in the barn when my brother pulled out a book of matches. He started lighting them and flicking them at the hay on the stone floor. Whoosh. The fire leaped up the side of the walls and onto the ceiling. The roof was thatched hay and started popping above us. I tried stamping out the flaming pieces with my feet, but I was too little and it was too late. I stamped and stamped, but I couldn’t put them out. If I had known how to say fuck, I am sure I would have. The roof crackled more and it was getting very hot. I knew we were in big, big trouble if we went outside and were caught by the adults. But everything was on fire.
We chose to run.
This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you some hideous story of punishment for lighting it up, but I really can’t remember. I do remember the terror of being found out. It made me feel like my skin was about to fall off with fear. The movie scene of this would be:
A sturdy blond boy and an elfin girl are hiding from their father. Suddenly four hands grab them by the shirt collars, dragging them off. Turning down a path in a maze, the children are paraded past a gauntlet of leering cult members. The members drag the children to the Judge of All. The Judge of All is on a throne made of soft wood. There are young nude women, heavy breasted and round bottomed, on their knees, gazing up adoringly and reverentially at the dynamically dangerous leader. The leader tilts his head back, eyes shut. He’s being worshipped. He’s in heaven on earth. The women work oils and lotions into the leader’s skin, their hands using a feathering touch as they go, chanting with intention. The leader, the Judge of All, opens his eyes and points at the boy and girl. The shaming begins.
Sounds like a Hollywood film, right? Maybe it’s not too far off. In fact, my life as a performer began there in the cult. We were made to go out in groups to sing at local orphanages and hospitals, or on the streets, to perform. Singing Jesus songs on the streets of Rome with a hat in front of me, street busking. After the coins would stack up in the hat, a hand would come over my shoulder to take all the coins I’d earned. They let me carry the empty hat. Gee, thanks. It was my work that was bringing the money in and I was pissed at the injustice of having to give it up. I’d see regular families with the kids walking around with gelatos and candy and I’d wonder about their lives at home. Did they have a bed? We had plastic mats and I got cold at night. The girls wore pretty dresses; I had faded brown overalls and Jesus sandals. My hands and feet would get dirty and I’d try to hide them when other, cleaner children looked at me. For hours we would stand and sing those damned songs, under hot sun, in the rain, it didn’t matter. I was five or so. My little legs would get so sore from standing, but I knew I couldn’t sit or there’d be trouble.
We had to return with money or else there would be sanctions and punishments against our family. I could feel the stress of the adult members as the “Systemites” (that’s what they called people outside the cult) turned away and ignored us and the pamphlets we were selling. Little incoming money equals not much food. Not surprisingly, there was often hunger. Our food was rationed. If we returned with not enough money, the rationed food was given to another family as punishment. If potential new members or press were coming to visit, they’d put us kids on a white rice, milk, and sugar diet to fatten us up. We’d stuff ourselves with it until we gagged, but I loved it because at least there was something to keep me full. Plus, sugar, which I loved.
Sometimes the local press would be invited to come and cover our good deeds: “To see what great work we’re doing in the Children of God community, join us.” See, we’re not a bunch of freaky hippies, what kind of freak could sing a Jesus song this well?
I was sent to entertain sick children in hospitals. I remember thinking: Kid, if this is your last day on earth, I’m really sorry that we’re forcing you to listen to little me singing about Jesus. I don’t want to be here, either. I apologize.
But even though it was awkward performing in hospitals—and this may sound weird—I always knew I was going to be famous, even before I understood what fame was. It was kind of a foregone conclusion. I don’t know how to explain it.
At