From Tears to Triumph: My Journey to The House of Hope

By Linda Bello-Ruiz

During the summer of 1970, nineteen-year-old Linda stops on the way home from work to talk to a tall, handsome stranger on a San Francisco street corner. That chance meeting changes the course of her life.
Linda’s compassionate, gripping, and soul-searching memoir tells the story of her remarkable journey from crushed dreams to the creation of a house of Hope.
Her desperate cry for help brings a spiritual awakening, a two-year life-molding adventure with the controversial Children of God commune, and her decision to escape.
By the age of twenty-two, disillusioned but not defeated, Linda follows a tug on her heart and a voice in her head and moves to Costa Rica, where with faith, defiance, and courage she advocates for runaways, street girls and underage prostitutes. Read her story of tears turned to triumph.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780989525831

Book preview

From Tears to Triumph

My Journey

to

The House of Hope

Linda Bello-Ruiz

From Tears to Triumph, My Journey to The House of Hope

Second edition

© 2013 by Linda Bello-Ruiz

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Some of the names of people in this true story have been changed to protect their privacy.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Kings James Version (KJV) unless otherwise noted in the text.

ISBN: 978-0-9895258-3-1

Published by Mariah Publishing, California

www.mariahpublishing.com

Cover design by Yoko Matsuoka

Typography by Samantha Duncan

Photograph restoration by Patrick Osborne

Back cover photograph by Ric Ewing

Interior design by Ted Witt, Pretty Road Press

Content editing by Linda Joy Myers

Copyediting by Jan Arzooman

Printed in the United States of America

To my children,

Shelley, Andres, Patricia and Karina,

who give my life meaning

and to the girls from

The House of Hope, La Casa de la Esperanza,

who began to teach me to be the mother I became;

especially Ana Cecilia, Estelita,

Maricela and Maritza

"Si ayudo a una sola persona a tener esperanza,

no habré vivido en vano."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

(Written on a billboard in Manzanillo, Colima, Mexico)

"If I help just one person to have hope,

I will not have lived in vain."

Acknowledgements

To Hank, my life partner: thank you for giving me the space to create this memoir and the unfettered time to get lost in my memories.

It takes a village to complete challenging tasks, and my village was filled with wonderful people: the Sun City Lincoln Hills writers group; the Inspire Christian Writers critique group at Harvest Church; my writing buddy, Leo; and my listening friend, Mary. There were so many friends like Darleen, Judy, Bernie, Carol, Salli, Cindy and Quentin, who took time to read chapters and provide input. Thank you. And to my brother Ron: thank you for your hours of reading and editing to make your big sister’s book flawless.

A special acknowledgement goes to my manuscript analyst, Sue Clark, for your editing expertise, wise counsel, and ongoing encouragement; to my memoir writing coach, Linda Joy Myers, for your superb teaching and guidance; and to my copyeditor, Jan Arzooman, for your expert eye to detail.

Preface

At the age of thirteen, I could be found racing go-karts with my brothers, riding my bike up and down country roads, running through the vineyards of my home town, Redwood Valley, California, and picking grapes or gathering acorns for spending money.

In Costa Rica, 4,000 miles away, a little girl by the name of Ana Cecilia was born into an impoverished family.

At eighteen, I left my home behind in the rear-view mirror of my new Toyota Corona and headed off to college. From an early age I wanted to help others, and I went to college to obtain a degree in sociology.

While I was starting my coursework at Sonoma State College, five-year-old Ana Cecilia was losing her mother to cancer. Left to fend for herself and her two younger siblings, she begged for food on the streets, scrounged through garbage cans, and wondered why her father stayed away for so many hours of the day.

I marched against the war in Vietnam at age nineteen, identified with the San Francisco hippies, and embraced the love generation. That’s when I met Raymond, a tall, handsome black man. I fell in lust, and he fell in need. He moved in with me near my college campus, in the mostly-white town of Santa Rosa. I rebelled against societal norms and proudly walked arm in arm with Raymond into restaurants and clubs—half of a biracial couple, daring to be different.

Within nine months, I was caught up in Raymond’s world of drugs and alcohol. I watched him pimp girls on the Santa Rosa streets and con wealthy women out of money. I was young and naïve. Instead of leaving, I begged him to stop. I tried to change him, but he turned on me and the verbal and physical abuse began.

Back in Costa Rica, six year-old Ana Cecilia was being beaten by her father’s mistress, who’d become his wife. She tried to shield her little brother and sister from the abuse.

I escaped.

Ana Cecilia did not.

The sun shone down on a beach in San Francisco on June 13, 1971, warming my face but not my soul. I felt defeated and disillusioned, and I wanted to die. I felt as if my identity, dignity and dreams had been plunked into a blender and poured out at my feet, shredded beyond recognition. And though I couldn’t articulate the depth of my despair, I knew the consequences of my life choices stared me straight in the face. I cried out to God, If you’re real, show me!

Four thousand miles away, little Ana Cecilia didn’t know God and she had nobody to call out to for help. Her father lived under the spell of his new wife. Ana Cecilia worked from sunup to sundown to keep her evil stepmother happy enough so she wouldn’t beat her. She slept with her siblings in a cardboard box under the kitchen table.

Within minutes of my cry to God, a group of Jesus People sat down on the sand next to me and sang me songs of freedom, hope and love. I resisted their songs, smiling faces, and Bible verses. I didn’t like Jesus People.

They persisted until the emotional dam that held back my sadness and despair broke wide open. By the end of the day I had dropped out of college, given away my worldly possessions, and joined the Children of God religious commune. I dedicated my life to helping others, sacrificing comfort and self-will to obey my leaders and preach the gospel to the lost youth of the world.

Ana Cecilia was still looking for a way out of her hell. She was nine years old and had never been to school. Parasites riddled her body and her teeth were rotting. She didn’t even know there was a world beyond her hell. And she missed her mommy.

My travels with the Children of God took me to Mexico and included a short stay in a Mexican jail with fifteen of my commune brethren. Deported from Mexico, I ended up in Costa Rica.

Later, disillusioned with the group’s prophet and his new teachings, my two-year experience ended. I left the Children of God in June 1973 and returned to the U.S.—having never crossed paths with Ana Cecilia.

Back in the U.S. at age twenty-two, cynical of organized religion of any kind, I tried to fit in and rebuild my shattered ideals, but couldn’t find my place. The depth of my commitment to a religious cause had given me a spiritual and emotional experience that most people my age would never have.

Four months after returning to the States, God spoke to my heart in prayer and told me to go back to Costa Rica and set up a halfway house for young girls. I never doubted His voice or His direction. The inspiration instantly filled the aching hole in my heart and I set out to make that happen.

On December 27, 1973, I returned to Costa Rica.

Ten-year-old Ana Cecilia was losing hope.

With the help of some wonderful people—priests, American missionaries, Costa Rica’s first lady, and even the president—I co-founded and directed The House of Hope. It was Costa Rica’s first halfway house—a safe haven for underage prostitutes, runaways and street-girls.

On a warm February afternoon, ten months after we opened The House of Hope doors, the project was brimming with young girls being changed from the inside out. I responded to a knock on my front door. There stood a stone-faced woman and a sad-looking man.

This is Ana Cecilia, he said. She’s my daughter; please take her.

Ana Cecilia was eleven years old, though her body was that of an eight-year-old. Her stepmother had finally talked her father into giving her away. Ana Cecilia’s story then became entwined with mine.

This is my story: From Tears to Triumph, My Journey to The House of Hope. It’s also Ana Cecilia’s story and the story of many others who passed through The House of Hope.

Part One

REBELLION

Chapter One

October 19, 1972

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m in jail. We were arrested last night after singing to a big crowd in the town square here in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico. . . . I’m sitting on a cold, concrete floor in a narrow holding area with three other girls. We’re just outside a jail cell occupied by six brothers from our commune. The drunk tank is on my right and reeks of alcohol, urine and vomit. We don’t know why the police arrested us or how long we’ll be here. . . .

***

After storing away the pen and paper I always kept in my skirt pocket, I leaned against the rough brick wall and looked around the jail’s holding area. I can’t believe I’m in jail—especially a Mexican jail!

Mayra, Esther and Sarah, my Children of God commune sisters, huddled nearby. I wasn’t afraid, just confused, wondering why we’d been arrested and when we’d be let go. I tried to sleep, taking short and shallow breaths to avoid smelling the fetid air. A symphony of snores from the nearby drunk tank broke through brief moments of silence. Old newspapers, my bed for the night, offered no cushioning from the damp cement floor.

It was the middle of the night, but a small light bulb dangling from the ceiling gave us a semblance of relief from darkness. I noticed Paul, Benaiah, Peter and three others from our commune dozing in a medium-sized cell across the room, separated from us by black iron bars. Peter sat up and we exchanged encouraging smiles.

How are we going to let the others know we’re in here? I asked. They’re bound to be wondering why we haven’t returned home.

An hour later, the jail door opened, startling us. Three angry-looking policemen shoved our six missing commune brothers, including Watchman, our leader, into the cell. Two of the boys bore bruised faces and swollen eyes.

What happened? Peter asked, alarm in his voice.

You won’t believe it, Watchman said, finding a place to sit in the crowded cell. Twenty-five policemen showed up at the house, broke through the front and back doors, and tore the house apart. They questioned all of us and beat up Joshua and Matthew.

Why? What do they think we’ve done? I asked in disbelief. The first shades of fear shuddered through me.

They were looking for drugs, Watchman said. "They kept shouting something about ‘hippies and drogas.’"

Drugs? We’re not drug users, Mayra said, raising her voice. We’re just here helping other young people. That’s not a crime, is it?

For nearly three months, my brethren and I had been in the Yucatan Peninsula sharing our message of love and communal living. We encouraged young people to leave drugs and their rebellious lives to follow a righteous path. We were sure we hadn’t broken the law, and knew our arrest was unjustified.

A chill spread through the holding area and I wrapped my long granny skirt tightly around my legs. The humidity had made my red hair frizz and my fingers snagged against knots each time I ran them through the curls. Would this night never end?

Unable to sleep, I let my mind roam to happier days and felt homesick for the first time in years. I thought about my parents and siblings snug in their soft, comfortable beds, far away in Northern California. My mind drifted to a hot summer day, ten years earlier, when I raced go-karts with my brothers.

Chapter Two

1963, Redwood Valley, California

Oh no! I screamed as my go-kart careened down the driveway, heading toward the big oak tree at the bottom of the hill. Watch out . . . I can’t stop!"

My new go-kart had been crafted out of old lumber and bike parts by me and two of my brothers, Ernie Jr. and Ron. On its maiden trip, I rolled it down the driveway decline and it roared toward the main road. The kart veered to the right and slammed into the tree. The momentum flung me sideways like a sack of potatoes, into the neighbor’s blackberry bushes.

Ernie Jr. and Ron laughed. I was, after all, just a twelve-year-old girl. I ignored them, picked out the thorns, packed up my adolescent pride, and trudged back up the hill with my now not-so-new go-kart. I would try again. I felt unstoppable—a trait I’d adopted early on, fighting to find my identity both in my large family and in the world around me—a trait that would serve me well.

***

I grew up in the country, where building forts, go-karts and clubhouses with siblings and friends was the normal way of life. My hometown, Redwood Valley, is a small grape-growing community located two-and-a-half hours north of San Francisco, ten miles northeast of Ukiah. The valley is dominated by green rolling hills, oak trees, and miles of vineyards. My parents chose this remote country town to raise their three sons and three daughters.

We shared the valley with the ghost of Black Bart, who, in 1878, robbed several stage-coaches nearby, and with the Fetzer family, who bought a small grape and pear ranch in 1957, growing it into the now-famous Fetzer Wines. A few miles from our house, my substitute high school teacher, Jim Jones, opened a church he named The People’s Temple.

Our family of eight lived in a large, red house on a three-acre hillside. We had a black dog with white paws we named Boots and several dark-gray feral cats that lived hidden within the backyard woodpile. We had owned a cow and my brother Jim had named her—but I blocked the name out when she later ended up as pot roast on our dinner table.

Geese waddled around the property, leaving their smelly messes behind. One of them, Suzy, voted herself pet goose and family protector. Her long white neck towered above her squat body as she guarded the front door of the house, squawked to announce visitors, and attacked poor Boots if he dared to approach her territory.

Our country upbringing was idyllic and sheltered us from the outside world. However, as I grew older, this idyllic life became too boring for my adventurous spirit. I longed to turn eighteen, graduate from high school, and leave home to experience the world.

***

My parents survived my adolescence and even the tougher teenage years when I constantly displayed my independent spirit, rebelled against authority, and bent the rules whenever I could get away with it. I didn’t want to toe the line of behavior conformance when it made no sense, so I defied authority with an innocent smile. My goal wasn’t to be bad; it was to be just, well, different.

There are probably all kinds of deep psychological reasons for my behavior, but I figure it had to do with my feeling different. Maybe it began when I showed up on the first day of kindergarten and realized I was almost a year older than my classmates and I towered over them because I was tall for my age. Maybe it was the untamed red curls, abundant freckles, and green eyes that set me apart. Whatever the reason, I knew without being told that I had to either cower from the differences or embrace them. It was an easy decision. I definitely stood out in a crowd and that became okay with me.

On the flip-side, I was a softy when it came to taking care of other people. Just like feeling different, my desire to help others was a deep-seated part of me from early in life.

Adults routinely ask children, What do you want to be when you grow up?

I knew early on. On that first day of kindergarten, I found myself comforting some of my crying classmates, and I liked the feeling. When a new girl came to school, I made it my job to befriend her, and when I learned to read a few words in first grade—See Spot. See Spot run.—I taught them to Charlie, a developmentally delayed boy my family knew. Helping others made me feel important.

So when it came time to prepare for college, I completed my application and listed sociology as my major and social work as my professional goal. Getting a good education held great importance to my parents, who, being children of The Depression, hadn’t had the opportunity to go beyond high school. They offered to pay for college for all six of us kids, and three of us accepted their offer.

The nearest college, Sonoma State, was located a few miles southeast of Santa Rosa, an hour and a half from home. On high school graduation night—June 1969—practically wiggling in my seat with excitement to leave the confines of our small town, I drove south on Highway 101, leaving home, family and my idyllic life behind.

Unknowingly, my journey from Redwood Valley to a jail cell in Mexico had begun. It would include heartbreaking and heart-changing crashes, not unlike my childhood go-kart collision into the oak tree.

Chapter Three

On a warm San Francisco afternoon in July 1970, I clocked out of my file clerk job in the financial district at exactly five and hurried down Montgomery Street to catch my bus.

This was my second summer of working in San Francisco. My parents paid my rent, food and college expenses and, during the summers, I worked for spending money. I loved the feel of the city. Navigating the crowded, busy streets, I would marvel at how I’d moved from vineyards to high-rises. I gazed in awe at the towering office buildings and steep city streets that had replaced my tall oak trees and rolling hills back home. At night I listened to city noise—sirens and cars driving by—not yet missing the sound of crickets that had lulled me to sleep for eighteen years.

Rushing to catch the 5:10 bus to a friend’s house where I stayed during the work week, I heard someone say, Hey, gorgeous.

I hadn’t noticed the man until he spoke and then whistled as I hurried by. Was this handsome guy talking to me?

Flattered by the attention, I stopped to talk.

Tall, fit and smelling of Old Spice aftershave, he stood a hand-length above me, oozing confidence. I’ve seen you on this street before, the man said. You have beautiful green eyes. Did you know the sparkle in your eyes tells me you’re mischievous and love to have fun?

No. I blushed and hung on to every word that flowed like sweet oil from his full lips.

My name’s Raymond. You have a name, or should I just call you ‘Gorgeous’?

My name’s Linda, but my friends call me Mikki.

His attention and compliments made me feel special, and each day thereafter I rushed from work, my heart fluttering in anticipation—hoping he’d be waiting on the same street corner. He didn’t disappoint me. We’d spend an hour or so talking nonsense and flirting before I’d jump with joy onto the #14 Mission bus. I fell madly in lust.

So, Raymond, I asked several weeks later, would you like to go home with me for the weekend?

Home was a one-bedroom trailer my parents had purchased for me the year before and moved to a mobile-home park of older, middle-class couples in Santa Rosa, right off Santa Rosa Avenue. The small trailer was my temporary home while I attended college. Mom had assured the manager I was a calm, responsible college student.

Raymond smiled, accenting the dimple in his left cheek. His sexy, dark-brown eyes sparkled. That sounds really good. Yeah, that works for me.

First, he just visited on weekends, but by the end of the summer we were living together. Did I mention my new love, Raymond, was a fine-looking black man?

Haight Ashbury, free love, drugs and peace signs were all the rage in the late 60s and early 70s. Flower children got stoned and partied in the streets while young men died in Vietnam. People marched and rioted to end the war. Mixed-race relationships became more acceptable as the hippies and flower children rebelled against convention and societal rules relaxed. The flower children dared to be different—which resonated with me.

I fell head over heels for Raymond. Our relationship set me apart from the established norm, and that’s what I wanted. I was living with a black man in the small, mostly-white town of Santa Rosa. People stared at us as we walked down the street. I liked them to stare, and I walked with my shoulders back, holding on to Raymond’s arm, clutching a trophy of defiance.

Raymond needed me, which made me feel good. Slender, with beautiful bronze skin, he wore his dark curly hair in an Afro, the popular style of the time. He dressed in tight-fitting bell-bottom dress slacks and colorful silk shirts with wide collars. He kept the shirt unbuttoned to his waist, displaying his thick gold chain. Leaving the house for a night on the town, he wore a suit jacket and a hat pulled down over his right eyebrow. My heart swelled with pride whenever I watched him walk with his confident swagger. I had found my proverbial perfect guy—tall, swarthy and in love with me.

I felt honored that he chose me. After all, I wasn’t the blonde, blue-eyed, skinny cheerleader most boys were falling in love with. I began gaining weight during puberty, and the weight gain continued through high school. I had boyfriends, but not always the ones I wanted. Popular boys were willing to be my friend, but they looked elsewhere for girlfriends. By the end of high school I weighed over 200 pounds.

Obesity can be a painful experience for almost anyone—but being a fat teenage girl was excruciating. Any acceptance and influence I enjoyed in grade school slipped away into shame. Even so, I smiled my way through high school and my peers liked me enough to elect me student body secretary.

But month by month, year by year, I expanded on the outside and built emotional walls on the inside to protect myself from fat jokes and snide remarks from some of my high school classmates. I stored the hurts deep inside and hid behind the backyard woodpile to numb my pain with candy, homemade donuts and butter-with-sugar sandwiches. Mom put me on a diet and taught me to cook healthy foods, and she bought an exercise belt machine that guaranteed to shimmy away hip fat. Nothing helped.

Now, I had Raymond to make me feel special, important and loved. Raymond’s simple act of acceptance gave me value. His lifestyle, however, was beyond teenage mischief and coming of age. People wandered in and out at all hours for frequent late-night parties and drug dealing in the tiny back bedroom.

At first, I worried about the strangers walking in and out of the trailer I considered my home, but Raymond assured me, It’s all good. I wanted him to be happy and was desperate for acceptance, so I chose to believe him. Before long, the park manager kicked me out of the trailer park for excessive noise and unsuitable visitors. He called my parents and gave me thirty days to move. Mom was furious. Dad wouldn’t talk to me.

Linda, what are you doing? Mom said in a stern tone of voice on the phone. I could imagine her normally serene face tensed in frustration. What are you thinking? And who is this person living with you? You’re supposed to be in the trailer by yourself and attending college.

His name is Raymond, Mom. I’m in love and I want to live with him. Don’t worry; I’m still going to college.

Did you meet him at school?

No, I met him in San Francisco.

Does he have a job?

Her question stopped me. I knew my parents would expect my new boyfriend to be gainfully employed, and selling drugs wouldn’t be on their most acceptable jobs list.

Not right now, I stammered. He was working, doing something in San Francisco, but I’m not sure what. I’ve asked, but he just says it had something to do with sales. He quit his job to move up here with me. We’re in love.

What do you mean, ‘something to do with sales’? I don’t like this, Linda. From what the park manager tells us, he’s a bad influence on you. And, I don’t like the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.

Her normal calm voice had already climbed two octaves during our short conversation, and it wasn’t over yet. I twirled the black phone cord in my fingers and stared out the trailer window, hoping she would run out of talking gas soon.

Don’t worry, Mom. I know what I’m doing. This is what I want. Raymond’s really a nice guy. You’ll like him when you get to know him. We’ll find a place together where the managers aren’t so uptight and prejudiced.

If he’s so great, why are you getting kicked out of the trailer park?

Unable to defend myself on that question, I took a deep breath and changed the subject. Are you upset because he’s black?

Your brother-in-law, Paul, is black, so you know that’s not it. Paul’s a part of this family. There’s just something about Raymond that doesn’t feel right. These late-night parties, the noise, the disregard for your neighbors . . . this isn’t like you, Linda. I don’t want you moving in with him. Don’t throw your life away. You’re better than this.

I felt her concern, but hardened myself. I would make my own decisions.

***

Mom arrived a week later with the family truck to haul the trailer back to Redwood Valley. Paul came to help her.

I introduced Raymond to Mom and Paul and they shook hands. I couldn’t read my mom’s thoughts, but her cold body language showed her displeasure. Paul nodded and then left to concentrate on hooking up the trailer. Raymond followed, sauntering behind Paul as if he had not a care in the world.

We rented a one-bedroom duplex off of South Santa Rosa Avenue, just a few blocks away, Mom, I said, watching Paul and Raymond hook the trailer to the truck. We’ll finish setting it up today. Do you want to go by and see it?

No, I don’t have time. I want to get on the road early. You’re making a big mistake, Linda. I felt her disappointment in me.

No, I’m not. We love each other. He’s looking for a job here in Santa Rosa and he likes that I’m going to school. He’s very supportive. It’ll be okay.

I don’t like him, she said before leaving, as she stood by the truck. He feels . . . well, wrong for you. You’ll regret this decision.

You just need to get to know him, Mom. Be happy for me.

I walked over to Raymond, who stood waiting for me by the car. I hooked my arm through his—proud to be his girlfriend.

Paul gave me a big hug, nodded at Raymond and left. Mom shook her head, ignored Raymond, and got into the truck to drive away.

I’ll call you soon, I said and waved goodbye.

With time, I knew I could change her mind. I’d prove I was right about Raymond. He was a bit rough around the edges, but I could mold him to be like me.

Chapter Four

Raymond and I stood arm in arm, leaning against my car, as Mom drove away.

I don’t think your mom likes me, he said. She pretty much ignored me, and your brother-in-law hardly said a word.

Don’t worry about it. They’re just upset ’cause I got kicked out of the trailer park. I love you, Raymond; that’s what’s important. I’m going to be twenty in a couple of months and can make my own decisions.

He kissed me deeply, opened the car door, and drove us to our new home.

***

We made bookshelves out of lumber that we set on cement blocks and bought used furniture at the Santa Rosa Goodwill Store. We created a life together as a couple—not the white picket fence life I thought I’d have, but a life of my own, and on my terms. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t have agreed with all of my lifestyle choices, but this was my life, not theirs.

A few weeks after moving into the duplex, Raymond took me to Los Angeles to meet his mother and his older brother, Stephen.

You seem like a nice young woman, his mom said after dinner. She’d spent most of the dinner time grilling me on my life. Raymond is lucky to be with a girl from a solid family background—and a college student to boot. You better treat her right, Raymond.

I do, Raymond said.

His mother’s chestnut brown hair was tucked into a stylish bun at the base of her neck. Her red turtleneck sweater showed off her sculptured jaw line and high cheekbones. Raymond hadn’t mentioned that his mother was a beautiful Caucasian woman, but this explained his own lightly bronzed complexion and the red highlights in his dark hair. His father, he’d told me months earlier, had abandoned the family when Stephen was twelve and he was ten.

You must be something, Stephen said. Ray hasn’t been home since he moved to San Francisco two years ago, and he never brings girls home.

Stephen’s comment made me feel special. Wow—Raymond really does love me.

A few hours later we said goodbye and his mom hugged me. You be a good girl and watch out for my son. He can be a handful.

I will, I promised, happy that his mom seemed to accept us as a couple even if my parents did not.

Stephen also gave me a warm hug. I’ll be up to see you guys in a few weeks and hang out for a while, he said.

As we drove home, I had hope. Hope that Raymond and I could make a good life together. I wanted to show my parents I’d been right about him.

***

Under Raymond’s influence, I experimented with drugs and alcohol at a deeper level than ever before. I’d smoked pot as a teen and had enjoyed a few rum and Cokes, but neither were part of my everyday world, until Raymond. He bought little white pills for me, which we called bennies. The bennies kept me revved up for late-night exam preps and helped the pounds come tumbling off. With each pound lost I felt my confidence build. When I stepped on the bathroom scale and bought smaller-sized clothes, I felt better. Finally, I was turning into the person I wanted to be—thinner, loved by a good-looking man, and accepted into the cool, partying crowd.

One Friday night in November, Raymond arrived home from a nearby bar with a group of six people I didn’t know. Someone in the group had brought LSD and a spontaneous party erupted.

Try it, Mik, Raymond said. You’ll love it.

I wasn’t sure I would love it, and hesitated.

***

Eleven months earlier, to celebrate my nineteenth birthday, my girlfriend Christy and I had driven to the Altamont Speedway free festival, sixty miles east of San Francisco. The festival had been promoted as the West Coast equivalent of Woodstock and attracted thousands of young people. Christy and I dropped mescaline, a powerful hallucinogenic being sold like candy throughout the festival, and stayed high all day and night, listening