This life has taught me
To tow the line quiet
Surrendering into time,
Because incidents rewind
With a mind of their own.
And so sturdy, we row the
Rapid patterns of the
We stay in tune with each
Separate quest. Observance.
Steady. Doing the work
That leans against the
Thick breath of the herd.
We are divergent, ominous,
Everything formed in us,
Powered by a self love so
Infinite that it becomes a
Hurricane of pounding rain.
Pay the penance. Confess
The wicked deeds, on your
Knees, in Biblical instruction.
Make a list, to remind you
Of your confession. This is
Your way. You must ask
For forgiveness. It is not
For us to be freely giving.
Reckoning has many faces,
Unexpected veils and illusions
That become intrusions
Appearing in most leaving
Unprepared affected, the
Egoist off kilter, inside the
Self righteous fodder of an
Imaginary, sadistic Father.
Fear the fray that is sewn
Back together, for it is able
To bear the weight of many
Lives. It turns swiftly, gaining
Strength and paving ways.
When this thing is unleashed
Like water slathered on polished
Floors it is impossible to cross,
Breaking bones in the falls, we
Will shatter lies like falling logs,
Because we are The Walk,
In our own Body, always on
The Move, distantly watching you.
With un-shattered minds
We will fully rewind time.
If you take a drive from Fairbanks, Alaska, an hour down Richardson Highway, through Delta Junction, you will arrive at 1379 Milepost. There you will turn onto a solitary road. At the end of that road is a religious commune with a history so horrible, the average person can only listen with radical acceptance, in order to grasp the total truth about the roots of this cult. Child Abuse. Sexual Molestation. Mental Brainwashing. Torture. Public Humiliation. Sleep Deprivation. Control. Triangulation. All orchestrated in a patriarchal society of narcissists.
Three years ago, a couple of young reporters made a trip out to two of the Alaska compounds. At the 1379 Milepost compound, where I lived from the ages of seven to fourteen, they were met by a man named David Johnson, Their eyes were wide with disbelief. What my fellow survivor and I had told them was in fact, truth. There are compounds deep in the Alaskan woods, secluded, patrolled and controlled, a place where they were not allowed to step foot anywhere, except the office inside of the Tabernacle. A tour of that compound was out of the question, according to David Johnson.
The compound I was on had several names including, but not limited to, Dry Creek, Living Word Ministry, The Farm, or as we referred to it when we lived there, “The Land”. They quit claimed the deeds back and forth, most likely to avoid taxes, changing names, hustling land parcels together. Douglas McClain, Jr was just a child on this compound with me. His father, Douglas Sr, groomed him on a path into prison, where he sits today, awaiting appeal. They were hustling a drug derived from goat’s blood. You can read the actual court complaint here:
This is just one of several deeds I have showing the quit claim sell of The Land between Douglas McClain and George Harris.
The words the main reporter used to describe his brief visit to the compound felt familiar to me:
“The energy was so thick and heavy it could be cut.”
“An air of sadness hovering.”
Indeed. I nodded. I know. I remember David Johnson, with his slit eyes and foul energy. He doled out a few beatings. Many of the adults where abusers. It was, after all, God’s will to strip a child of its flesh, as Brother Sam Fife would instruct. If we weren’t being punished, we were being humiliated, gossiped about, and any sexual abuse that was found out in later years is blamed on the victim. Still today, the mentality remains the same. Religion cloaking forced insanity. We were monitored, lived in continuous fear and told the “night watchmen” were there to keep the bears out. Yet, the compound was so large, it was impossible for them to watch everything at all times, hence my brother’s success on his second escape.
Three years ago I was there as an adult, hunkered down in Fairbanks, Alaska, just miles away from so many people who had either abused me directly or who I had witnessed abuse other children. I wanted to drive onto that compound myself. I remember the layout like the back of my hand. I could navigate it in the dead of night. I wanted to find Marilyn Hagley and ask her why she beat me so much when she was my teacher. Maybe if abusers experience what they have doled out onto children, they will get a notion of the affect it leaves behind.
Not far from The Land at 1379 Milepost is another compound owned by this cult. It is controlled by a man named Bill Grier. Whitestone Farms is located not far from The Land. Some cult apologists have adamantly denied being associated with Sam Fife. Yet, Whitestone is on the cult’s Convention schedule, and Bill Grier’s criminal record began in the 1970’s. Their website proudly boasts about the man who helped broker their land; a man named Doug McClain. When the pieces fit, they fit. When the puzzle reveals the picture, it’s existence cannot be denied.
I remember conventions. Six, sometimes eight hours of sitting with no breaks or food. My mother sometimes kept mints in her purse.
“To give us all a little sugar so we won’t get faint.” She’d say.
Conventions are hardcore mind control sessions with the Elite Move Leaders all gathering, vying for the position to preach their sordid interpretation of Biblical text. None of it matters. It’s all just long sessions of angry preachers feeding the fear of Hell and counter love bombing with the concept of Heaven and God for the good people.
Conventions provide a chance for the Movite “big wigs” to cavort with one another and shake their peacock feathers to impress the gathering of cult members, who often travel thousands of miles to attend the conventions and participate in lengthy frenzies of speaking in tongues, singing and serving their religious Handlers who feed their minds controlled instruction.
I wonder if the poor children still have to sit like we did for hours, on hard, backless benches or folding chairs. We sat so long, our hips ached. Do they at least break for meals now?
There are mini countries inside of America. They make their own rules. They abuse children and swindle their “citizens”. They are mind terrorists who get away with abuse under the guise of religious freedom, and American citizens have chosen to look away for too long.
I wonder when people will begin to care about the cult no one ever talks about?
If my mother were alive, and you were to ask her if she allowed her children to be abused or if she abused her children, her answer would most likely be (with Bible in hand), “Absolutely NOT!”
She would then most likely go on to tell you what difficult children my siblings and I were to raise, along with a myriad of other excuses to support the gross denial covering the guilt she couldn’t face. This is what abusers do; blame the child, and all too often, naive adults actually believe it.
A couple of years ago, a friend who grew up in the same cult as me had a conversation with a woman who knew me when I was a child. My friend asked the woman about my time as a child at the second compound I was taken to in Alaska, and the woman said this:
“Well, she was quite a boisterous child and was always in trouble a lot.”
She victim blamed a child who she witnessed be abused and yet still, thirty plus years later, the denial runs as deep as the ocean. What should we have expected? That our abusers would admit to their crimes? What a ridiculous notion. Child abusers rarely admit to their crimes unless they’re caught. Given the chance, they will quickly blame the child. Witnessing child abuse and doing nothing is just as criminal as participating.
Victim blame a child abuse survivor, and that’s where my patience, kindness and association ends.
I do not ever condone a child abuse survivor having to defend themselves against the abuse they suffered. My fellow child abuse survivors, we’re not mentally ill. Our abusers are. Those who would attack your abuse are in serious need of psychological help themselves.
They lack empathy and understanding. Attacking someone’s child abuse is an extremely apathetic action. I feel we must use our voices to stand against those who would deny the atrocities that we endured as children and that children still endure. We have to stand our ground and not allow children to ever be blamed for the neglect and/or abuse they endure.
Tonight I sit in contemplation, knowing where my passions are, and what makes me feel in a space of forward movement. I am aware of where I put my time and my energy, for my goal is to always be focused on believing and supporting child abuse survivors.