Parent's & Siblings Stories - All Straight Branches
Ali & Shaun's Mom
Cincinnati, Ohio and Plymouth, Michigan 1984-86
I don't have any excuse for what I allowed to happen to my children. It is decades later and my daughter, especially, still suffers from the abuse she endured. I can't imagine how it happened that I, a normally sensitive and loving parent, drew a blank and allowed myself to be convinced that I was doing the right thing. In the face of the obvious fact that "the Program" wasn't working, I persisted in sending my children back when they ran away. In the face of the obvious fact that things were not right, I, an intelligent, educated person, stood in parent groups and "shared" and listened to things that should not have been shared nor heard. I saw the anguish my children were feeling and somehow convinced myself that this was going to save their lives.
I know that my children, who have children of their own now, understand on some level that I was just as duped as they were and that I meant only to try to help them, but I feel a personal sense of shame. I am guilty because I was the one who made the decisions. I am glad that, in spite of the horror of Straight, that both of my children have survived.
The only thing I did right where Straight was concerned is that when my daughter failed to 7-Step after years of ups and downs and after a period of doing as well as she possibly could considering where she was, I said, come home, enough. I am only sorry I didn't do it the first day I walked through the door of the Building.
Michelle, Sibling, Orlando Straight, 1988-1990
In March 2019, an article written by Cyndy Etler for The Huffington Post about Straight generated some comments from people who remembered Straight. This is one of those comments, reposted here with permission from the sibling.
"Thank you so much for sharing your [Cyndy Etler] story. My brother was 14 and I was 16 when my step-father convinced my mom to send him to Straight. He’d been caught drinking alcohol & smoking pot outside his bedroom window with friends one night. My brother wasn’t a bad kid, but in our house, there wasn’t much difference between smoking pot and shooting up. The next two years of our lives would be spent driving 4 hours round trip to attend meetings every Friday night. Each time we went, I’d spend 30 minutes in the bathroom, puking my guts out from the stress and anxiety induced migraines I’d only begun suffering after being forced to attend these meetings. Once my brother reached a “phase” of the program that permitted him home visits, things got really weird. He wasn’t allowed to talk about almost anything (depending upon what phase of the program he was in) so most questions would be abruptly halted by him yelling “can’t say!” Lack of the ability to communicate left us all frustrated and confused. Certainly, no healing could occur without the ability to communicate. Soon after, the cycle of endless escapes, captures and returns started. Each time he was returned, his program would start over from day 1. Until reading this article, I had no idea about the torture that he must have suffered there. He’s never spoken about what went on inside those walls. Now, 30 years later, I finally understand."