Film: The Incident(s) at Paradise Bay

The Incident(s) at Paradise Bay is a short-film based on Tranquility Bay in Jamaica which closed down in 2009. The fictional Paradise Bay is supposed to be located in Mexico where basically everything could take place before the authorities regulated the area in 2004 leading to a massive closure of illegal so-called rehab facilities and boarding schools.

The kickstarter page for the short-film writes:

Inspired by true events, this is the story of what really went on at the tough-love reform schools that came to prominence in the 90's.

THE INCIDENT(S) AT PARADISE BAY from Colin Akoon on Vimeo.

Director: Lorne Hiltser, Writer: Nate Crocker

Sources:

• Incident(s) At Paradise Bay (Kickstarter.com)
• (Internet Movie Database)

Greg at Carolina Springs Academy (From:antiwwasp.us)

My name is Greg. I went to Carolina Springs Academy on Dec. 16, 1999. A week after my 16th b-day and 2 weeks before Christmas. I found this forum and thought it might be a cool place to vent about stuff that's been locked up for so long. I saw that movie 'Changeling' with Angelina Jolie and when she got sent to the psych ward it brought back all my boarding school memories. I've always had the memories, and dreams of being back in boarding school and I just had nothing to do with them. So I'll just share them with you guys. I didn't really see a need to 'share' them with anyone until it all kinda surfaced after the movie. I have yet to talk to my parents about any of the things that went on at CSA or TB. I'm currently 25 yrs old, I have a 4 yr old daughter and work as an x-ray tech in Texas.

So when I started out at CSA I was so shocked I didn't want to talk to anyone. They sent me to a room behind the cafeteria where they had a kid that was in trouble. I later found out that he had committed a level 3 offense or higher and that's why he was by himself in this room with a staff member. As much as I try to remember people's names from CSA or TB I have a hard time doing it. So I don't know his name but he told me he had 3 nuts and I started laughing. I started talking after that and got shuffled into the deck with the rest of the students.

At CSA I was in the 'Ragazzi' Family. I remember we had an Italian kid in our group that we thought was cool. He basically named our family. I remember making the family banner or flag. Someone asked if I could 'tag' and I said 'yeah' knowing I could draw. I made the Ragazzi family banner with bold old english letters and later found out 'tagging' was gangster graffiti. So no I couldn't 'tag' but I made a banner everyone liked. I think I even put an Italian flag in the background.

I remember in the beginning thinking that everyone in my 'family' at CSA was normal. There was a tall lanky kid that had obvious mental retardation problems. I remember we would all wrestle or fight him just cause he was so weak. Beating up on him always made us feel a little better. I don't get any joy out of thinking about beating him up. I just know it's what we did. So in light of this being an antiWWASP forum and if a parent is reading this, know that certain kids are singled out for not being the in-crowd and some fighting or beatings were allowed by staff.

I feel like I could sit here and tell stories all day, and I might try to until someone emails me or something and tells me how they know me and I'll see if I can remember you.

I eventually got sent to Tranquility Bay after being at CSA for 11 months and running away. I promise I'll tell that story one day. 2 hired thugs came and got me up in the middle of the night and drove me to an airport in Atlanta and then to Montego Bay, Jamaica. We took the longest drive to St. Elizabeth parish on the south side of the island to TB. I was in the 'Honor' family in TB. I remember being scared of TB cause of all the rumors I heard about it while I was in CSA. I remember they were even sending upper-levels from TB to CSA to tell us to 'shape up' or else we'd go there.

I remember not wanting to participate in any 'program' stuff like progress or earning levels so I just kept to myself and obeyed the rules to avoid worksheets and OP. And I did for a long time. I think I was in TB for 3 months just not sharing in group. I think I only went to worksheets once so I was sitting on a massive stack of 'points'. My only outlet at TB was school. Yeah, we had no teachers, just learning by reading books and taking chapter tests. I'd started realizing I might get to go home if I was 'doing good' when I graduated high school.

I started to share in my family groups in TB when it was getting close to me graduating. I had been a level 5 at CSA so I knew what everyone wanted to hear. I shot right up from level 2 to level 3, I think level 2 was a 'give me' anyway with points wasn't it? The only difference between level 2 and level 1 in TB was level 2's got snacks on saturday with the movie? I dunno, it's almost been 10 yrs. When I got level 3 it was kinda controversial because I really hadn't been 'sharing' or 'doing good' that long and I almost had level 4 points. I remember all these people in my family opposing the idea of me getting level 3 and definately the level 4 to come with so little length of participation. I remember needing to do something DRASTIC to get support to get voted to level 4 before I graduated.
I convinced all my classmates that I'd sent a letter home to my parents saying that no matter what my parents said when they visited for graduation I told them that I wanted to graduate the program. Everyone was thinking what I was. They thought if I was level 4 by the time I graduated high-school that my parents would take me home. This 'commitment' from me saying I would graduate the program level 6 yada yada was good enough to get voted to level 4 by my staff and upper levels in my family. I just remember it being a record how fast I got level 4 at TB. Thing is, when my parents got there for graduation and I graduated in May of '01 with 2 other people my parents asked me to come home.

We were sitting at the tables by the pool underneath some trees. I remember when my parents asked me to come home I just started crying. I kinda didn't think it was real. All my suffering was finally over. I'd never sent the letter saying I wanted to stay in the program and graduate it. I took my parents up on the offer. The staff let me go back and say good-bye to my family, they were in the classroom. I remember a kid(sorry I don't remember any names from these schools) he had gone into this 'pact' with me about sending a letter home. He was a level 3 trying to get voted into level 4 too. He kinda jumped on my bandwagon but actually sent the letter home to his parents saying that he wanted to stay in the program and graduate no matter what. The Honor family didn't vote him to level 4 though. The damage was done because his letter had been sent. I remember seeing him as I was leaving. It didn't occur to me then why he gave me such a painful look. He was stuck there and partly because of me and my scheme to get out. If you happen to read this and you are the kid that was stranded there by your parents because I convinced you to write them a letter to keep you there I'm sorry.

Most of my thoughts every day while I was locked up for 17 months at these schools were 'how can I get out of here'. It's a shame I can't say has anyone heard from this name or that name. I just don't remember anyone's. I'm just going to keep telling stories in this forum until people start emailing me telling me who they were and how they remember me. My email is xxxxxxx@xxxxxx.xxx (Email removed due to privacy) I know it's long. These posts will probably help me to do something productive with all the memories i have of CSA and TB.

To close this post, I just want to say to any parent that these schools are not any place I'd send my child. I think I got sent to these boarding schools because my mother was having issues in her life and she didn't have the time or patience to deal with mine as a teenager. If anyone needs anything, I'd love to chat. If I find a good spot just to blog about my boarding school experiences I'll post it somewhere so if anyone who is interested can find it.

Greg


Sources:

• The original testimony on Antiwwasp.us
• Factsheet of facility (Fornits Wiki)

OM at Carolina Springs Academy and Tranquility Bay

This testimony was published in the WWASP survivors group on Facebook by OM who maintains all rights to this testimony.

I am really glad i found this group. I was at CSA (Carolina Springs Academy) for 8 months. I was taken by escorts the day after my 15th birthday.

I made it to level 3 then ran away. I got 5 miles away and then they found me. My mom told them to send me to Tranquility Bay in Jamaica.

Tranquility Bay was very dirty. I didnt want to eat the food there so they sent me to OP where we were kept in tiny rooms. We were only allowed to lay on mats on the floor, the floor was covered in ants. We were not allowed to sit up except for during meals, and if we spoke out of turn they would get violent.

I was restrained by the staff several times for practically no reason. They would grind my face into the hard floor, twist my arms around and crush them on the floor with their knees, and they poked their elbows into the backs of my knees and ground those into the floor also. The more you screamed the more they would hurt you. The guys and girls were separated, but i could hear screams of terror and pain coming from the boys section.

The day came when they took us to get out passports. I had only been there a few weeks but I looked emaciated with dark circles under my eyes, I didnt look like the same person. several other girls and I were taken to the american embassy to get out passports. I refused to sign my passport, I did not want to be in jamaica. I requested to talk to someone from the american embassy. they let me talk to a lady. I showed her my bruises and told her the horror stories. she informed me that they had heard many stories like mine and they had unsuccessfully been trying to close the place down. She said child protection laws were different in jamaica. I gave the lady my moms phone number, and told her to tell her what was going on.

When we got back to the facility they put me in isolation. The only reason they did that was because i hadnt signed my passport. I was in isolation for two weeks. Didn't get to talk to a single person during that time. I was just laying on a mat on the floor trying to keep my mind entertained. I would visualize my home and all the good memories I could remember, I would picture every place I had lived and every memory there to try and pass the time. After a while I felt crazy and began to hallucinate and see faces in the walls. After 2 weeks of isolation they moved me back to OP.

I was in Jamaica for about two months, in the program a total of nearly 11 moths. My mom was schocked by what the embassy told her and arranged for me to come home. My mom didn't recognize me when she saw me again. I was too skinny and sick looking, my skin was bad from their nasty cheap soap, My hair was like straw, and my nose would bleed every time i tried to eat. I was so happy to be free. correctional school was one of the worst experiences of my life.

Sometimes it feels like there aren't many people who understand what we went through. thanks for reading my story, I would love to be friends with people who have been through similar experiences. Even though its been 7 years it still haunts me.

Carolina Springs Academy was closed due to stricter regulation of the boarding school business in South Carolina. After the closure dead animals was found on the former campus due to possible neglect. Tranquility Bay closed down after introduction of stricter passport rules which prevented minors from being sent out of state without a valid passport.

Sources:

• The original testimony from Facebook
• Factsheet about Carolina Springs Academy - Fornits Wiki
• Factsheet about Tranquility Bay- Fornits Wiki

Rebecca Shulmister at Tranquility Bay (From:Youthrights.org)

This story was originally written on a webpage created to provide statements for a GAO hearing in 2007. The address is cafety.youthrights.org and it waits for your statement if you believe that your stay at a boarding school included unfair treatment or even abuse. All rights and credits goes to the author Philipe David Garibay, who posted the original story on cafety.youthrights.org

Tranquility Bay: the institution whose foundation was built on a manipulative mask of attractive lies.


My conservative parents never imagined dealing with problems like these.
These were Jamaican citizens offered a job by an American man.
She said I would be there at least a year.
Never did I feel like people were against me until that first day.
I sat in an isolated room staring at the wall.
My dad signed rights for them to treat me however they like, anything to get me to follow the rules.
A woman staff ripped open the shower curtain... she just stood there staring at me.
Memories were no longer clear solid images but a haze of wishes.
He pulled a can of pepper spray from his side, lifted it to my face and pushed hard on the trigger.
No one would stand against the authorities.
Coerced into good behavior
An upper-level screamed at me “how did it feel when he raped you?!”
It appeared I made a complete turn around. I felt sad, battered and hopeless.
I believed my body was lying in a hospital bed and this program was a dream.


$40,000 a YEAR my dad spent $80,000

Late July of 1997 until Late June of 1999 I was held against my will in a corrupt Children's Behavior Modification Institution referred simply as- “The Program” 23 months of my adolescence was shared between the isolated tropics of Jamaica and behind the high concrete walls in Ensenada Mexico. I was a 15 year old in a whirlwind of trouble; akward in my new shaping body;depressed for various reasons;became more involved with drugs;unabale to communicate with either parent;ran away from home and dropped out of my first year of High School. My conservative parents never imagined having to face problems like these and they had to act fast. Tranquility Bay was advertised on the net after my searched for trouble teen help and seemed to him like the solution of a lifetime!

My Dad sent a Private Investigator out to search for me. While I was hiding out in a friends house, Sacramento P.D. Came and escorted me away from my brother and friends and into a patrol car which was driven a couple of blocks and I was then handed over to a child escort. I had not met this man, the escort used often by Tranquility Bay and other residential facilities to take children out of their homes and bring them to the program of their parents choice. I spent two nights with this stranger before arriving in Jamaica. He handed me over to my new guardians, Jamaican women who spoke Patois in a thick accent and had no experience in caring for children; these were jamaican citizens offered by an American man, Jay Kay.

The first morning I was assigned a buddy to tell me the rules. I heard her say I would be there at least one year. My heart sank. I couldn't believe my dad thought this was a good idea. She began telling me Tranquility Bay is a program based on levels (1-6) and utilizes a point system along with several seminars to move ahead in levels. “You earn points by following the rules, you lose points when you break the rules” She continued telling me about the 5 categories the rules were separated amongst.

• Examples of CAT 1's : neglect talking without permission sitting/standing without permission non-verbal communication
• Ex CAT 2's: major neglect insubordination meal violation talking back to staff not following instructions not following directions rude act disrespect to staff crossing ankles /legs
• Ex CAT 3's: touching without permission lying
• Ex CAT4's: Major rude act refusal run plans major lying
• Ex CAT5's: AWOL Major sexual misconduct

CAT3 and up will make you lose all your points and drop you back to level 1.

She continued to tell me we have group everyday for an hour except for Sundays. The next few things she told me about were our daily schedule, not being able to talk with our parents until we reach level 3 and no off grounds privileges until level 4. She told me about security guards around the clock keeping us in. There was no option of using the phone, it was in the office which was prohibited by students. Staff is to be present at all times, should i need to use the bathroom, id need to wait for an available staff to escort me.

My first day I was an observer, I kept to myself and witnessed girls telling on each other. I asked my buddy what that was about. She let me know if you see someone break a rule it is your responsibility to correct them, otherwise you will be lying – lying to yourself and lying by omission.

I couldn't believe these girls bought that, and acted on it. I felt completely out of place. My situation at home touched many friends and their parents, one specifically was working towards adopting me. Never did I feel like people were against me, until that first day.

During group I was asked to share “my name, where I'm from and why I'm here.” My response was, “My name is Beck, I'm from Sacramento, California and I'm here I guess because I dropped out of school, I was doing drugs and I ran away from home.” Hands shot up and one girl was called on by our “family” case manager. She told me her experience of me is a liar, a manipulator and out of touch with my femininity. Her experience was followed by a unanimous “ditto” by the rest of the family.

I chose not to share the next day.

My second day in group I was asked if I wanted to share and I said, “No, thanks.” This response led a patriotic family member to bark at me exclaiming I disregarded the other sisters. My refusal to engage in what I felt was an undebatable conversation gave reason for the case manager to show me what “worksheets” was all about. I received a CAT3: Refusal.

A large Jamaican woman with cherry brown eyes and curly hair sprouting from her chin escorted me to the worksheets room. Upon entering the room a recorded man's voice described the life as Henry Ford. Each recording lasted on average 1 hour and 20 minutes and after the tape worksheets were passed out with 30 questions each. We needed to answer 80% correctly or that particular worksheet would not count toward the amount we were in there for. For example, CAT 2's had you doing 8 worksheets. CAT 3's had you doing approximately 20, CAT 4's about 36, and CAT 5's 50 or more.

During the tape we were to sit 3 inches from the back of our chair with our heads forward. If we slipped up, another work sheet would be added. If we hadn't completed our worksheets by the end of the day (8:00 PM) we would drag our mattress to the hallway and sleep under the fluorescent lights with huge tropical bugs flying around and on us all night.

My second day in worksheets I was talking without permission and was placed in what they had a couple names for: “RR” (Room Restriction) A.K.A. “OP” (Observation Placement) A.K.A. “Isolation” A.K.A. “SOLITARY Confinement.” Basically speaks for itself.

I sat in an isolated room staring at the wall while a staff member sat at the end observing me. They told me I would be in there from 3 days until whenever they thought I was ready to finish my worksheets. I had been quite rebellious, full of angst and was a starving free spirit. I felt trapped, locked up with no hope of freedom. I began thinking about what a decent kid I was and I felt with every piece of me this highly secretive program was sucking money from our parents at my expense. My mental, emotional and physical health were in the hands and control of inexperienced women in a third world country. I thought about our rights; freedom of speech for instance. We weren't allowed the freedom of speech, we had to ask for it. I wondered how we could be held against our will in a facility privately owned and operated with zero oversight. I became overwhelmed with fear that I was correct in thinking this is a money-making gimmick and we were just for show. I began pondering brain-washing cults and how successful they had been in ending people's lives, convincing them suicide is the answer. I could not understand how anyone would fall for any of that. I kept seeing the girls in my “family” behave like robots, unlike any kid out in the real world. I knew I had to get out. Since I was in the worse punishment department they had. I decided to act out.

I sang songs loud with profanity, banging on the chair as though the arms were drums. I talked to myself, I stood and sat without permission, went to the bathroom without permission. Several “managerial” staff along with the director of TB, Jay Kay, came in and ordered me to stop. They told me I was prolonging my stay by acting like this and the rest is a blur because at the time I had my mind set on getting shipped back. They told me I'd better start behaving. I informed THEM that I was already in their harshest punishment and I didn't have any interest in joining that whack family, so I'll just be as happy as a clam by myself in there, the isolated room
Jay let me know my dad signed for permission to allow them to treat me however they liked, whatever it takes to get me to follow rules. I asked what he meant, doubting he had permission to beat me. He left the room assuring me I didn't want to find out. I made up my mind that I would find out because this place needs to be found out about and parents need to know this place is a manipulative ploy designed to bring in money. This place cannot be the solution they are paying $40,000 a year for.

Later that evening Jay and some women staff instructed me to take a shower and a staff member would administer some lice shampoo while I bathed. I said, “No, way. I am not going to shower with a man in the room and no staff is going to administer anything when I'm naked.” Jay warned me if I didn't cooperate they would all hold me down and wash my hair with it. I knew they physically could and I was very self conscious about my body so I reasoned with them. I agreed to wash my own hair so long as no one came in the bathroom while I bathed. While I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair a woman staff member ripped open the shower curtain. I covered myself in shock, cursed at her, asking her what she was doing. Sh just stood staring at me. Seconds went by and she left. I was humiliated, disrespected and lied to. They asked me if I washed my hair with it when I came out of the bathroom. I didn't answer until the second time they asked. I responded, “What the fuck do you think?” I confronted their betrayal to the agreement. I told them I lost any bit of respect and trust I had for them. I should have known they wouldn't care.
I found myself in a strange place mentally. I was homesick for meals my mom made, I missed the smell of bagels on Sunday mornings. I missed hanging out with my brother on the couch watching morning time cartoons.

My mind kept bringing up images of my early childhood, from age 4 to 11. As the days and weeks went on my mind started creating false memories; I couldn't remember any real memories. The memories were no longer clear, solid images, but a haze of wishes. I didn't understand why my mind started conjuring up scenarios of a family and life I never knew. I felt hopelessly alone, isolated from safety, reality and any chance of a family.

My harsh reality of the moment was that my dad wouldn't see what happens behing those walls and I should probably try hard to race to level 6 so I could go home.

They released me back to work sheets so I could finish my set from before, along with the 53+ I acquired in OP. After a few days in worksheets I began feeling more comfortable with the worksheet staff. During meals they let us talk without permission. We talked about a range of things like witchcraft, what Jamaican city life is like, if everyone in Jamaica smokes Ganja (all their eyes were always glazed over and bloodshot). We also talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up. One of the girls, Wendy, said something about a rock star and I joked about being a stripper at her shows. The staff told us to stop talking and I asked if she had a problem with strippers. Without hesitation Ms. Vassel handed me over to the OP Staff, Mrs. King.
Since I was one of the first kids in Tranquility Bay, they hadn't figured out the exact way they would execute punishments. So, back in OP, I was instructed to sit on the floor, back straight, face the wall and be silent until my time had been served. Time wasn't exact either yet, but at this point the initial staff member who sent a “student” to OP had to release her. Well, I knew I'd be in there for at least a few days and my back hurt, so I laid down.

I grew angry. I became increasingly confused with how this program exists and how the other girls just went right along with it. I was angry that these cold hearted people imprisoned kids they'd never met before in an act to help them, yet in reality saw a good way to make money. I laid there steaming in the idea that my dad was at home belittling my intelligent mom and continuing to shut my sister out of our lives. I remembered how I'd sneak around to see her; to watch a little league ball game with her. I fought hard to keep in connection with her. She was my sister and she knew like my brother and I both that my dad was a disappointing abusive controlling (understatement) man whose main objective was to control the power, hold the power, release the power. He kicked my sister out after nearly breaking her arm and ribs. He beat up my brother pretty bad, and me. He smacked me in the face once and choked me until my brother came running in.

I was growing more angry the longer I stayed in that room knowing the real criminal was free and in control of me. I felt like I had nothing to lose.

I started talking to myself and Jay came in to tell me to stop. I finally listened and he left. Mrs. King allowed me to go to the bathroom. When I came out I sat and talked with her. Jay's assistant who followed him everywhere came in and ordered me to the window. I tried explaining I just wanted to talk with the staff. He said he's given me enough chances to behave. I instigated a “solution” to my behavior. I refused to move to the window. He pulled a can of pepper spray from his side and lifted it to my face. He followed me around the room until the can was empty.
I was crying hysterically. I began hyperventilating. Mrs. King helped me rinse the spray off my face. She cursed the man and later went and cursed at Ms. Vassel.

But these were the men in charge; unless the Jamaican women wanted to lose their jobs no one would stand against the authorities. Mrs. King held a paper sack to my face while I tried calming down. The man who sprayed me stared at me. I dug my pinky nail into my wrist, thinking about all the girls and boys being prisoners here, coerced into “good” behavior, essentially ridding us of independent personalities of which our parents would farcely see as improvement. This way they would keep faith in such an expensive investment. I knew my dad would never trust anything I said and I began to realize I would be captive for a long tune, I understood at that moment my livelihood for an indefinite time was ruled by these con-men. I decided then that I would have to wait until I got out to let the truth be heard.

Tranquility Bay; the institution who's foundation was built on a manipulative mask of attractive lies.

I have always been a tom-boy, always more interested in boy's clothes rather than girl's clothes, boyish hair cuts, etc. Though at the time I had an extremely unattractive eclectic style limited to a couple unique pants and a few vandalized work shirts; I still had a strong will about my freedom as an XX Chromosome to present myself in anyway I chose. The principle to me was freedom to choose.

I looked like a nerdy wanna-be tough white trash punk dude. Now, in the navy blue nylon skirt and white blouse uniform, I looked like a wanna-be tough sloppy androgynous angsty teen. I was super uncomfortable in the stereo-typically girly uniform and it showed.

Seminar facilitators were coming over in a few days and I was still in worksheets. The first seminar we all had to complete was called “Discovery.” Those who had completed Discovery the prior month went on to a Focus seminar and from there, Accountability. Graduates of this could start getting to Level 5, start the Parent/Child seminars and successfully graduate the Program. By the time I completed Focus the organizers added another seminar called Keys to Success.
Discovery seminar consists of 3 long days of emotionally draining workshops including a session of telling on ourselves and each other for any rule-breaking; admitting our rapes/molestation/abuse we'd suffered from; saying “You Die” to each person while looking them in the eye; standing before everyone and admitting it is our choice to be in this program based on our actions.

Stock affirmation propaganda decorated the large basement room (girls previous sleeping quarters) clogging the space with congesting permanent marker stench which always gave me a migraine. The propaganda posters were drawn up by the upper-levels (Level 4-6) early that first morning, saying things like, “That which is not acted upon is not learned,” and “ASSUME = Ass Out Of You And Me.” “Insanity = same thing over and over again expecting different results.” A poster drawn like this:

INSERT PICTURE HERE

The first day I went into Discovery Seminar, I had run out of clean blouses so I had to wear a white shirt my mom packed that had a picture of a bagel on it and marked me as a “bagel babe.”
Motion Picture 2001's theme song played over large speakers. Girls and boys filed into the basement and took a seat. When the music ended a short lady named Lou introduced herself.
She told us it is our choice to be here as it would also be our choice not to be here. I wondered if that meant I could leave and go home. I think she saw the question cross my mind so she asked me to stand up. I did and she studied me. She glared at me and walked up 'til her nose was an inch from mine and I had to look at one eye at a time. Spit flew from her mouth and landed on my face when she made reference to my appearance: “Bagel babe?! That's a joke.”
I felt my skin heat up, my face flushed, stomach turned. She continued attacking my hair style and how I presented myself. She commented on how my lack of self-respect shows with my acne problem and how fat I was. I held eye contact because I was a wanna-be tough chick, but inside I was breaking down, I was 15 and grew more confused everyday.

About an hour later I asked if I could use the bathroom. She said yes and while I was in there ask myself what I'm avoiding; suggesting I was hiding to avoid something. I felt like each minute longer she spoke, my spirit and beliefs broke down and I was becoming more impressionable.

She spoke very convincingly and with confidence. Everyone was going along with her procedures and turned on each other, girls shot their hands up to tell on other girls for the smallest things, things seeming irrelevant for anyone's benefit. For example: “last week Michelle was crossing her ankles,” “Sarah didn't bring her water bottle today.”

And after these girls made these confessions, the accused had to stand up and thank them for helping them stay accountable for their actions.

They were given self-correction forms to announce their violation, what led them to misbehave and what they would do to prevent that in the future. If they chose not to self-correct, they'd receives a staff-correction which was a CAT 2. Anyone with a CAT 2 in Discovery would have to choose-out and try again the following month.

By the third day of Discovery I was exhausted, hadn't eaten much, slept only a couple of hours each night and was emotionally drained from hearing and talking about all the sad things that happened in my 15 years. I was consumed with thoughts of my alcoholic mom talked down to and disrespected constantly by my dad, my sister running away when I was 8, my dad trying to beat her up at a little league softball game. I didn't think too much about the rape, it just seemed no bigger than the separation from my sister my dad forced on us. Or his lack of thought when leaving my mom behind during major Jewish Holidays. But for whatever reason, during the workshop on Discovery day 3, of beating a towel on the floor while picturing bad stuff, and upper-level screamed at me. “How did it feel when he raped you?!”

As though she was some crazy psychologist expecting to hit home. I'd grown from the rape; the person and I had talked about it and he apologized and I understood something important to help me not completely shut off. I understood I wouldn't forget and I wouldn't ever forgive the action or that part of him, and I knew he would live with guilt forever from it, but everything I witnessed as a little girl, watching my father's behavior and my mom's lack of presence hurt me more than anything. So when the upper-level screamed that at me it reminded me that this place is a torturing ground for young minds with vulnerable spirits.

When it came time to beat the floor while thinking about mommy's mistakes, I had a little bit on mom, but most everything seethed my dad. I was supposed to think about mom so I just laid on the ground, I couldn't beat the floor thinking about how she had already been beat. The upper-level came to me again and said if I don't beat the floor I will choose out of Discovery and wait longer to even be able to talk to my mom again. I switched my thoughts to my dad and beat the floor some more until it ended.

We were then instructed to play with play-dough and Tag and small children's games. If we didn't, we didn't find our magical child and would need to try Discovery the following month.
Finally Discovery ended and I returned to complete my worksheets. About a week later I joined the family. It appeared I'd make a complete turn around. I felt battered, lost, sad and hopeless. I started following the rules hoping I could go home soon. Everyone wanted to go home. Everyone followed the rules, but girls would accidentally forget their water bottle a few times and be sent to worksheets.

Many nights I'd hear my roommates cry themselves to sleep, many nights I'd be unable to sleep, I was unable to comprehend the reality of being so far and in isolation from the rest of the world. We had no access to news, no radio, no music, no stores. We had ice cold showers, fish eyes, chicken feet and goat bones in our food, and often had to use the bathroom over each other's waste. We did our laundry in buckets with a ½ cup of detergent. We filled buckets of pool water and flushed toilets with them. Sometimes we would have to use the pool water for bathing as well.

We were expected to be verbally abusive to each other in groups always challenging what the person is sharing.

“My experience of you is what you're sharing about is not real.” None of us knew what we were saying, just kids responding in hopes to be seen.

All these negative horribly lonely characteristics of the program were contrasted by the peaceful steady crashing waves of the Caribbean right outside the walls. So surreal I grew to encompass an idea I had smoked some weed laced with something that rendered me in a vegetable state. I believed my body was lying in a hospital bed and this program was a dream. I felt crazy.

Good things about the Program were: appreciating everything, name it and I still appreciate it whole heartedly 2 years without meth; I haven't touched it since. I swam in the ocean on Christmas day in 1997, it was wonderful. I met Jamaican women who taught me some about Jamaican culture. I wrote a book there – not work re-reading or publishing, but I wrote an 87+ page book. Heard girls' life stories, learned that everyone had skeletons. We made some creative haunted houses on Halloween. Celebrated Christmas for the first time. Experienced a Jamaican Patty, delicious.

We were told not to tell our parents in letters we wanted to go home. Even in the seminars, the facilitators mentioned that if we didn't graduate the Program it was as though we wanted to die because we surely wouldn't live if we didn't graduate.

Tranquility Bay: the institution whose foundation was built on a manipulative mask of attractive lies.


My conservative parents never imagined dealing with problems like these.
These were Jamaican citizens offered a job by an American man.
She said I would be there at least a year.
Never did I feel like people were against me until that first day.
I sat in an isolated room staring at the wall.
My dad signed rights for them to treat me however they like, anything to get me to follow the rules.
A woman staff ripped open the shower curtain... she just stood there staring at me.
Memories were no longer clear solid images but a haze of wishes.
He pulled a can of pepper spray from his side, lifted it to my face and pushed hard on the trigger.
No one would stand against the authorities.
Coerced into good behavior
An upper-level screamed at me “how did it feel when he raped you?!”
It appeared I made a complete turn around. I felt sad, battered and hopeless.
I believed my body was lying in a hospital bed and this program was a dream.


$40,000 a YEAR my dad spent $80,000

References:
Datasheet about Tranquility Bay at Fornits Home for Wayward Web Fora
The original statement on cafety.youthrights.com

The Life and Times of a Starfish (From tbfight.com)

This story was originally written on a webpage called tbfight.com, which sadly is not online anymore properly because the boarding school closed sometime in 2009. All rights and credits goes to the author Grant, who posted the original story on tbfights.com.

Hi my name is Grant and I graduated Tranquility Bay more than a year ago.

A fellow graduate recommended me to this sight and i read a great piece about a day in the life of a lower level student. It intrigued me and even brought back memories that were pushed to the far realms of my mind long ago. Props to whoever you are to such a well written work of fact. It actually inspired me to the point of taking time out of my schedule to write my own piece in my perspective of a starfish on the next bus ride home. I'm changing the names of certain people for there sake...and i could care less who reads this and gets offeneded so i'll leave my name at the top. And if i do offened anybody then i'll glady self-correct that shit.

Finally....I'm going home. Just a few more months. I can almost taste the sweet freedom. I cant believe its almost been two damn years. I came into this God awful mess 16 and now am graduating a very resentful 18. I slowly open my eyes and see the clock dimly lit across the room by the moonlight. Its a quarter to three. I catch a glimpse of a certain staff stealing a friend of mines juice out of the fridge. Wow he must be thirsty i think to myself. So blind with thirst that he cant even read the huge black letters with the students initials written on it.....asshole. I role back over. Jesus its hot! I contemplate temporarily "borrowing" a fellow starfish's fan that his mommy and daddy gave him along with everything else his precious heart desired....man this place makes you resentful. I smile to myself for a moment thinking about how obsured it would be to be envious of someones fan on the outs. Funny how two years of slowly going crazy can affect someones character. The thiefing staff belches and carries his speedo warring hairy-ass back to his little cot. How ironic it is that we cant even take off our shirts and the staff sharing our rooms walk around with what looks like an eye-patch. I mean do i really need to see that and even worse sleep two feet from it.

The snoring starts up again. If my pillow wasnt drenched in sweat I'd consider smothering my head with it....oh well. I must say im quite surprised though... the mosquitoes have barely even....oh wait...yea i spoke to soon, there they are. And once again I'm in quite a predicament. Should i just man-up and try to ignore these vampire-thieves stealing my blood, or covering head and body in my sheet; consequently forcing myself to try and sleep in a thin cotton furnace. I'm 18, i should be worried about car payments and which college coarses to take. Ohhhh man...Id kill for a realistic dilema. I'd kill to be a normal teenager...to late, why waste energy on the impossible. It's just me and my thoughts now. It almost feels as if the whole world is asleep but me. Just me and the mosquitos. I remember for a moment a bottle of bugspray in the closet. I get up, carfully walking the gauntlet of naked Jamaican men littering the floors. Shit! The spray is empty, well looks like the furnace for me tonight. Thoughts and memories of friends and family flood my mind, entraping my fore-sight with what could of been....what should of been. I hate thinking of my friends and family as funny as that sounds. Memories always make me feel like crying. Thats not how it should be. Good memories make people feel euphoric and bad memories make people feel fortunate...Some may ask, what the hell? Fortunate? What i mean by this is that whatever happened in the past is over now and no matter what things get better. So ill look back at getting arrested or something and feel fortunate that im out of that situation and my record is clear. This theory of "good things will come" was the only tidbit of wisdom that helped me through that Jamaican Alcatraz....not seminars, not "group"... just a simple phrase.

I cleared my mind and before i remembered falling asleep i was awake. At 7:00 we get up. Like aimless zombies my fellow starfish and I slowly wander to the showers. Everyday its a battle to beat Excellence family to the showers...after all we had to get ready for "work". My friend Tommy and i walk across the brezzy courtyard. Great...sure enough the Excellence family beat us there. And sure enough its because there father wanted to beat us there. Its always a competition with these guys. I walk over to Tommy ask for toothpaste and squeeze my way between the mass of kids all spitting and gargalling in the same "troff-like" gutter. Finally i get a shower. I reluctantly step in and undress...im already cold, well maybe it will be hot today...just maybe....nope! Well thats like 800 days in a row. I love the originality. The wind blows away what was left of my water and so i just stand there...here we go again. THe Excellence father(real asshole) feels the need to interupt my standing cold and naked time in order to refresh me on why im a starfish and that i should be consequenting his kids for talking and horse play. I snap back ofcourse(as ive done since before i new he exsisted). "Why do you need me to help you do your job"? I say coldly. He stares at me while the idiots in his family start to laugh...funny how what they dont realise is that all it takes is one instant, one hint of misfortune to happen in a staffs daily routine and consequences would be handed out like candy for the rest of the night. I turn away, hoping he'd just get distracted and walk away. Tommy brings me a bucket of water. I thank him and offer a handful of my precious herbal essence shampoo. I smile thinking back to the fan and the pitty way of life here. Psh...bucket showers, even a level 6 starfish goes through that crap.

Fast forward to getting dressed for my basically obsolete job. We starfish got the pleasure of getting paid crap for pointless busy work. But the best part was we got to dress up like our heros...the staff. Everyday we worked we would get assigned new jobs for the day and they would normally rotate. Ex. Supervising a family...watching O.P ect. ect. Basically just filling the spot of a staff who didnt make it that shift. I get assigned to work with Triumph...damn..i hate this family. I of course find a buddy to walk me over there because of course we can be alone in a room all day but we cant walk 30 feet by ourselves. I walk through the hallways of families with students constantly stopping every three feet to ask if i can talk to them about a problem there having later. With familiar repetion i politely say sure. What i cant help but think about though is my own problems. My boredom, my obsessive contiplations of the corruption and hypocracy that plauges this place like loccusts, and of course my burning desire to be rid of it all....just a few months i remind myself.

For the next few hours i follow the family around in a daze. I'm forced to give out at least 10 consequences so as always i find the worst kid in the family, the one who loves the attention and rep he gets from receiving dozens of consequences, and ask if if i can give him 10...as always he says yes...great, now i can really relax. Group time comes. I roam to my families room and sit in a chair by the window. My family greets me and begins to passionatly explain the hilariously events that took place by the line area, i pretend to care and wait for our case rep. I hate group. Starfish "share" probably the least of any other individuals but are always pressured to give outstanding feedback....pearls of wisdom from fake role models....awesome...one of my bestfriends; a level-one student named Mark, is forced to share about how he isn't getting his act together. Almost everyday my case rep stands him up and makes him talk about the same shit. Another wonderful day of repetition....

After he finishes the room (as always) falls silent. You can tell the kids who are working. There the first to stand up and share whatever they read in Chicken Soup for the Soul the night before. I always laugh at how they pretend how they made it up and try and impress the case rep at how much they are growing and learning as people...then i remember that i and every other starfish there did the same shit...that usually makes me stop laughing. Then my case rep calls my name. I reluctantly stand up as she pretty much tells what to say to my friend Mark. "Grant, tell Mark how working the program has changed your life. Tell Mark that he is being foolish and destructive, tell him he is a liar and deceitful and a bad person". Jesus, ya just did lady...I sigh and referberate everything she basically just said. He smiles at me for a moment and for a secound i feel like less of a shmuck for tearing him down for reasons i dont back up. After all....he understands that i have to go home. And to do this i must fit a certain niche. Even worse than that, having to turn a blinds eye to the corruption behind every factor that makes this place move.

As i speak to Mark through words that are not my own i think back to last week. I think about working in O.P and i think about watching him getting restrained for refusing to do any more jumping jacks. I think about the four staff on him grinding his joints into the hard floor. His screams for mercy echo my mind and for the first time in my life i hate myself. I hate myself for standing guard by the door, i hate myself for looking on as my friend is tortured for what i know is for a bullshit reason, i hate myself for not saying anything, and i hate myself for not being a true friend. I guess i am thankful for his empathy and forgiveness. He understood that if i said anything, the staff would just make up the same story, make me look like a liar and get probation or dropped. I am too close to being rid of this place to start again. It kills me slowly inside as i but my own beliefs , values and feelings on hold in order to go home. It brought new meaning to "between a rock and a hard place" to me. How many times have myself, the other starfish, past graduates...how long have we turned a blinds-eye to what we new in every inch of our body and soul to be wrong. How many times have we sacraficed our character and opinions for just one chance at freedom.

Only a few more months....at the end of group I put my hand on Mark's shoulder. My eyes begged forgivness and before i could say a word he told me it was o.k.....Im the real asshole. As we walked to the classroom i watch the girls as they cross the courtyard. In an instant every inch of me ached. I needed the touch and the feel of a girl with every ounch of me. What i wouldnt do for 5 minutes alone. Not even a peck on the cheek for almost 2 years. It almost killed me to look at them...I didnt care who...just any of them. My hormones and testostorone was on the brink of explosion. Im a 18 year old man...what the hell is going on i thought. Sexual fantasies clouded my vision for the next few hours as i sit twidling my thumbs in the class room...work as usual.

Dinner eventually came and went..still hungry as always...always hungry. I think back at the time when i was a even more-so starving level two. I remember finding that peice of bread smothered with ants...i remember splitting it with my friend and laughing at how pathetic we both were. I walk with the starfish back to our rooms...our shift was finally over. We played basketball (my own personal therapy) until i remember the kids i promised to speak with...I unwillingly walked over to the class rooms knowing that i wouldnt make it to more than half of the kids who asked to speak with me. I listened time after time to there problems with staff, and there parents, and the family...not once asking me about my life mind you. I wanted to listen to peoples problems almost as much as i wanted to listen to my girlfriend talk about why its important to match your shoes to your purse...fastforward to me laying awake in bed dreaming of my departure from this hellish prison. I thought about how long i could play "good soldier" and swallow the 90% of bullshit being forced down my throat. I thought about how much longer i could turn my back on the ugliness that went on behind every closed door, i thought about the man i was, the man i wanted to be, i the man i was slowly turning into.....only a few more months...

After graduating i could think of nothing but the program, and the people still in it ironically enough. Now more than a year later, i always forget i was there. Almost like a fading memory of a distant dream. I eventually finished school, hold a great paying job and have been living with and happily dating one of my fantasy girls from the program...haha Even though ive been through hell and back i still recognize the person those experiences molded me into. But if you asked me if i could change anything i would. Fate made me this way, not the bullshit from T.B....id love to get a chance to reclaim two years of my adolence....Id love to experience those to years as they should of been.

References:
Datasheet about the boarding school from Secret Prisons for Teens
The original story (Cached version of tbfight.com - may take a while to load)

TB: A lesson learned in fear (from tbfight.com)

This story was originally written on a webpage called tbfight.com, which sadly is not online anymore properly because the boarding school closed sometime in 2009. All rights and credits goes to the author Blair Dowell, who posted the original story on tbfights.com.

My name is Blair Dowell. I was sent to TB the 22nd of March, 2001. At that time I had just turned 15 years old. My overall experience there was definitely one of a negative nature. I have somehow blocked almost the entire experience out of my mind. I was there for 15 months and literally cried every day. The daily schedule consisted of waking up at 7:30 am and cleaning the "house"... and to put lightly, the said house was disgusting. We slept on wooden slabs that pulled out of the wall, with the money our parents were paying this was the best they could provide. Go figure. Although Jamaica is known for its wonderful year round tropical weather, showering outside at 8 am in any country is ridiculous. Yes, our showers were outside. Not to mention the water often was out, so we would lug around ONE bucket of water to shower with.

That can't be sanitary?? I hate to admit this but I also had lice for a month or so, as well as many other girls. The nurse was pretty much useless, at one point I pulled out lice from my hair and a friends and put it in a tissue and showed her. At that point the nurse called us to her office and she poured kerosene in our hair. Yep, kerosene.

Wow, the food is a whole other story. I am not a picky eater. But let me tell you the food was horrible and I mean that in every sense of the word. I would try and hide my food in napkins, but of course I would only end up getting in trouble. They served us mounds of dough that they called dumplings (if you're thinking Chinese dumplings, think again) they wer ebasically mounds of cooked dough with salt and some red gooey fish stuff on the side. Occasionally for breakfast they served us the same red gooey fish stuff with 2 pieces of buttered bread which they plopped right on top of the fish, so now you had two soggy pieces of bread filled with fish and the nasty fish crap. YUM, and you HAD to eat it. I lost 20-30 lbs there.

'Tattling' was of the norm there. You basically moved up levels if you told on as many people as you could. And of course during group you gave a lot of feedback and attacked people.

Group was a joke. That is the hour and a half of the day we spent sitting around in a group and one person would share about past experiences. Basically there was no "right" or "wrong". If you were raped... it was somehow your fault. "How did you put yourself in that position?" "Were you wearing provactive clothing? Well then you provoked your rape stop blaming the person and take accountability!" Do you really tell someone who has been raped that somehow they provoked it. Please. I think that is WRONG. Many times in group the "case manager" (more program lingo, the family rep. basically the person who deals with the parents, the middle man and group leader) would have one person stand up and the whole group would be dedicated to pointing out what was "not working" for the person. Basically calling them out in front of everyone, belitting and almost always the person was in tears. I don't care who you are, or how tough you are. Try being stood up in front of 20 of your peers and being told what was wrong with you. Somehow that was supposed to be constructive criticism. I do know the difference, and that was nothing of that sort.No one had a degree there. No one was licensed to work with children much less give out advice about such serious issues such as rape, molestation, drug abuse etc. Communication was already tough in the first place. It took me awhile to just get used to their awful grammar and slang. BTW that was not a jab at their culture, just the laziness of their speech, so mainly the individuals that worked there.

If you heard about the suicide that took place on August 10th, 2001. I was there, I saw it happen. Now let me tell you. Watching someone leap off a 3 story building to their death is a WHOLE new issue in itself. Within 2 days we were told not to talk about what happened. If we did we would receive a CAT 5 (the worst consequence) and would be sent to O.P a.k.a R and R... and would have to lay on our face. I am not psychologist either, but I would think that after seeing something like that a normal person would need to talk about it, deal with it.

There is much more I could talk about, but I believe my ramblings gave you a brief overview of the place. I could go into much more detail, just contact me if you need to know more. Let me tell you, although my post seemed distasteful towards the program (well it is), I am not out to get anyone. I am only stating my experience. If you were sent there, or you have sent a child there and have a great experience, congrats to you. And a little update on how I am doing, I am currently a sophomore at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, Oklahoma. I am an active member of my sorority Alpha Omicron Pi. I am currently majoring in Political Science/ Pre Law. I would say I am doing pretty decent. If I could say so myself. Well you all havea great day. I hope I provided some adequate information.

References:
Datasheet about the boarding school from Secret Prisons for Teens
The original story (Cached version of tbfight.com - may take a while to load)

Philipe David Garibay at Academy at Ivy Ridge (From:Youthrights.org)

This story was originally written on a webpage created to provide statements for a GAO hearing in 2007. The address is cafety.youthrights.org and it waits for your statement if you believe that your stay at a boarding school included unfair treatment or even abuse. All rights and credits goes to the author Philipe David Garibay, who posted the original story on cafety.youthrights.org

My name is Philipe David Garibay. I attended the WWASP programs for a period of 16 months. I have seen alot and experienced alot of tramautizing events that I will never forget in those 16 months.

I started out at Casa by the Sea in Ensenada, Mexico. I was only there for two months. The first that happended when I entered those big wooden gates. I was met by 4 Mexican Staff members. I was torn away from my family and put up in the top floor, all I could here was screaming and yelling and thumping. I was led into room and told to strip down naked and do jumping jacks. I felt very uncomfortable in this situation, I asked why and before I knew it I was restrained on the ground by 4 mexican staff calling me a "puta" and other degrading words in spanish. They twisted my arms back so I complied and did jumping jacks naked in front of four mexican staff members laughing and joking to eachother at me. They then sat me down in a chair and shaved my head. I was nothing, I was stripped of all rights and my diginity.

I was led into a food area and sat down with a group of other "program kids". They put a plate of boney fish and told me to eat. They said eat it or you get a "refusal". I wasnt hungry and it didnt look appealing at all to me, it made me sick to the stomach. So 2 mexican staff grab me and take me back to the top floor of the building and was told to sit on the floor and look at the wall. My body got sore from sitting and I laid down, next thing I know im being smashed into the wall being told "sit or be bent! sit or be bent!" I was up here for 3 days.

All around me was kids getting restrained and the joints bent around. A boy got his arm snapped from a staff member right next to me. All I can remember is the screams and yells of the kids up there. It was all day and all night, only quiet when I fell asleep only to be woken up to the boy sleeping next to me getting restrained for not going to the bathroom. I was told that I was going to be broken down and "molded".

I was not able to talk to my family via phone and only allowed t0 write to them once a week. I had nothing here, nothing at all, I didn't enjoy life anymore I felt like a rat in a cage being watched and forced to clean and scrub toilets with toothbrushes. They were trying to break me and it was working. I went to "O.P." "Isolation" for a period of 14 days and nights for a offence that I didnt even commit! I could not write t0 my family or anything.

Eventually the Mexican police came in and told us the place was being shut down. Riots broke out all over the facility, I was beaten down my a mexican staff member with soap in a sock. I passed out for a hour due to this. I woke up in daze on the concrete floor. And saw the chaos all over, windows shattered, water streaming all over the ground, poop and urine all over the walls and ceiling, we were fed twice a day for 3 days of this. the police got control over all of us.

I was left there to be only shipped on a bus thru the border back to my hometown of San Diego,California. I was told we were all going home and our parents were waiting for us at "The Town and County Hotel" in Mission Valley. We were escorted the whole way on big charter buses and then contained by a human wall leading in to the hotel. we were locked in a room and watched by "parents of other program kids".

My name was called. I went into a room only to be handcuffed very tightly cutting off circulation to my wrists. I was led into a room with 10+ people in a hotel room. They took the handcuffs off me finally. I was here for 24 hours. Then I was excorted in handcuffs totally humiliated in front of everyone in the San diego airport. "I WAS IN HANDCUFFS AND I WAS'NT EVEN ARRESTED BEING TREATED LIKE A CONVICT" We were all excorted in a group of kids with hancufffs.

I ended up in Ogensburg, New York at the Academy of Ivy Ridge. I was here for about a year.

I ended up in "isolation" here 5 times for all a period of 3 days with no talking or writing to my parents. there was a riot at the academy on May 16, 2006. On that night kids were beating eachother and staff was coming at us with pieces of wood and bats. I watched my family member " Chris Baslios" get beaten with a Mag Lite Extendo flashlite all metal by "Jason Finlinson and Jason Tulip" All you could here was yelling and screaming. I was scared, I wasnt safe, this wasnt rite. W I ended up being slammed into a closet door by "Lucas Smith" for not putting on my uniform. they were using force to make us comply back to there rules. Later on they were trying tofigure out who started the riot. I was led into the program directors room and interviewed by "Jason Finliinson" I had no idea about this. I told him that , then he slammed a golf club driver right over my head I felt it give me a shave on my head. I was lucky to not get hit. he did this 5 times making a hole in the wall above me. I urinated my pants and was very scared. I got kicked out of The academy and ended up being isolated again from all the friends that I made there in my family.

I was woken up at 3:00 am by a escort handcuffed and flown out to Jamaica. I was now at Tranquility Bay. I was put in "o.P." for 4 days isolated from everyone. I was forced to lay on a thin mat that reeked of urine and body smell's on my stomach with my chin on the mat face up.Forced to eat boney meat and fish everyday. If I didnt I was going to have my bones grinded. I was forced to attend seminars" at all of this programs being told stuff that I didnt want to accept, they were trying to force beliefs into me brainwash me and make me a different person. I was oushed thru all of these programs until I turned 18 on Jan 28, 2006. I wanted to leave that Day. I coudnt, I was held there against my will for 6 days till I left.

I endured alot of physical and mental abuse for 16 months at these WWASP programs. Memeorys always haunt me and now I have Post Tramic Stress Disorder and panic attacks all the time and flashbacks of the program. Im 20 I have tried to forget this all , but I cant. I am not the same.

I believe WWASP needs to be re-evaluated as "boarding schools" This was no boarding school. I am not the same. Can we please put a stop to these abusive school? Can you help me? Can you help the future kids that are going to go through this. Can we stop this?

God Bless, Philipe David Garibay (hidden email to prevent spammers - can be found at the source)

References:
Datasheet about Academy at Ivy Ridge at Fornits Home for Wayward Web Fora
Datasheet about Casa by the Sea at Fornits Home for Wayward Web Fora
Datasheet about Tranquility Bay at Fornits Home for Wayward Web Fora
The original statement on cafety.youthrights.com

Kevin at Tanquility Bay (From tbfight.com)

This story was originally written on a webpage called tbfight.com, which sadly is not online anymore properly because the boarding school closed sometime in 2009. All rights and credits goes to the author Kevin, who posted the original story on tbfights.com.

First, thanks for taking the time to build and maintain this site. I spent more time than I should of looking for TRUE testimonials of what goes on there (TB). I won't bore you with all the details of what goes on there; plenty of people have already done that. I just want to offer my situation/testimonial for anyone it may help. First, thanks for taking the time to build and maintain this site. I spent more time than I should of looking for TRUE testimonials of what goes on there (TB). I won't bore you with all the details of what goes on there; plenty of people have already done that. I just want to offer my situation/testimonial for anyone it may help.
I was "sent", better known as abducted or kidnapped, when I was 17. I had only 6 credits remaining until I was to graduate H.S. with Honors. I'm no angel by any means, and have always had problems with defiance, authority, ... Anyway, removing me from an active medication treatment program, and taking away all that I knew and loved - I to this day don't know how to express the horrendous conditions, lifestyle, and treatment I recieved while I was there. I finished my 6 credits in a little over a month, but as you know, you're imprisioned there until that magic age of 18. Off topic for a sec., I personally witnessed another student (inmate) wait almost 3 months after he turned of age and withdrew from the "program" before accomadations were made to transport him back to the states and his home.

Back to the subject, after finishing academics, which excluded a foreign language (2 years are required in almost if not all US accreditted universities), I had only the option to read or draw for the 8 hours a day allocated for academics. I could tutor level 3's or 4's, but they were definately the minority. (In my classroom, there were 2 out of 50 +/-.) I gained only the ability to skirt around and find loopholes in the rules as to not recieve those petty violations (if I remember, they were referred to as consequences). Already challenged socially at home in the states, being deprived of an everyday, or "typical" social environment taught me to keep to myself. I wasn't to express opinion, emotion, thoughts, or anything else without a staff monitoring who I spoke to and what I spoke about. It quickly became apparent that the easiest way to stay out of trouble was to "shut up, be still, follow orders, OR ELSE!..." I literally sat in a classroom and read the same books over and over for about 5 months. No one really cared about my progress, and although I had surpassed all requirements to move through (up) in the program, my requests were repetitively ignored with some BS excuse. I was trapped!

With 3-4 months until I was to turn 18, I had accepted that there was no way in Hell to accurately depict the true daily rituals to my parents, who would have had me pulled from that "Hell on earth" had they any idea of how I was actually being "rehabilitated". I still remember being so excited the day I was told I was leaving TB, more excited than when I was little and got that "special gift" on Christmas morning. To this day, I have never been more relieved than I was when I was on an airplane out of Jamaica.

Within 2 weeks of returning home, I returned to the same social scene I was "removed" from, within a month I was fixing to turn 18 and had chosen "illegal business" and hotel hopping over living with the people that could have listened to my weekly plea and cries to be moved to a domestic rehab facility. After all, every one of my "monitored" letters home had graphically depicted daily life. It was 2 years before I spoke to my parents again, 2 1/2 before we were again on good speaking terms.

I'm 23 now, and after extensive testing and treatment from licensce doctors, I still have moderate to severe problems with routine social interaction. From age 18, I held several jobs where I was very seccessful, but was presented with the opportunity to attend Tennessee Tech. University on a full ride. (School fully paid, off campus residence fully paid, hell- even full coverage car insurance is paid for me.) My only job- go to school. I'm ending my second year now, withdrawing from school completely (at least college). Since my stay at TB, I've been diagnosed with severe social interaction anxiety disorder, which most DOCTORS attribute to my learned behavior , which I mentioned - "sit down, shut up, be still, OR ELSE". I have also shown symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, which never presented themselves before TB. There are also other symptoms which never appeared until after I returned home from that terrible place.

I have often asked my parents, now that I have had proper counceling and worked out most of the problems we had, "What could you have possibly been thinking when you decided to keep me there, even after getting a letter weekly begging to be put in appropriate care?" I will be the first to admit that I needed help; I knew that when I got there. But to find out that my "monitored" letters were carefully read my my "team mom" or whatever they were called, then taken out of context and depicted by phone as "calculated manipulation" to be removed from TB, it pisses me off to this day. I don't know what loophole(s) in the law they found, but they had my parents completely convinced that no matter what, keeping me there was the absolute best thing they could do, final word, bar none. I lost six months of my life to daily conditions I wouldn't wish on an enemy.

I was so mad at my parents, it took 2 years come back on speaking terms with them. To this day, I still have extreme anxiety triggered by school or academic activities. I can't approach girls without internal panic (remember, looking at a girl at TB carries the same penalty as sexual relations, a cat. 4 if I remember right.) I've become extremely paranoid with dillusional thoughts and behaviors, especially toward and figure of authority (the campus cops never crossed me, thankfully; there's no telling what would have happened). Like I said before, I was never an angel, and had taken the wrong road in life around my sophomore year in High School. I can't blame my current problems solely on my experiences at TB, but I know certainly they were worsened exponentially while I was there. I could go on and on about how TB made nearly every aspect of my life and it's challenges worse. I don't think I could write 3 things it helped. In retrospect, my parents spent (from my understanding) around $80 US per day while I was there, and believed completely that they were doing the best possible thing to help me. If this testimonial keeps one person from having to go through what I and everyone else who's been there had to go through, and is still having to go through as a result of "visiting" TB, or anything affiliated with WWASP; If I can help one parent choose a legitimate rehab plan or facility for their son or daughter, than the time I took to share this is insignificant.


Please, please! If you have a child at TB or are even considering it as an option, get away from it as fast as you can. It's 5 years later now, and I'm still trying to put my life back together. I don't have the resources to prove how complicated and deceptive the inner workings of this program/orginazition are, but I promise that everything about it is about raking in the money, not helping a troubled youth or teen get their life together.

I'm currently investigating whether or not the Diploma I recieved is even valid, because I've stumbled across a few articles that suggest it may not be. If you have any info. about the Diploma, let me know.

I hope sincerely this has been helpful to at least one person; like I said, If one person gets REAL help because of this letter or this site, instead of being abducted to a place far worse than jail, it was completely worth my time sharing.

I'd be happy to answer any questions, or if you were there around 2000 (I was in the Dignity boys family), email me. xxxxxg@xxxxxx.xxx (Email removed for privacy reasons)

This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it

Thanks again for whoever took the time to construct this site. I always wondered If the real truth would ever be known!

References:
Datasheet about the boarding school from Secret Prisons for Teens
The original story (Cached version of tbfight.com - may take a while to load)

Lessons in Obtaining Happiness and Inner Peace (from tbfight.com)

Ryan Pink wrote this story. Sadly Mr. Pink is not among us anymore because he left for a better place may 2009. The world lost a musician who never got to act out his full potential because the burden of his past caught up with him. May he rest in peace. This story was originally written on a webpage called tbfight.com, which sadly is not online anymore properly because the boarding school closed sometime in 2009. All rights and credits goes to the author Ryan Pink, who posted the original story on tbfights.com.

Typically, when I am asked about my experiences at Tranquility Bay, people want me to start at the beginning. I am expected to detail the exploits of my adolescence and testify to the outrageous nature of my behavior at the time; drug use should be acknowledged, sexual promiscuity should be confessed and violent acts should be catalogued. An adequate amount of guilt needs to be bestowed upon me for people to understand why I was forced to live in a place like The Caribbean Center for Change. This seems to be the case with pretty much everyone who speaks out about TB. The testimony needs to be presented in narrative form and the story needs to be one that begins in the depths of desperation. How else could we explain a place like Tranquility Bay? This, of course, is only human nature. The small picture is much easier to swallow than the big picture. Nobody wants to examine the larger issue: the fact that we live in a culture which profits from misery. It is easier to stomach the plight of the individual.
I viewed the slideshow on this website earlier today and I was shocked by what I saw. Initially, I failed to even recognize what I was seeing. After several moments, I was able to take in the skinny bodies, defeated postures and miserable expressions that made up a good chunk of my childhood. It had been a long time since I had seen those images and it was hard on the nerves, to say the least. “Why haven’t these photos led to somebody’s arrest?” That was the dominant thought running through my mind. The dominant emotion, however, was one of overwhelming sadness. It isn’t easy to forget how I once lived, but seeing it again in full color was a shock to the senses. The realization that at this moment there are still children living like that was also cause for strong feelings of anger.

There is no exaggeration in saying that what goes on at Tranquility Bay is a categorical violation of basic human rights. The mere fact that children are corralled in such living conditions negates any argument as to their guilt. Whether I was out of control or not before being shipped to Jamaica is irrelevant. There is no excuse for treating a human being that way, let alone a child.

That being said, I have no desire to explain why I was sent to Tranquility Bay. I am also not interested in rehashing sensational accounts of instances of sexual and physical abuse just because the public wants juicy details of specific events before it is willing to become outraged. The photographs on this website alone should suffice. In the past, when I have spoken with reporters and other interested parties, all they wanted to know was whether or not someone touched me, or if a big black man beat me bloody. I tried desperately to explain the dehumanizing living conditions – which were anchored in an overwhelming fear – and how every waking moment, saturated in anxiety and suspense, was far more painful than a few swift blows to the gut. I wish I had those photographs with me at the time. They tell the entire story.

But I didn’t. So the following is a story I wrote about TB when I was still a teenager. It tried to illustrate an average day at Tranquility Bay. In some ways, such as the restrained tone, lack of dialogue and hopeless attitude, the story was a success. In many other ways, such as the fumbling language, the lack of atmospheric description and the absence of character development, the story was a failure. I am not far enough removed my childhood to adequately write about it. Perhaps I never will be. But this is the only attempt in prose that I have produced and it will have to suffice.

Lessons in Obtaining Happiness and Inner Peace: A Typical Day in My Tropical Paradise. (An Audiotape) - (not accessible)

By habit, I was already awake before the screaming began. As soon as the wake up call started, I reminded myself that I had become a machine, and I wasn't really there. The silent commotion began immediately. Without a word, two hundred young boys spilled into the narrow hallway and outside into the courtyard to line up for headcount. We were followed by the roars of several large men in blue uniforms, urging us to make haste.

There was no talking; we were not allowed to speak during the daily schedule. We lined up by unit and the guards began to count us. The totals were shouted into the radios to the guard who was working sickbed, and he tallied the count. The guard working with my unit motioned for us to head to the shower area. The shower area consisted of an eighteen stall wooden shower with a single pipe running down the middle, spilling water out of eighteen separate holes. The water was cold. The guard let us know time was running, and he turned on the pipe. We had three minutes to shower. I washed my body quickly and mechanically.

When I was through, I stepped out of the shower and fell back in line. We headed towards the clothesline. We broke line to hang up our towels. Before I returned to line, I used the pipe by the ditch to brush my teeth and rinse the mud from my feet.

We went back to the dorm to do our room jobs. I was in charge of the floor in room 208, and I was good at it. I had mopped and swept every morning for the past eleven months. It was a small room, a few square feet, and I was done rather quickly. I had a few spare minutes before we had to leave, so I picked up my tattered copy of The Grapes of Wrath and read what I could. Most of my reading was done this way - only in bursts. I finished one page before we were called back into line.

We went to the classroom to listen to the morning audiotape. It was about the secrets of living a productive life. It was the same one we listened to the day before. I took notes as I always did; there would be a quiz tonight to make sure we paid attention. The tape lasted thirty minutes.

We lined up for breakfast and headed down to the cafeteria. The meals were laid out on the table and we filed past in an orderly fashion, grabbing our plates. Breakfast was boiled cabbage and fish. The food itself didn't depress me any longer. I was used to it. I just wished that there had been more. There was never enough and I was always hungry.

The guard put in the breakfast audiotape and we ate in silence, listening to the tape. I was not able to take notes in the cafeteria; taking a pen out of the classroom was dangerous. If caught with one, there would be trouble. So I did my best to memorize a few key points from the tape over the fifteen-minute meal. “Positive thinking is the first step towards self actualization.”

When time ran out, we stood as a line and stacked our plates by the kitchen door. After breakfast we headed back up to the dorm to have a unit meeting with our case manager. There would be a few moments, maybe as much as a minute, when we could have a hushed conversation of sentence fragments before the case manager came into the room.

When the unit filled up the room, we took our seats against the wall. The guard sat outside the door, writing up his shift change report. The young man next to me asked - through motions and whispers - if I had heard Litho being restrained the night before. I nodded to let him know that I had heard the restraint. Another guy joined in the conversation of grunts and gestures saying that he had heard Litho's nose had been broken and he had been taken to the doctor in Kingston that morning. I hadn't heard anything of the sort.

The conversation ended abruptly when the guard stood up to come into the room. He wanted to know who was talking. We were silent, waiting for him to leave. His eyes scanned the room, moving from face to face, searching for a hint of guilt. All of us suddenly became very interested with things on the floor, or the back of our hands - avoiding all eye contact.

The guard stood in the center of the room until the case manager came in, carrying a plastic chair. She sat down, and for half an hour we were allowed to ask questions about our family and express medical concerns. We were not allowed to inquire about release dates. I told the case manager about my ringworm and the liver spots. A few more people complained about scabies and sprained muscles. She wrote everything down in her blue notebook and promised that it would all be taken care of. I knew she was lying.

When the meeting was over, we headed to room 204 for a bathroom run. This was the time to go if I needed to. I wouldn't get another opportunity – without jumping through hoops – until that evening. We stood in line outside the door and took turns in the restroom. The guard gave each of us eight squares of toilet paper before we entered the restroom. We had two minutes.

As soon as everyone was done using the restroom, we went back to the classroom for a period of school. There weren't enough teachers for every unit in the facility, so we were expected to teach ourselves out of the textbook - a rather hopeless task when dealing with subjects such as algebra or chemistry.

If I was careful, I could sneak a chapter from The Grapes of Wrath, but if I were caught I would be placed in Staff Watch and on my face for a few days. Staff Watch was the disciplinary unit of the facility. The average stay was around one to two weeks. Inmates in Staff Watch spent the day lying on their faces, not allowed to move. If someone were to move or speak repeatedly without permission, even to look up, he would be restrained. His arms would be twisted behind his back, and his ankles ground into the linoleum floor. This was not a restraint by definition, but more of a cowardly beating which left no marks or bruises.

I hid my Steinbeck novel in between the pages of my algebra textbook and read what I could while the guard strolled around the classroom. I was careful not to become so absorbed by the book that I lost track of the guard's position, yet I was also able to escape my reality as I read, if only for a few fleeting minutes. I found my redemption in a word on a page in a book about repression.

We stayed in the classroom for two hours before heading outside for P.E. This was one of the highpoints of the day. We could go outside the twenty-foot walls and play soccer in a large dirt field littered with rocks and garbage. There were four guards placed around the field observing us. They palmed their radios and looked on disinterested. We had to chase several goats off of the field before playing, which wasn’t nearly as bothersome as having to run the cows off. Luckily, they were grazing somewhere else.

We played a particularly violent sort of soccer on that field. All the anger, frustration, and hatred stained energy inside of us found its way out of our bodies and onto the soccer field. We bit, kicked, pushed, tripped, spit, and punched our way across the field. We fought our way through soccer games as if we were fighting for our lives. We were playing another unit and emotions were high. I was the goalie and I was good. I attacked the ball like a rabid pit-bull and if my head was kicked in the process, it was well worth it. Having a goal scored on me felt much worse than a swift kick in the teeth.

Our unit was a much better soccer team, so the game went slowly for me. The ball stayed on the other side of the field most of the match. I talked a friend who was playing forward into trading positions for a few minutes. When I jumped into the middle of everything, I became an animal. I never learned how to properly kick a soccer ball but I was an expert on running people over.

A hot shot guy from the other unit who used to play soccer in high school broke free with the ball and started down the field. Someone from our defense met him mid-field and ran his foot into the big shot’s knee. He immediately fell to the ground and grabbed at his leg. The defensive back passed me the ball and I ungracefully began to make my way up the field.

I didn't see anyone run up behind me; I only felt a hand grab a fistful of my hair as I was thrown to the ground. I fell forward onto the dirt and rocks below me. I slid on my face a few feet, and the stones on the ground sliced up my face. A brown cloud of dirt rose into the air and I was blinded as I picked myself up off the ground. I was trying to wipe my eyes out when I was hit again - this time from the side. I hit the ground and my elbow jammed into my ribs, knocking out what little breath I had left. I was bringing myself up to a kneeling position when the guards called for a line. I had to shake off the pain and make it to the line before I got into trouble for making the unit late. I wiped the blood from my lip, stood up, and limped across the field into the line.

It was lunchtime. We went to the cafeteria and grabbed our plates. The guard put the lunch audiotape on and we sat down to eat. Lunch was a bun and cheese. We had some powdered milk as well. The bun and cheese was my favorite meal. I slowly nibbled on my bun, savoring every last bit of flavor. The lunch audiotape was about the keys to effective problem solving. I had heard it before, so I disregarded it.

When lunch was over, we went to the dorms to get our clothes for laundry and headed to the clothesline. We each grabbed a bucket and filled it up with water from the pipe by the ditch. The guard poured a handful of soap into each one of our buckets and we swished the water around to make the soapsuds thick. I didn't have a brush to wash my clothes, so I scrubbed the opposite sides of the clothing together. When I was through, I rinsed my clothes and hung them up on the clothesline.

The sewage pipe that ran out of the facility was broken and sewage leaked out of the pump and under the clothesline. If a strong wind came, my clothes would fall into the sewage. It was a risky situation.

When we were finished with our laundry, we headed back up to the classroom for another period of school. I was able to pull off a few more pages from the Grapes of Wrath, but the guard was eyeing me suspiciously so I put the novel away and stared at my algebra book. Making sense of the language of mathematics without some kind of instruction was a futile endeavor.

Screams broke out from Staff Watch. Someone was being restrained. Other than one of the new guys, none of us looked up from our desks. This was a normal thing.

I stared at the pages in my textbook and listened to the screams. He was begging for them to stop. I could hear them laughing. I wanted to cry but I knew there would be trouble if I did. I reminded myself that I was a machine and that I was not really there. I cleared my face of any emotion and waited for dinner.

Dinner was pork and pork was dangerous. The day after a pork meal always left me feeling as if I had swallowed a cup full of nails and glass. There was never any meat in the pork, only fat and bone, and I could see hairs on the thick brown hide sticking out. I ate all of it and if I could have had more, I would have. I didn't care about tomorrow's pain; I was hungry now.

I listened to the dinner audiotape - A Guide for Building Healthy and Productive Relationships - and memorized a few key points for the quiz. “It is always fashionable to wear a smile on one's face.” I could already feel the pork in my stomach begin to cause problems.

After dinner came music time. For half an hour we were allowed to sing, one person at a time. I sang as much as I could. It was one of the few times I could allow myself that type of freedom. I left that dirty room and all of the loneliness when I was singing. I was home when I was singing. The guys in my unit liked it when I sang. My voice would fill the room with songs of freedom and redemption, songs about home, and songs about love, songs that could make us forget where we were - and just for that moment we were safe. We were home.

Half an hour later, I found myself back in my tropical paradise, standing in line. It was evening. We had one more audiotape and the quiz left. We went back to the classroom and listened to the audiotape: Lessons in Obtaining Serenity through Effective Problem Solving. The evening tape was always the longest and hardest to listen to. It went on forever, pounding its lessons into my head. I was tired and just wanted to go to sleep.

When the tape was over, we wrote what we learned from each tape and turned the paper into the guard, who would give it to the case manager tomorrow morning. She would review my regurgitation of obsolete ideas and mark down in her book: "Student is making significant progress."

We lined up back in the courtyard for evening headcount. The guards counted us and yelled the totals into the radio to the guard working sickbed. We went back upstairs to our rooms and into our beds. Someone in Staff Watch began to scream. I held back the tears and reminded myself that I had become a machine and I was not really there. I thumbed through the pages of a bible before sticking it back on the shelf next to my head. Faith was dead weight. I rolled over as a sigh escaped past my lips. I hated to go to sleep because I always woke up again in the morning. It was only a disappearing act and there was a hole in the floor behind the curtain.

Here, as something of a conclusion, I would like to state that perhaps the most troublesome aspect of TB has to do with the manner in which the faculty and staff of Tranquility Bay blindly adhere to a program that has little or no proof of being effective in a positive manner. In reality, throughout history the effects of behavior modification programs and total institutions have proven to be harmful and destructive. What is even more bothersome is that what we know about the effects of such institutions, we learned from adults’ experiences. There has been very little study on the effects of such programs on the adolescent.

The adolescent brain, to this day, remains a great mystery to us. We have made monumental advances in understanding the brain of the adult and the prepubescent child, but the volatile and ever-changing nature of the adolescent brain prevents us from obtaining a firm grasp on what makes it tick. Why then, does a group of businessmen, who posses very little, if any, knowledge of adolescent psychiatry, feel competent in their decision to expose adolescents to such conditions? It is irresponsible at best.

For example, we know that one of the most important periods in a person’s life when it comes to developing the skills needed to interact with the opposite sex is adolescence. What effect does it have, I must ask, for a person to spend his adolescence in an environment that views merely looking at someone of the opposite sex a serious violation of code? The same goes for peer group interaction. How does a person raised in a place that frowned on social interaction learn to operate in a world of people who spent their adolescence in communities that urged social activity?

There are many more important questions that this WWASP experiment has sparked and I do not have the answers. Sadly, however, those of us who were there will find out someday. For me at least, I know that in the four years I have been out, the only friends I have had are people I was in Jamaica with or the men I went through army basic training with. I think that says something.

References:
Datasheet about the boarding school from Secret Prisons for Teens
The original story (Cached version of tbfight.com - may take a while to load)
WHERE IS YOUR MASTERPIECE?, kata rokkar blog