The Program: From being kidnapped to running a Human Hair Extensions Company with a store in Beverly Hills.

Prequel:

I came home late after a night with friends to see my father awake on the couch with a drink in hand. I knew something was off… it couldn’t be happening again… I put my dog, Lassie, in my room, locked the door and placed a shelf in front of the door. I laid down to sleep and didn’t feel safe, so I put a hammer and a knife under the bed. I won’t let them take me and won’t let them trick me. I’m seventeen years old now – the first time I was twelve.

FUCK

I woke up with cuffs on my wrists and ankle, not even one second of confusion. I was surprised at how calm and casual I took it. They had broken quietly into my room, bypassing my security, and capturing my weapons before restraining and waking me. I was kidnapped, they got me. I yelled for my parents once only to see the whites of their eyes peering through the gap in the door, they got me. Realization set in; I was a prisoner … again … 

Introduction:

The last 8 years of my life have been a profound journey of self-discovery and growth, with "Hair Maiden India" serving as both the catalyst and the culmination of this transformation. Through the business of hair, I found not only a means to earn a living but also a pathway to connect with the world while traversing its many corners.

As I grappled with the age-old question of "the meaning of life," I stumbled upon a revelation: life's true essence lies in the act of living itself. Each moment, lived fully and authentically, became a testament to this newfound understanding. While intentional living was a concept foreign to me at first, its embrace ushered in a new era of possibilities, rescuing me from a path veering towards ruin.

Sharing my journey became integral to my personal sense of purpose, offering solace, inspiration, and perspective to those who crossed my path. The genesis of my hair company was intertwined with this greater narrative, a testament to the transformative power of resilience and determination.

As I reflect on my journey, I ponder the possibility of imparting these lessons to others. Can the essence of my experiences be distilled into teachings that guide others along a similar path? Doubt lingers, but the desire to share my story, along with the triumphs and tribulations of my entrepreneurial journey, remains steadfast. Through this, I hope to inspire others to forge their own paths and discover their unique meanings in life, just as I have done through the journey with Hair Maiden India ...

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF a (World Wide Association Of Speciality Programs) "WWASP" PROGRAM KID at Casa By The Sea:

San Diego is a beautiful city, landing there feels like you’ve landed in a whole new amazing place. The drive across the border to Ensenada isn’t as nice. By the time we got to “La Cuoata,” I knew we weren’t going to some “fun” academy or summer camp. Definitely no tennis camp. We got to a large building with red trimming surrounded by a wall on all sides with no windows. We sat in a waiting room and spoke to Jade and Jason, the directors. I was barely listening until they said, “Okay – time to go.” I gave my mom a halfway hug and as soon as we walked out of that office (which I didn’t see again until I left), the entire scene changed. Voices got rough, they started grabbing and pushing me. I was ordered to strip and put on uniform sweats and a white T-shirt. My head was shaved – all this within twenty minutes of them telling my mom how it’s a fun safe great school. The first day you are assigned a buddy who you can only speak with for three days in English then it’s all Spanish or you get a “consequence” or demerit which takes perks like condiments, water, candy, and eventually a phone call away from you. I never made it that far anyway. The first few days were blur, but I have vivid memories of the horror we saw and went through together there.

I was one of the youngest kids there and I waited to fit in. These guys were cool! They smoked, drank, fought, were in gangs, etc. So, I told a lie to my buddy that I had a Black and Mild cigar stashed in the powder they didn’t let me bring in. All we had to do was get someone to go get it… for a place where ANY communication is prohibited and punished severely if between prisoners. News spread fast, five hours later I had my first encounter with Jason Finlayson… I was walked to Admin by upper lords on both into a dark room with only one light, three chairs and my bag. They said “no cigar” – give it to us, so I told them I lied about having it. This was my first week. First three days, the only days we are allowed to talk freely. After that, talking would bring a consequence of 50 points, effectively adding two days to an already seemingly endless sentence. So, my first three days and I lost two. I was introduced to “worksheets” a place I would get to know much better.

My very first time in worksheet I knew I hated it. Worksheet is sitting in a room on a metal chair and on the very end (your hand length) six inches of the chair. Worksheets tours last about four to six hours and until you write four pages back and front side to side on each page of listening to tapes like National Geographic and Tony Robbins. We had to write on the tapes. If you communicate you go to a worse place. If you look out the window – 10 points, stand up – 10 points. We were in Mexico… beans… fart without permission – 5 points; 25 total in one day? Worksheets! So after my first round and getting out I asked the buddy why the guys told on me. He said, “that’s the way they level up, get points, and eventually get out. If you had cigar and they found it, because of the guys that told the guys that told would get a candy bar!” At this point I didn’t care about a candy bar, I’d only been there a few days.

Later on I would learn how HUGE a candy bar was. In three days I quickly tried to learn all I could in Spanish knowing when I needed to stand up, go to the bathroom or fart, I would need to ask in Spanish. We could only use English when first asking “¿Puedo hablar en inglés?” and only to our one school teacher and during group share. My week on Sunday we had TV time and watched the History Channel for one hour. We were all on the floor watching the small box TV when I saw the warships and the date of sail being Feb 14, 1986.

I yelled out “hey that’s my birthday” and the kids around me on the floor just shook their heads. This was day four and I just spoke without permission and in English. Jesus, our family father, stared at me. I felt like he was the only person who treated me nice or normal (he was fired later for being nice) and he had no choice but to send me off on my second tour of worksheets in my first week of CBS. This time when I got out, I knew I had to be on my toes, but I was still a carefree, curious, exploring kid. Not asking questions, talking, connected, and exploring went against my very nature. I was scared but I just adapted to the situation.

TYPICAL DAY AT CASA BY THE SEA:

I wake up in a long dark hallway with one light and no windows, painting or decoration anywhere. The mat is thin and the ground is cold. The single sheet barely keeps you warm. If you were able to sleep through the thin mat, cold hall, hard floor, and cries and screams all night long, then you were abruptly awoken by being called “pendejo, puta, etc.” and pots and pans banging. You have ten seconds to line up for head count as soon as you hear the banging. The countdown in Spanish moves rapidly, faster than the actual seconds they are. For some reason it scares me, wakes me up in a heart-racing panic, and after a few weeks, I hop up faster than most, almost before the hell starts.

We all stand in line, either sweating from summer heat or freezing from winter cold. Some of us still have wet shirts or socks from last night’s sudden and random head count outside in the rain. The count begins in Spanish (only Spanish) each kid must speak the next number uno, dos, tres,,, and simultaneously cock their head to the right while saying it. Eyes, back, and body upright, still, and perfectly straight or you start your day with a “category 1 consequence” effectively adding about half a day onto your “endless time.”

After the count, we are given roughly 4.6 minutes to shit, shower, and shave. Yeah, they made eleven-year-olds shave. The bathrooms were small and hot water was scarce. There was only enough for “upper levels.” Group shower rooms that didn’t have proper drainage left everyone’s feet pissy smelling. After showers we line up for breakfast in the green area. The green is a small micro-turf field or “prison yard” in between the study area and sleep area. We used to be forced to “finger pick” or hand pick dirt or trash from this area at random times during the day. I lined up on the green for hours at times. Simply standing still, looking straight, and not moving while I imagined how bad and nasty the breakfast of porridge might be without level 2 privileges of sugar.

Some morning breakfast was first and other mornings it was cleaning. I never understood why we’d clean after a shower nor why we’d clean then go straight to eat. All part of their twisted games. Every so often, we’d get cereal and lukewarm milk instead of the porridge. I loved the cereal days. They were rare. But with cereal came powdered milk. I don’t know which was worse – the cold, tasteless milk or the warm, clumpy stuff. Breakfast was quick. You had ten minutes to eat. I finished in one. I was always worried about losing our “group share” time and on Saturdays – letters!

We had six hours a week total of communication: 1 hour on Wednesday, 1 hour on Friday, and 4 hours on Saturday, plus TV on Sunday, so they could get away with not letting us talk, express, connect, or think on our own, to further manipulate and isolate us. On Wednesday and Friday group share was only for reporting, and we were usually all so tired we’d just half ass it. We’d report what we learned the previous day in one of the six “study halls” and the only reason I tried was for Saturday letters. On group share days we were locked in the dark room for four hours, three chairs, one light bulb, with our school teacher and two therapists from the States.

After breakfast, we have morning classes. I started to enjoy school because it was one of the few times we got to communicate openly, even though it was limited to the subject at hand. We had to ask permission to ask questions, go to the bathroom, sharpen our pencils, or speak in English. Each request would earn you points, and too many points meant worksheets. We had six hours a day of core classes, then six hours of “study” hall. I hated study hall. We had to read motivational tapes and write reports on them. We’d get caned if we fell asleep or slouched. Then it was lunch, which was always a gamble. We never knew what we were going to get. After lunch, it was back to study hall until dinner, which was more often than not, beans and rice. We were allowed to talk during dinner but only in Spanish, and if we were caught speaking in English, it was another punishment. After dinner, it was free time, which usually meant standing in the hall, talking quietly with our buddies, until it was time for bed. Then the whole process would start over again.

BEDTIME ROUTINE

The bedtime routine at CASA was a regimented affair. After dinner, we had a short period of free time, during which we could talk quietly with our buddies, provided it was in Spanish. Then it was time for showers, followed by getting ready for bed. We had to brush our teeth with baking soda, which was a terrible experience. The taste was awful, and it felt like it burned my mouth. But we had no choice; it was part of the routine, part of the control they exerted over us.

Once we were clean and ready for bed, it was time for the nightly head count. We lined up in the hallway, waiting for the banging of pots and pans that signaled the start of the count. We had to stand perfectly still, eyes straight ahead, as the count proceeded in Spanish. Any movement, any deviation from the strict posture, would earn us a consequence, prolonging our time at CASA.

After the head count, we were herded back to our sleeping area, where we found our thin mats laid out on the cold floor. The mats barely provided any comfort, but it was better than nothing. We lay down, trying to find a position that didn't make our bones ache, and tried to sleep. But sleep didn't come easily at CASA. The cries and screams of the other kids echoed through the building, keeping us awake long into the night.

Despite the hardships, there were moments of camaraderie among the kids. We formed bonds with our buddies, relying on each other for support in the face of the harsh conditions. We found ways to communicate, to share our experiences and fears, even though it went against the rules. And through it all, we clung to the hope that someday, somehow, we would escape from CASA and find freedom once again.

REVELATION AND RESOLVE

As time passed at CASA, I began to realize the extent of the control they exerted over us. Every aspect of our lives was regulated, from what we ate to how we spoke. It was a suffocating environment, designed to break our spirits and mold us into compliant beings.

But despite the oppression, I refused to let them crush my spirit entirely. I held on to the belief that I was better than the labels they assigned me, that I was more than just a troubled kid in need of discipline. Deep down, I knew I had potential, and I was determined to prove it to myself and to the world.

So I focused on the small victories, the moments of defiance that kept me going. Whether it was sneaking a glance out the window or finding a way to communicate with my fellow inmates, I clung to these acts of rebellion as signs of my resilience. And as I did, I began to see glimmers of hope amidst the darkness.

FREEDOM AT LAST

Then, one day, the moment I had dreamed of finally arrived. I was called to the cafeteria, where a guard greeted me with unexpected kindness. He led me outside, where I saw my mother waiting for me. The realization that I was free, that I was leaving CASA behind for good, filled me with an indescribable sense of joy.

As we drove away from that place of torment, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The sun shone brighter, the air felt fresher, and for the first time in years, I felt truly alive. I knew that my journey was far from over, that I still had challenges to face and demons to conquer. But in that moment, all I could feel was gratitude for the freedom I had regained.

THE ROAD AHEAD

Returning home was not without its challenges. I faced scrutiny and judgment from those around me, who saw me as a troubled youth who needed to be kept on a tight leash. But I refused to let their perceptions define me. I knew that I had the strength and resilience to forge my own path, to overcome whatever obstacles lay ahead.

And so I set out on a new journey, determined to reclaim my life and build a future filled with hope and possibility. It wouldn't be easy, and there would be setbacks along the way. But armed with the lessons I had learned at CASA, I knew that I could face whatever challenges came my way and emerge stronger on the other side.

The road ahead was uncertain, but I faced it with courage and determination, knowing that I had already overcome obstacles that would have broken lesser souls. And as I looked towards the horizon, I felt a sense of excitement for the adventures that lay ahead, knowing that whatever the future held, I was ready to face it head-on. Somehow even with jails and prisons after that I was able to start Hair Maiden India, a successful Hair company with a store in Beverly Hills.

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