But we all had the same instinct-we’d do anything to make it stop. We had no idea why we were in trouble, what we had done to earn this verbal beating. Everyone in our group shot to their feet, shuffling down the aisle, bodies colliding with one another, held vertical by the mass of people pressing up against them. The yelling started the moment the bus full of recruits came to a stop at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. All I see is the drab-green bag in someone else’s hands. I know the trick of focusing on a meaningless detail. I know how to tune out, go outside my body. They want a reaction, so I know not to give them one. If the people shouting were going to hit me, they would have by now. I can see the fear and confusion on the faces of the fellow soon-to-be-soldiers around me, but I am not afraid. My muscles scream as I force my arms to keep the bag aloft. My hands reach toward the sky, knuckles white as I struggle to maintain my grasp on the duffel bag stuffed with pieces of gear I don’t know how to use. I can’t hear the exact words being yelled, but the words don’t matter. However, some names and details have been changed. On these pages, I share what I know about the groups I’ve joined and the ones I’ve been born into, and how I recognized the difference between culture and cults. This is a true story of my lived experiences. The first rule of cults is you are never in a cult. To all my teachers, in schools and in life: thank you for teaching me how to think To Mom: thank you for teaching me how to read If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us./piracy. Copyright infringement is against the law. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. To receive special offers, bonus content,Īnd info on new releases and other great reads,įor email updates on the author, click here.

Uncultured by daniella mestyanek young