good thing my parents never heard 'bout this

[pandora1305]

http://observer.guardian.co.uk/magaz...87172,00.html?


The last resort

When you have a teenager on the rampage, who are you going to turn
to? In
America, parents send their troubled offspring to Jamaica's
Tranquility
Bay - a 'behaviour-modification centre' which charges $40,000 a year
to
'cure' them. Decca Aitkenhead, the first journalist to gain access to
the
centre in five years, wonders if there isn't too high a price to pay

Sunday June 29, 2003
The Observer

Were you to glance up from the deserted beach below, you might mistake
Tranquility Bay for a rather exclusive hotel. The statuesque white
property stands all alone on a sandy curve of southern Jamaica,
feathered
by palm trees, gazing out across the Caribbean Sea. You would have to
look closer to see the guards at the wall. Inside, 250 foreign
children are locked up. Almost all are American, but though kept
prisoner, they were not sent here by a court of law. Their parents
paid
to have them kidnapped and flown here against their will, to be
incarcerated for up to three years, sometimes even longer. They will
not
be released until they are judged to be respectful, polite and
obedient
enough to rejoin their families.

Parents sign a legal contract with Tranquility Bay granting 49 per
cent
custody rights. It permits the Jamaican staff, whose qualifications
are
not required to exceed a high-school education, to use whatever
physical
force they feel necessary to control their child. The contract also
waives Tranquility's liability for harm that should befall a child in
its
care. The cost of sending a child here ranges from $25,000 to $40,000
a
year.

Opened in 1997, Tranquility Bay is not a boot camp or a boarding
school
but a 'behaviour modification centre' for 11- to 18-year-olds. An
American Time magazine journalist visited in 1998, and since then no
media have been allowed inside. With all access denied, there has been
little coverage beyond sketchy reports based on hearsay - even the
local
community knows almost nothing of what goes on. My discovery of
Tranquility Bay came only by accident in 2000, while living nearby,
and
all my approaches since then were, like every other media request,
firmly
rejected.

The owner is an American called Jay Kay. He doesn't trust the media,
because 'they go for sensationalist stuff. Nothing has really
presented
things in a way that is factual.' On the other hand, he believes
anyone
who saw inside Tranquility would support and admire it, and blames
criticism on ignorance. So Kay has been in a dilemma. His business is
expanding, and he is turning his attention to the UK, for he believes
there is a large untapped market of British parents who would ship
their
children straight off to Jamaica if only they knew about Tranquility.
The
British government, too, he hopes, might send him children in its
care.
'If social services was interested, at $2,400 a month I bet they can't
offer our services for that.'

This spring he decided to grant me and a photographer unprecedented,
exclusive access. If he didn't like the result, 'Hell will freeze over
before anyone getsin here again.'

The first impression once inside Tranquility Bay's perimeter walls is
of
disconcerting quiet. Students are moved around the property in
silence by
guards in single file, 3ft apart - a complicated operation, because
girls
and boys must be kept segregated at all times, forbidden to look at
one
another.

Tranquility has a language of its own. The vocabulary is recognisable,
but its use has been delicately customised, so that boys are 'males',
girls 'females', and they are all divided into single-sex 'families'
of
about 20. The families have names such as Dignity, Triumph and Wisdom,
and are led by a staff member known as the 'family mother'
or 'father',
addressed by the children as Mum or Dad. The 200 staff are all
Jamaican.

Along with multiple guards known as 'chaperones', the family mothers
and
fathers control and scrutinise their children 24 hours a day. The only
moment a student is alone is in a toilet cubicle; but a chaperone is
standing right outside the door, and knows what he or she went in to
do,
because when students raise their hand for permission to go, they must
hold up one finger for 'a number one', and two for 'a number two'.

Corporal punishment is not practised, but staff
administer 'restraint'.
Officially it is deployed as the name suggests, to subdue a student
who
is out of control. However, former students say it is issued more
often
as a punishment. One explains: 'It's a completely degrading, painful
experience. You could get it for raising your voice or pointing your
finger. You know you're going to get it when three Jamaicans walk in
and
say, "Take off your watch." They pin you down in a five-point
formation
and that's when they start twisting and pulling your limbs, grinding
your
ankles.'

Before sending their teen to Tranquility, parents are advised that it
might be prudent to keep their plan a secret, and employ an approved
escort service to break the news. The first most teenagers hear of
Tranquility is therefore when they are woken from their beds at home
at
4am by guards, who place them in a van, handcuffed if necessary, drive
them to an airport and fly them to Jamaica. The child will not be
allowed
to speak to his or her parents for up to six months, or see them for
up
to a year.

Let us say you are a new female assigned to Challenger family. You
sleep
with your family in one bare room, on beds which are pieces of wood on
hinges hung on the walls. The day begins with a chaperone shouting at
you
to get up. You put on your uniform and flip-flops (harder to run away
in)
in silence and fold your bed against the wall. The room is now
completely
bare. After performing chores, the family is ordered to line up, for
your
family mother to do a head count.

You are walked to a classroom to watch an 'EG' - a 30-minute video
intended to promote 'emotional growth' - on a theme such as why you
shouldn't smoke. Then the family is lined up, counted and walked to
the
canteen to eat a plate of boiled cabbage and fish in silence while
listening to an 'inspirational tape' broadcast loudly through the
room,
urging you to, for example, eat healthily.

'If 70-80 per cent of the food you eat is not water rich, what you are
doing is clogging your body. Eat 80 per cent water-rich food. Try it
for
the next 10 days. Watch what happens to your body. It will blow your
mind.' Students have no choice in what they eat - there is a seven-day
plan of basic Jamaican meals which never changes, and eating less
than 50
percent of any dish is forbidden.

Morning routines vary between families. Some shower (three minutes,
cold
water), others wash clothes (outside, in buckets, cold water), or
exercise (walk round the yard). At 9.30am, each family is moved into a
classroom for two hours. You continue the US high-school curriculum
where
you left off at home, but there is no teaching.

Watched by chaperones, you read prescribed course books, take notes,
then
sit a test after each chapter. Two or three Jamaican teachers sit at
the
back of the room in case you get stuck, and they may be able to help.
But
to mark the tests, they have to use an answer key sent down from the
States.

After lunch and another inspirational tape come three further hours of
school, a second EG, plus an educational video about a historical
figure
of note. There is a sports period, a family meeting, a final meal with
tape, followed by a period called Reflections, when you must write
down
what you have memorised from the tapes and EGs. You may also write
home
to your parents, and though staff can read your mail, you may write
what
you like. But Tranquility's handbook for parents warns them not to
believe anything that sounds like a 'manipulation', the programme's
word
for a complaint.

There is no free time, and you are never alone. At 10pm everyone is in
bed for Shut Down; the lights go off, and Tranquility is silent, save
for
waves crashing on to the beach below. Chaperones watch you through the
night. And the next day is exactly the same. As is the next, and the
next.

'Yep, identical,' says Kay. 'Exactly identical. Now you see,' he adds,
with a grim nod of satisfaction, 'why kids are not happy here.'

Tranquility Bay is one of 11 facilities affiliated to an organisation
in
Utah called the World Wide Association of Speciality Programs. The
facilities are located in the States and Caribbean region, and
although
independently owned, all run the same programme, devised by Wwasp.

Jay Kay is 33 years old, and the son of Wwasp's chief director. He
opened
the facility at the age of 27, after four years as administrator of a
Wwasp-run juvenile psychiatric hospital in Utah. Previously he had
been a
night guard there, and before that a petrol-pump attendant, having
dropped out of college. He has no qualifications in child development,
but considers this unimportant.

'Experience in this job is better than any degree. Am I an educational
expert? No. But I know how to hire people to get the job done.' There
is
more than a touch of the Jerry Springer guest about his looks - heavy,
shaven-headed, colourless, and a similarly deadening certainty of
mind.
'I've got the best job in the world,' he claims, but he carries
himself
like a man who has learnt to expect the worst, and is seldom
disappointed.

Tranquility is basically a private detention camp. But it differs in
one
important respect. When courts jail a juvenile, he has a fixed
sentence
and may think what he likes while serving it, whereas no child
arrives at
Tranquility with a release date. Students are judged ready to leave
only
when they have demonstrated a sincere belief that they deserved to be
sent here, and that the programme has, in fact, saved their life. They
must renounce their old self, espouse the programme's belief system,
display gratitude for their salvation, and police fellow students who
resist.

A finely engineered reward-and-punishment system has been designed to
effect this change. In order to graduate, students must advance from
level 1 to 6, which they do by earning points. Every aspect of their
conduct is graded daily and as their score accumulates, they climb
through the levels and acquire privileges. On level 1, students are
forbidden to speak, stand up, sit down or move without permission.
When
they have earnt enough points to reach level 2, they may speak without
permission; on level 3, they are granted a (staff-monitored) phone
call
home. Levels 4, 5 and 6 enjoy significantly higher status. In
addition to
enjoying privileges, such as (strictly limited and approved) clothing,
jewellery, music and snacks, they are employed for three days a week
as a
member of staff, and must discipline other students by issuing
'consequences'.

Every time a member of staff or upper-level student feels a student
has
broken a rule, they 'consequence' them by deducting points. Rule-
breaking
is classified into categories of offence. A 'Cat 1' offence, ie
rolling
your eyes, is consequenced by a modest loss of points. A 'Cat 3'
offence,
eg swearing, costs a significant number, and may drop the student's
score
beneath their current level's threshold, thus demoting them and
removing
privileges.

'You know,' offers Kay, 'if people want to talk about the length of
the
programme, it's up to the child. If a parent wonders why their kid is
here so long, well gee, we are doing our part, maybe you need to ask
your
little Joey why he is not moving forward. Everyone knows how to earn
the
points.'

The strategy of coercing children to rewire themselves is the concept
Kay
is most proud of, for he believes it places troubled teenagers'
redemption in their own hands. The choice is theirs.

'For years, we just believed if you make the kids do what you want
them
to do, then they will make the change. But what we figured out was,
why
not get them to come to the conclusion that they need to make the
change
themselves? That's what makes this programme special. It's up to
them.'

Students who fail to grasp this formula are forcefully encouraged to
get
the message. One girl currently has to wear a sign around her neck at
all
times, which reads: 'I've been in this programme for three years, and
I
am still pulling crap.'

When most children first arrive they find it difficult to believe that
they have no alternative but to submit. In shock, frightened and
angry,
many simply refuse to obey. This is when they discover the
alternative.
Guards take them (if necessary by force) to a small bare room and make
them (again by force if necessary) lie flat on their face, arms by
their
sides, on the tiled floor. Watched by a guard, they must remain lying
face down, forbidden to speak or move a muscle except for 10 minutes
every hour, when they may sit up and stretch before resuming the
position. Modest meals are brought to them, and at night they sleep on
the floor of the corridor outside under electric light and the gaze
of a
guard. At dawn they resume the position.

This is known officially as being 'in OP' - Observation Placement -
and
more casually as 'lying on your face'. Any level student can be sent
to
OP, and it automatically demotes them to level 1 and zero points.
Every
24 hours, students in OP are reviewed by staff, and only sincere and
unconditional contrition will earn their release. If they are
unrepentant? 'Well, they get another 24 hours.' One boy told me he'd
spent six months in OP.

I didn't think this could be true, but it transpired this was not even
exceptional. 'Oh no,' says Kay. 'The record is actually held by a
female.' On and off, she spent 18 months lying on her face.

'The purpose of observation,' Kay offers, 'is to give the kids a
chance
to think. Hopefully, it's giving the kids a chance to reflect on the
choices they've made.' And indeed it is often in OP that a student
decides to stop fighting. In this respect, OP works. In fact, the
success
rate of OP can be understood as a perfect distillation of Tranquility
Bay's ideology. If your son is willfully disrespectful, the most
loving
gift a parent can give him is incarceration in an environment so
intolerable that he will do anything to get out - where 'anything'
means
surrendering his mind to authority.

'I say to the parents,' says Kay, leaning back in his office
seat. 'The
bottom line is, what's the end result you want? Getting there may be
ugly, but at least with us you're going to get there.'

[bigpoppanils]

i wonder what the success rates and suicide rates are

[wideskies]

there was also a NYTimes article about this place back in June. that article was far more critical and disturbing. i can't access it on NYTimes.com though without paying. :/

here's the abstract:

Tranquility Bay in St Elizabeth, Jamaica, is oldest foreign outpost in booming network of behavior-modification programs for American teenagers; it has reputation as harshest of them all; many who have been there describe life of pain and fear; others say program saved their lives; school's methods have spawned fierce supporters and critics; it is becoming battleground for warring camps of parents and children, growing number of whom oppose program; fight may shape future of parent organization, Utah-based World Wide Assn of Specialty Programs and Schools, known as Wwasps, one of biggest and most lucrative businesses of its kind; some students describe being restrained by staff members who twisted their arms behind their backs until their hands touched their heads, inflicting intense pain without bruises; no long-term studies of 1,500 youths who have been to Tranquility Bay, or 300 who have graduated, have been done