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The Cult Reject

by Rachael Lewis
May/June 2007

Photo by JJ Sullin

Think cults are only for zombies? Then meet Helen Newman, who graduated in 1999 (A.B., 1998) and spent the next five years on communal farms in North Carolina and West Virginia with the Zendiks, a group of “warrior artists” who plan to take over the world (which they currently call “the death culture”). According to their leader, 60ish Arol Zendik, once the revolution happens, the government will be dissolved, and money will be, like, so yesterday. Meanwhile, bossy Arol had them hawking “Stop Bitching/Start a Revolution” T-shirts and bumper stickers at rock concerts and on city streets—that is, when Miss Busybody wasn’t dictating everyone’s sex lives.

What attracted you to the Zendiks? I was seeking a replacement for college. More specifically, I was looking for the Dudley Co-op deluxe: health food, anarchy, compost, disaffected youth—plus farming.

If you were your own psychiatrist, how would you explain your decision to join a cult?
I was raised Catholic.

Why did you stay?
For one thing, there were lots of hot guys at the farm and I was a socially retarded twenty-two-year-old virgin. At the farm you could ask someone to tell a guy you liked he could have a date with you. That was like a fairytale to me.

How many stars would Frommer’s give their accommodations?
I don’t know if they would bother to rate places without indoor toilets.

Did you see your parents during your Zendik years?
Selling crews actually stayed with my dad a few times. The last straw for them was when my dad’s cat peed on somebody’s backpack.

Why did you leave?
I was kicked out after a trip to D.C. where we made far less money than expected. They decided that I was the reason for the selling fiasco—I had a bad attitude.

What are you doing now?
I am living outside of Chicago, helping one of my ex-Zendik friends with her organic backyard gardening business. And I’m writing a book about living with the Zendiks.

Do you still have any of the Zendik merchandise (T-shirt, magazines, etc.)?
Way in the back of my closet. Quarantined, you might say.