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Troublemaker: Surviving Hollywood and Scientology Kindle Edition
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Leah Remini has never been the type to hold her tongue. That willingness to speak her mind, stand her ground, and rattle the occasional cage has enabled this tough-talking girl from Brooklyn to forge an enduring and successful career in Hollywood. But being a troublemaker has come at a cost.
That was never more evident than in 2013, when Remini loudly and publicly broke with the Church of Scientology. Now, in this frank, funny, poignant memoir, the former King of Queens star opens up about that experience for the first time, revealing the in-depth details of her painful split with the church and its controversial practices.
Indoctrinated into the church as a child while living with her mother and sister in New York, Remini eventually moved to Los Angeles, where her dreams of becoming an actress and advancing Scientology’s causes grew increasingly intertwined. As an adult, she found the success she’d worked so hard for, and with it a prominent place in the hierarchy of celebrity Scientologists alongside people such as Tom Cruise, Scientology’s most high-profile adherent. Remini spent time directly with Cruise and was included among the guests at his 2006 wedding to Katie Holmes.
But when she began to raise questions about some of the church’s actions, she found herself a target. In the end, she was declared by the church to be a threat to their organization and therefore a “Suppressive Person,” and as a result, all of her fellow parishioners—including members of her own family—were told to disconnect from her. Forever.
Bold, brash, and bravely confessional, Troublemaker chronicles Leah Remini’s remarkable journey toward emotional and spiritual freedom, both for herself and for her family. This is a memoir designed to reveal the hard-won truths of a life lived honestly—from an author unafraid of the consequences.
Praise for Troublemaker
“An aggressively honest memoir . . . Troublemaker is the most raw and revealing Scientology memoir to date.”—Entertainment Weekly
“Leah’s story is a juicy, inside-Hollywood read, but it’s more than that. It’s a moving story about the value of questioning authority and how one woman survived a profound crisis of faith.”—People
Review
“Leah’s story is a juicy, inside-Hollywood read, but it’s more than that. It’s a moving story about the value of questioning authority and how one woman survived a profound crisis of faith.”—People
“Remini [offers] up some juicy tidbits from her decades in the church.”—Newsweek --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
As a kid I was always putting on shows—re-creating skits from The Carol Burnett Show and singing Donny and Marie songs in the living room. My older sister, Nicole, reluctantly played my sidekick; although she never had any enthusiasm for these skits and performances, she obliged. I also took to giving her notes like “Nic, Donny loves Marie, so when we do ‘I’m a Little Bit Country,’ you gotta look at me like he looks at Marie, with a smile and maybe a wink.” She would respond with “Or how about I just punch you in the face?” Okay, we all make choices as performers.
WHEN I WAS NINE YEARS old, I heard that the Broadway musical Annie was holding open auditions for the lead role. I didn’t let the fact that I had no singing talent or acting experience deter me. My mom supported me, believing that I would one day be an actress, and she got a playwright friend to teach me the song “Tomorrow” and take me to the group audition. Her boyfriend at the time photographed me for my “headshots,” in which I wore my very best Little House on the Prairie shirt. When I got the pictures back, I was seriously floored at how beautiful I looked. Clearly, the Annie people would see this little gem from Brooklyn and want to hire me on the spot—but I was still willing to sing for them if need be.
The audition was a cattle call, which meant everyone was assigned a number and sat in the audience section of a huge theater until that number was called. The image running through my mind was that of a front-page headline in the New York Post: “Brooklyn Girl with No Experience Nabs Annie Role.” Whatever I lacked in terms of dancing or singing, someone could teach me. I had the chutzpah to land the part. And as for my long, straight brown hair—well, that’s what wigs were for. And with that, I was off to hand the director my picture.
But as soon as my name was called and I got onstage, facing the director and all those people sitting in the darkened theater, I went blind with panic.
The pianist hit a key and I started to sing immediately. “The—”
“No. That’s for the key,” the director interrupted.
“Okay. Well, maybe you should tell people…Do you want me to start again?” I said.
“That’s okay. Go home to Mommy,” the director said as he looked down at his clipboard.
I burst into tears before I had even gotten off the stage. I was crying the way kids do when they can’t catch their breath. My mom’s friend, the one who taught me the song, who had brought me to the audition, took me for a slice of pizza and an Italian ice, over which we discussed how that director would regret not hiring me and how Annie would bomb without me. The Broadway show Annie would suffer and suffer big without me in it!
WHEN I WASN’T ACTING OUT my favorite TV shows, Nicole and I could be found hanging out on Eighty-sixth Street, near Bay Parkway, where loud music thumped from the cars to get girls’ attention, even though the guys in their gold chains, Old Spice, and gelled hair acted like they were too cool to care. I aspired to be one of those girls whose attention the guys sought—tight Jordache and Sergio Valente jeans with a brush jammed in the back pocket, lots of makeup and Aqua Net, and even more attitude. All they ever seemed to do was hang out on the corner—like a hooker, but not—and I wanted in. I vowed that when I was older—maybe twelve or thirteen—I would be just like them.
This was Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, circa 1980. We talked tough, but ultimately it was a protective neighborhood for those who belonged. When a car alarm went off, there would be five Joeys and Frankies out on the street with bats within two minutes. There was no such thing as minding your own business. If a boyfriend was fighting with his girlfriend, another guy would start yelling at him: “Yo, don’t fuckin’ talk to a girl like that.” ’Nuff said.
When we were kids, our neighborhood—basically consisting of a bakery, a pizzeria, a bagel store, a Baskin-Robbins, a Chock full o’Nuts, a Te-Amo, and an Optima—was our whole universe.
While Manhattan, just a quick train ride away, was foreign to Nicole and me, places like Long Island and New Jersey were another planet. When our mom took us to the Poconos for vacation (a rarity), we met a group of girls who asked us if we wanted to help “collect things for a collage.” First we had to clear up what a collage was, because my sister and I didn’t speak French. When it rained, these kids stayed inside and played Atari, unlike us Brooklyn kids, who were used to hanging out in front of the candy store come rain, sleet, or mini-hurricane.
Our regular neighborhood haunt was the local Te-Amo convenience store, near the D train. We could also be found at other people’s houses, where it seemed there were always better toys and better food than at ours. I spent a lot of time at my friend’s place above our apartment on Bay Parkway. She had a Barbie Dreamhouse, which back then, to little girls, was pretty much the equivalent of crack. That’s where I was playing one day when my mom called Nicole and me down to share some news.
“I’ve got to tell you girls something,” Mom said. “Your dad and I are separating. I don’t want you to be upset. I’m okay, and we’re going to be okay.”
I sat there basically without expression and looked at my sister, wondering if I should try to fake being more upset.
George, my dad, was the classic paesan of Sicilian origin who used hairspray on his remaining three hairs, wore a rope chain and pinky ring, got his nails done, and kept his car—a Cadillac, of course—perfectly clean and smelling good with one of those scented trees that hang from the rearview mirror. And I was scared shitless of the man.
He never hit me. (Nicole, on the other hand, would get smacked. “You are older. You should know better,” he used to say to my sister, as if she were going to college already, though she was just a year older than me.) What terrified me was the way my dad could annihilate you when he spoke, throwing around words like “idiot,” “retard,” “moron” at the drop of a hat.
One time when we were little and pretending to make soup in the bathroom sink out of his Old Spice, Contac cold capsules, and most of the other contents of the medicine cabinet, I saw my dad at the end of the hallway. When he asked, “What the fuck are you’s doing?” I got hot all over and couldn’t say a word. After Nicole answered, “We are making a soup,” he spanked her. For some reason I always laughed when my sister got hit. I’m sure it was a defense against more complicated emotions. Or I was just evil as a kid and liked her getting hit.
“Idiots,” he said. “Get into your room.”
He was only raising us the way he had been raised, but anytime he was around, I was tense—even when he was trying to be kind. For example, one time when I came to the dinner table, I found a paper bag on my chair, so I didn’t sit down.
“What are you going to do, stand there?” he asked, looking at me.
“What’s the right answer?
I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I didn’t say anything.
“Pick up the bag, idiot,” my dad said.
Thinking this was some kind of a trick, I nervously picked up the bag and opened it. Inside was a doll. By the time I realized what it was, however, I was so wound up that I had started to cry.
“What’s with you?” Dad started yelling. “Someone tries to give you a gift and you’re crying?”
I couldn’t catch my breath to explain.
I remember once when I carelessly shoved a box of cookies into the kitchen cabinet. My dad walked by, saw what I was doing, and said, “What kind of fucking animal puts cookies back this way?!” He grabbed the box and threw the cookies across the room.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBallantine Books
- Publication dateNovember 3, 2015
- File size42815 KB
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Product details
- ASIN : B015BCX0JY
- Publisher : Ballantine Books (November 3, 2015)
- Publication date : November 3, 2015
- Language : English
- File size : 42815 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 246 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #63,452 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #34 in Biographies of Actors & Actresses
- #72 in Television Performer Biographies
- #139 in Biographies & Memoirs of Women
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Leah Remini is an actor, producer, and #1 New York Times bestselling author. A fixture on television since the age of eighteen, Remini is best known for her beloved role of Carrie on the nine-season hit The King of Queens. Remini went on to produce and star in one of the earliest and most successful comedic web series, In the Motherhood, and appeared in the movie Old School alongside Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn. In 2010, Remini helped launch and co-hosted the first season of the CBS daytime hit show The Talk, and in 2013 she was seen on the dance floor in Dancing with the Stars. She currently co-stars in the TV Land comedy The Exes and TLC’s reality show Leah Remini: It’s All Relative, which she also created and executive produces. Remini finds great joy in her philanthropic work with numerous and diverse military, women’s, and children’s charities. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter.
Bio and photo from Goodreads.
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Those who come in alone are more empowered to walk away unscathed. Those who come in with family are sitting ducks for abuse and exploitation. Miscavige and his crew use the deadly ploy of triangulation to keep members hostage. Knowing that you can never, never, never have contact with a spouse, your children, or parents, or any other relatives--the fear and terror of that--means most of the victims choose to stay and see it through. If they can get to your family and friends inside the church (very possibly the only support system you've ever known), they can keep you from leaving. Even if a member decides to leave at all costs and leave many family members behind, the price is so high as to be at a criminal level. "Troubemakers" like Leah who dare to question the chain of authority and purpose of the Church find themselves slapped with loathsome jobs punished cruelly, assigned menial laboring tasks, forced to stand in a garbage can for hours while others pour water over them. Many have attested how Miscavige beat them mercilessly, choking them, giving them black eyes. A tiny man of slightly over 5-feet tall, Miscavige has overcompensated his inferiority by seizing power of an international scheme, conducting his entire life on God-like terms, and even requiring his own father to refer to him at all times by, "Sir." Children and parents are separated and rarely interact. Instead of a formal education, the children caught in the claws of Scientology are given books and lessons about Scientology, not about the real world. A member who has been in the Church for 25 years, like Remini and others, have no education, no skills, no money, no means of support, even if they were able to hatch a plan for escape. The more attention drawn to Scientology, the more easily appalled members can escape. Operating under secrecy makes Scientology powerful, but having to account for its actions breaks it open.
Those who do effect an escape are often subjected to years of harassment and intimidation in the outside world. False documents are prepared to get them fired. Pretext phone calls full of slander are sent to their families and friends. Lies about them being prostitutes with venereal diseases are copied onto papers and passed out to their neighbors. Their personal property is destroyed. The Mafia couldn't do a better job of terrifying and intimidating a marked person. The message is: Leave us at your peril. We will get you. We will destroy you.
The value of Leah's remarkable book is that it is deeply personal, told with an inner voice of great intelligence, compassion, and strength for the family she treasures. One cannot but admire the ferocity of her commitment to her husband and child, and her other family members. It is this burning determination of Leah's that transcends all the psycho/spiritual babble of the Church. Waking up from a nightmare is a frightening experience, but Leah uses every shred of her courage and intelligence to get her and her family out of the Church. She's one tough woman from the Brooklyn who doesn't tolerate BS. She speaks up. She challenges authority. She curses. She gives as good as she gets. She asks vital and key questions. She demands to know why she has devoted her life to this religious organization that devalues her. Her courage is overwhelming to witness. Even throughout her struggle, Remini has tried for years to meet the specific burdens and demands forced upon her by the Church, in the hope that, fulfilling these, might bring her solace, family connection, and peace. At every turn in attempting to uncover the real goal of the church, she is stymied, and this endless thwarting only serves to increase her suspicions that the Church is a fraud, a front for money and power. A fraud, and that is what Leah finally discovers. To this reader, I was appalled by the lengths Scientologists would go to intimidate and keep members from escaping. Newer members, or those who have expressed doubts about the Church, are assigned "minders" to ensure that they cannot escape, even if it's for a visit to the dentist. One can see the draconian measures the upper echelon has taken to assure that no one will leave, and it reminds one of the most heinous prisons worldwide. Simply google the secret HQ in Hemet, CA (Gold Base) to see the razor wire and long, sharp metal knives on the fence perimeter, pointing INWARD as well as outward to guarantee that no member can leave. It is a dark hole into which the "troublemakers" are thrown for years on end. And they are thrown there without any hope of contacting relatives and friends in the outside world by phone or letter. It is a prison overtly sparkling with exquisite buildings, lush accommodations for the wealthy, swimming pools and tennis courts for the elite even as the defiant are forced into hard labor all day, every day in dark holes of Gold Base--unable to leave.
At its most basic level, Scientology appears to the naive to be a spiritual haven for those who are searching for meaning in this word. That is a lofty goal. However, that is the trickster veneer. In fact, Scientoilogy's ultimate goal is a twisted, sharp-toothed, ravenous, voracious maw that sucks up fortunes, assets, families, and human labor to elevate its Lilliputian chairman and his ruthless henchmen to the height of power. The Office of the Attorney General should expend its resources to expose this malignant organization once and for all. Miscavige's wife Shelly has not been seen by any reliable source in more than 10 years. Most suspect that she is dead, though the Church refuses to admit it. Only in exposing the real purpose of Scientology will it crumble. Leah Remini, at great personal cost to herself and family, has begun that journey of exposure, and I am so deeply grateful for her courage in writing this book. Thank you, Leah. Thank you for showing the world the deadly jagged glass hidden inside the sugar-coated pill of Scientology. God-willing, potential victims will read your book and stay far, far away from this fascist organization.
I read books like this because they bring feelings of hope. People walking away from what they believed, all that they knew, and people whom they loved and cherished. Then they begin to disassemble and rebuild an entire new life for themselves. The strength they find gives me both joy and hope.
As for the book itself, its well written, an easy read and lacking in any form of pretension. You feel as if you're just sitting and chatting with a friend.
One curious side effect. I now feel the urge to read Dianetics. I'm sure I can find it at my favorite thrift shop or used book seller. Don't worry y'all, I'll always be an SP.
In sum, Ms Remini did a very brave thing by publishing this book and probably revealed even more than she herself realizes. The only reason she was okay after breaking away by her own admission is that she kept her circle of non-Scientologist friends, which is something the “church” discourages- unsurprisingly for the obvious reasons of maintaining subserviency of their members and society vicariously. I applaud Leah Remini for exposing this criminal cabal. Anyone interested in the history of MK ultra and mind control experiments carried out by the CIA and shadow government, please refer to the link below. Amazon keeps deleting it when I post it, but you can look up a preview on amazon- the name of the book is Thanks for the Memories by Brice Taylor (Susan Ford)
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Top reviews from other countries
Leah's departure from the Scientology organisation and her willingness to share her story have earned my admiration.
I enjoyed watching her TV show, "Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath", and felt compelled to read her book for more insight into her experiences.
The book exceeded my expectations and left me constantly curious about her journey.
Nach dem Buch bin ich ein Fan! Tolle Frau, Wahnsinns Geschichte und gut geschrieben… und bei weitem nicht so trocken wie viele andere Scientology Bücher