October 3, 2004
 

In the desperation of witnessing Michael's violent fits and uncontrollable behavior, Marsteen came to terms with her choice. She knew the boot camp would expose her son to a kind of discipline he never encountered. But she felt he needed to be broken down, to have his privileges and freedom stripped away.

So off Michael went to Thayer Learning Center Boot Camp and Boarding School in Kidder, and along with him the $4,000 monthly tuition the family raised by taking out a $30,000 loan.

Doubts lingered, but Marsteen stood by her decision, hoping that after weeks in the program Michael was going through a transformation. Then came a phone call from a former school employee who warned the family that he believed Michael was being mistreated.

Within hours, Marsteen had crossed the country to reach her son. She found him in a small isolation room, where he said he had been kept for 11 days. "For all I knew he could have been dead in that little room," she said.

Marsteen and at least one other parent have removed their children from Thayer in the past several weeks following concerns about their treatment. A third parent pulled her son from the program in January.

The abuse allegations, which are being made by at least three former employees, range from prolonged isolation to medical neglect, from censored communication to excessive corporal discipline.

Yet Thayer Learning Center is thriving.

Some parents have ignored phone calls like the one Marsteen got. The program now enrolls about 100 youths and plans to double or even triple enrollment soon.

Kevin Mitchell, of Stow, Ohio, marvels at the turnaround in his son since he completed the program. "I'm still baffled," he said. "It has been miraculous." Jerry Banks, who operates Thayer, said any controversy is the work of a few disgruntled employees. He said the boot camp had opened its doors to investigators who were following up on the abuse allegations. State officials will not speak about the status of any inquiry.

"If we are abusing children, we want to be investigated," Banks said. "But what's the definition of abuse?"

Thayer's success is a sign of the vitality of the teen reform industry in Missouri, where hundreds of young people from across the country are enrolled in at least a half-dozen programs. Like Thayer, those programs have grown despite abuse allegations and, in a few cases, criminal charges. And like Thayer, the programs are almost entirely unregulated by the state.

Missouri law contains at least two provisions that allow certain programs for teens to run without a state license. The first excludes faith-based programs from state oversight, a provision that has made Missouri a haven for such ministries.

But Missouri also exempts child residential programs from regulations if they are connected to a school, as is the case with Thayer. Some believe Thayer is the first teen reform operation to make use of the school exemption in Missouri, signaling the entry of a new kind of teen industry to the state.

Similar programs have opened across the country, often in the West, where some states have few regulations of programs that operate as boarding schools.

Thayer's owners, John and Willa Bundy, opened the boot camp and school two years ago after relocating from Utah, where they had worked in that state's teen reform industry.

In months, the school was outgrowing its building at the site of the Kidder Institute, about 65 miles northeast of Kansas City. Construction crews are expanding the campus.

The meaning of "no"

Banks allowed a Post-Dispatch reporter a short visit to Thayer and was selective about which students could be interviewed. No photographer was allowed.

The program is based on a system of rewards and punishment, with a military-style hierarchy. The teens arrive with no privileges. They sleep at first in sleeping bags on a concrete floor; their days are a series of kitchen chores, yard work and exercises. They earn more freedom over time.

Thayer officials acknowledge using tactics the state would not allow at a licensed child residential program. They include:

• Placing youths in isolation for days at a time. State licensed facilities can rarely isolate a child for more than 12 hours.

• Strict controls on communication, with staff members screening incoming and outgoing mail and often requiring students to rewrite letters in which they complain about the program.

• Denying academic instruction to teens who have not graduated from the boot camp program, which often takes more than three months to complete. Banks said Thayer teaches that school is a privilege.

• Entrusting some youths to have authority over others once they have progressed in the program.

On Tuesday a teenage girl stood with her face to a gymnasium wall. A strapbelted around her waist was held at the other end by another student. Banks said the punishment had lasted for three days and was preferable to the girl becoming a harm to herself or others.

Banks says he knows such tactics fly in the face of what some might consider acceptable. But he said the approach was effective, particularly in light of the alternative of having teenagers involved in crime and drugs.

"We have to do 15 years of teaching the meaning of 'no' in a year's time," he said.

Brittany Sherrod of Thomasville, Ga., completed the program this year and said she never witnessed abuse. She entered hating the restrictions but said she grew to understand them. "You learn that this program is helping you," she said.

At least three former employees say the boot camp often crosses the line between discipline and abuse.

Chris Kessinger said she worked at Thayer for seven months. Her job was to keep parents abreast of their child's progress. She said workers kept such strict control of students that many would urinate in their clothing because they were denied a bathroom break. She also says the school often denies medical treatment to youths with legitimate illnesses.

Kessinger and a former teacher at the school, Connie Szczepanik, say they called the state child abuse hot line in May to report their concerns. The two say they were fired, along with another whistle-blower, the next morning. Another employee, Tim Rocha, worked at the school more recently and reports seeing similar incidents.

Rocha has since called parents directly with his concerns. Marsteen and another parent - Joanie Nations, of Henderson, Texas - responded within hours by removing their children.

Earlier in the year, Sheri Parker also pulled her son out of the program. Parker, a Texas resident, said that only when she visited the school did she learn that her son had been sick for much of his stay and had lost 30 pounds.

Support from town

Many in the town of Kidder say they doubt the allegations against Thayer. Dozens of Kidder's 300 residents work at the school, the largest employer in the area.

"There's too many people in town who would blow the whistle if something bad were going on," said R.L. Eaton, who delivers mail in Kidder.

Banks said the employees who are making claims against the school have grievances such as being passed over for promotion. He said the former workers had exploited the apprehension of parents, causing them to panic.

Mitchell, whose son spent eight months at Thayer, said he and his wife almost pulled him out after a former employee called to allege mistreatment. At the time, Mitchell said, his son was new to the boot camp, and the parents were struggling over the restrictions placed on their communications, including censored mail.

"It was a big concern," he said. "We knew he could be in there and they could cover anything he says and we wouldn't know it."

But Mitchell said he decided to trust the school and its owners. Today, he said, his son has a 3.8 grade-point average at a military academy in South Carolina.

Meanwhile, Marsteen said her decision to pull Michael from Thayer has brought its own heartache, with her son again acting up.

"He's exactly how he was before," she said. She says she has questioned her decision to take Michael out of Thayer, but she also feels she can't send him back.

The desperation has returned. And this time she has no idea where else she can turn.