Putting personality to the test

>> Montreal's Church of Scientology tries to transform nervous twitches into superstar smiles

by DOMINIQUE RITTER

They found me.

Be it the will of some greater cosmic order or the conniving work of one of those big-brother-is-watching Internet "cookies," but two months after visiting www.scientology.com, a letter arrived via snail mail: would I care to visit my local Church of Scientology to have my personality assessed?

And as it so happens, I would. Be it my fascination with billion-dollar international organizations or my need to know the secret behind renowned Scientologist Tom Cruise's toothy, superstar smile, I made an appointment.

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Truth be told, I was pretty nervous about my rendezvous. Being a die-hard atheist, I am immediately suspicious of anyone wishing to delve into my mind or "soul." And, from what I had read, Scientologists were also anxious to dip into the contents of my wallet (slim pickings as they might be), making them extra suspect. But what distinguishes Scientology from other religions or cults is the degree to which it has polarized people.

Adherents seem blissful and determined to guard the secrets of Scientology's process of self-betterment, while skeptics accuse the Church of greed, corruption and a lust for power. In Hollywood, the likes of Cruise and John Travolta serve as the happy poster children for the Church in the midst of claims that Scientology is guilty of tax evasion, mind control and blackmail of its members.

Scientology's inception occurred when L. Ron Hubbard, a half-rate sci-fi novelist, wrote Dianetics in the 1950s, outlining his principles on the study of the mind. What Scientology claims to do is help adherents improve the quality of their lives by augmenting their "functions of the mind." This is achieved through "auditing," a process by which "bad" responses caused by negative experiences are overcome, allowing an individual to achieve a higher state of being and, if you're lucky, land a big gig with Paramount or MGM.

Unlike their palatial offices in L.A. or the small chateau in Sussex, England, Montreal's Scientology HQ is a no-frills operation. Located on Papineau near Mont-Royal, it looks more like a travel agency than a church, and I nearly walked right past it.

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My reception is brief and marked by two dead-fish handshakes. I am led into large room--decorated only with L. Ron books, pamphlets and posters--and handed my test.

I am installed at a pretty average table, seated upon a normal-enough chair and given a run-of-the-mill pencil with which I am to fill in the microscopic circles on my answer card.

I casually glance around the room looking for video cameras, spies, one-way mirrors and other surveillance gizmos. I see none.

My post-nasal drip affords me an opportunity to get up mid-test and wander around in search of a tissue. None of the employees I consult have any. I check the bathrooms for toilet paper. I find none. The Church of Scientology may be wealthy, but there isn't much in the way of bum wad to show for it in Montreal.

And so, with dripping nose, I return to the task at hand. The personality test consists of questions like:

#6 "Do you get occasional twitches of your muscles, when there is no logical reason for it?"

#26 "Is your life a constant struggle for survival?"

#98 "Would you use corporal punishment on a child aged 10 if it refused to obey you?"

#136 "Do children irritate you?" (Does a yowling child soothe anyone?)

#181 "Do you often ponder your own inferiority?"

In all, 200 questions about insecurities and strange behaviour that I, for the most part, hadn't even considered suffering from. I figure the test is designed to be long enough to weed out people like me, who take it only to satisfy some kind of sick and twisted voyeuristic need to see how the other half lives.

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In this case, the other half is represented by Marguerite (not her real name), who tells me she has been a Scientologist for 10 years. I ask about her personal beliefs. She tells me that Scientology has something to offer everyone and those "regular" people who think they are happy are, in fact, just naïve.

I ask her how the Church obtained my name and address after I had visited their Web site (I never give personal information in cyberspace). Marguerite claims not to know.

She produces the computer-graphed results of my personality test. I have to admit I feel rather pleased with myself. On a scale of ­100 to +100, I score a 92 on stability, 98 on certainty and 90 on communication.

But, as Marguerite points out, there is a blip. I score only a 22 on interpersonal relationships. It would appear, she says, that I have trouble circumventing conflict. I try to argue the point and tell her that the trouble is that some of the questions are ambiguous.

Apparently this is not the best approach, as she produces booklets and recommends some courses that will help me resolve some of my "problems."

Realizing my error, I put on my best imitation Tom Cruise smile and tell her I need some time to think about it.

I beat a hasty retreat back to my parked car with only two glances over my shoulder. I suspect I will be hearing from Marguerite again in the not-so-distant future.