Emerging Courageous Online Magazine - Stories
*Editor's Warning: This story contains very graphic descriptions of physical abuse. By telling these stories, policies have been changed so these kind of activities will not occur today. MP
Orphan goes to the White House by Roger Dean Kiser
I was about twelve years old when they called me to the
head office and told me that I would soon visit the White House. When I heard
this, an unbelievable fear came over me. I swear, I almost passed out. I was
trembling so badly that my legs gave way from under me and I fell to the floor.
They told me to "get my sorry butt up" and sit down on the hard wooden
bench outside the office.
I waited there for the two men who would come to take
me to the White House. I knew their routine very well. I had heard about it from
many other boys who had been taken to visit the White House. Every one of them
had been taken against his will. Other than the time when I learned that I had
cancer and would die within six months, I have never known more fear than when I
was told that I was going to visit the White House. After a wait of about thirty
minutes, these two men came to get me. They grabbed me by my arms and lifted me
off the bench. There were several other boys in the office with me, so I had to
try to act as though I wasn't scared. But they knew. Everyone knew.
The two men walked with me across the grass circle that
divided the offices and the White House. We stopped at another office and this
man walked out; he had only one arm. He took the place of one of the men who was
holding on to me. We then continued walking toward the mess hall. As we rounded
the building, I could see "IT" right in front of me: "THE
WHITE HOUSE."
My mind was just going crazy with fear. My thoughts
seemed to be swimming all around in a circle, like a cat that'd been thrown into
a cold river. I was so scared that I just couldn't think straight, like my brain
was trying to cut off and on or something. Words were coming out of my mouth
even before my mind could think of what it was actually trying to say. I was
trying to decide if I should run and hide or maybe kill myself; anything was
better than what was going to happen to me.
When we reached the door, one of the men took out his
keys and stuck one into the lock. I looked back over my shoulder and I saw about
fifty other boys looking at me. They just stood quietly, just as scared as I
was. They didn't say a word. They were just looking and staring at me.
As the White House door opened, an ungodly odor filled
my nose. I could hardly breathe. I remember trying to step up into the doorway,
but the musky odor was so overwhelming that I fell into the short hallway inside
the door. One of the men grabbed me by the back of the shirt collar and jerked
it up around my neck, choking me. One of the buttons fell off my shirt, hit the
floor, and rolled very slowly around the corner. Almost everything was happening
in slow motion. My whole body
was just numb; it was very difficult for me to breathe. I tried to pull the
shirt down from around my neck. But the man jerked my shirt once again and then
hit me on the top of the head with his knuckles. He hit me so hard, in fact,
that I hit the floor again and bloodied my nose.
At that point, I was not walking at all. I could not
walk: my legs wouldn't work. The two men picked me up and carried me into this
small room. The room had nothing in it except a bunk bed and a pillow. They put
me down on the floor and told me to lie on the bed and turn my face toward the
wall. I pulled myself up onto the edge of the bed, crying. I wiped the blood
from my nose onto my shirt sleeve.
When I looked up at the men's faces, they were just
plain, cold and hard. Their faces had no expression whatsoever. I Just did what
they told me to do. One of the men said to move my hands to the top of the bunk
bed and to grab the bar at the headboard. I did so, as quickly as I could. Not a
sound could be heard in the room. Then I felt someone reaching underneath the
pillow and pulling something out very slowly. I turned over quickly and looked
at one of the men who was standing near my head. He had a large leather strap in
his hand. "Turn your damn head back toward the wall," he yelled.
I knew what was going to happen to me, and it was going
to be very bad. I had been told what to expect by some of the many boys who had
been taken to the White House -- but some I never heard from again. I had also
heard that this giant leather strap was made with two pieces of leather with a
line of sheet metal sewn in between the leather halves. Again, everything was
totally silent. I remember tightening my buttocks as much as I could. Then I
waited, and I waited, and I waited. I remember hearing someone take a breath and
then a step. I turned over very quickly and looked toward the man who had the
leather strap. I remember seeing this ungodly look on his face, and I knew he
was going to beat me to death. I will never forget that look for as long as I
live.
I tried to jump off the bed but was knocked backward
when the leather strap hit me on the side of the face. The two men grabbed me
and held me to the floor. I was yelling to GOD to save me, begging for someone,
anyone, to help me. There was blood all over everything. It was everywhere.
"Please forgive me; please forgive me." I kept yelling, at the top of
my voice. "Please forgive me; dear GOD,
please help me."
But it did not do any good; not even GOD heard me that
day. Maybe GOD was smart enough not ever to enter the White House, even to save
a child.
After about five minutes of begging, pleading, and
crying, they told me to get back onto the bed and grab the top rail again. They
warned me that, if I tried to get off the bed again, the whole thing would
repeat from the beginning. I slowly pulled myself up off the floor and got back
onto the bed. Again I grabbed the rail; again I waited; again everything became
quiet, except for the two men breathing really hard.
Once again, I tightened up my buttocks and just waited.
Then all of a sudden, it happened. GOD, I thought my head would explode. The
thing came down on me. Over and over it came down on me. I screamed and kicked
and yelled as much as I could. But it did not do any good. He just kept beating
me. On and on and on. But I never let go of that bed rail. Then
there was nothing. Just nothing at all.
The next thing I remember, I was sitting on another
wooden bench in the one-armed man's office. I remember wiping the slobber and
the blood from my mouth. I remember feeling as if my body was on fire. I stood
and found that I could hardly stand upright.
GOD, GOD, GOD, it hurt bad. I will never forget that
until the day I die.
One of the men in the office yelled at me to sit down.
I told him that I had to go to the bathroom real real bad. The man pointed at a
doorway and said that it was the bathroom; he told me to "make it
quick."
I slowly walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
I looked into the mirror. There was dried blood all over my black and blue face,
all over my hair, and in my mouth. I took my torn shirt off, which was hanging
from the waistband of my pants. I turned around and looked into the mirror and
saw that my back was black and blue and bloody.
I almost panicked out of my mind when I saw myself in
the mirror. I looked like a monster and I started to cry, but I covered my mouth
with both hands, real tight like, so that no other boys would hear me. I
loosened my belt buckle to get my pants down. It was very painful for me, but
the worst was yet to come. As I got my pants down, I noticed that my legs were
all bloody and my skin was totally black in color. I stood over the toilet and
tried to pee, but it just would not come out.
I decided to take my underwear down and sit on the
toilet until I could pee pee. But the underwear would not come off; it was stuck
to my butt and legs. The underwear material had been beaten into the skin of my
buttocks, and now it was dried with blood. I pulled my pants back up and washed
my face, mainly because I did not want the other boys to see that I had been
crying. I was so scared and afraid that I couldn't stop shaking.
Finally I walked back into the outer office and I saw
Mr. Sea Lander, my cottage house parent, standing by the doorway. He took me
back to Cottage Twelve at the reform school, Florida School for Boys at
Marianna. He called the office to complain about what had happened to me. Then
he took me to the hospital where the old nurse, Ms. Womack, soaked me in Epsom
salts and, with tweezers, pulled the underwear from the skin of my buttocks.
Then she petted that big ugly cat of hers and sent me on my merry way.
Why was this done to me? I never knew until years later
why I was beaten like that. They did it because I said a curse word when I
slipped on the diving board at the pool. I don't even remember saying that kind
of word. I never was a boy who cursed.
I will never forget being beaten like that. I will
never forget being beaten like that without knowing the reason for the beating.
I will never forget that monster that I saw in the mirror that day or what
adults are capable of doing to a child. I will never forget that the State of
Florida was behind what happened to me and to many, many other boys -- all for
running away from the orphanage. Gee, who would ever think that the State of
Florida loved their orphan children so much? I don't hold any grudges against
those men. If Mr. Patton had not beaten me, another man would have been found to
do the job. Those were the rules and that's all it was, a job they were paid to
do. However, I have always wondered if Mr. Patton was ever troubled by that
beating. I have always wondered if Mr. Curry got a thrill out of putting a
twelve-or thirteen-year-old boy in his place.
I spoke with Mr. Troy Tidwell, the one-armed man, on
the telephone on February 11, 1999. He is now 72 years old and still lives in
Marianna, Florida. I asked him to see if he could locate Mr. Sea Lander. He and
I joked about the past; we had a few laughs together. I'm sure he had no idea
who I am. He may not even remember that far back, though I am fairly sure that
he does. How could someone not remember beating little children like that?
Thank you, for caring about me, Mr. SeaLander. Wherever you are, I want to thank
you for your kindness and understanding. Because of that one kind deed, as I
have grown up, I have learned to trust, respect, and take the word of my
fellowman. I will always remember, respect, and love you for that.
Author, Roger Dean Kiser, Sr. [email protected]
LETTER FROM THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR OF FLORIDA, DATED MAY 6, 1999
Mr. Kiser,
I do not know what to say to your message (story). It is a heart-felt, painful,
incredible story. I am so sorry. I will ask our Secretaries of DJJ and DCF to
review their agencies and respond to you directly about current policies, as you
have requested that we look into current practices. I hope and pray that nothing
like this ever happens in Florida today.
Thank you for your message. I will forward your letter along with this response
to the Governor. I hope you are doing ok now.
David Rancourt
LETTER FROM JUDGE, Kathleen A.
Kearney, dated August 20, 1999
Dear Mr. Kiser:
Governor Bush has asked that I respond to you on his behalf.
I am sorry to hear of the experiences you had during the time you spent in the
Florida School for Boys. This Department did not exist when you when there.
However, I am told that the "white house" and corporal punishment were
banned in the institutions around 1967. I am pleased to say that children do not
have to endure that kind of experience today. Now, a 24-hour abuse hotline is
available to everyone, and state law requires that specified state employees
report any abuse or neglect that they observe.
The former training school now houses the Dozier School and is part of the
Department of Juvenile Justice. At the Dozier School, the children have free
access to a telephone, and they can report abuse that occurs. This Department
and the Office of Inspector General for the Department of Juvenile Justice
investigate all such reports.
Good luck in your future endeavors,
Very truly yours,
Judge Kathleen A. Kearney
*****
I wish to end this story by thanking the individuals, whoever you are, who had
the heart, compassion, and guts to stop these horrible evil deeds, committed by
the State of Florida
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr. [email protected]
*****
Write Roger to let him know your response to his true story.
******
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