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 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. Everyone 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 onto me. We then continued walking towards the mess hall. As we rounded the building, I could see "IT" right in front of me: "THE WHITE HOUSE." But it was yellow in color! Why was it called the White House if it was yellow? I never understood that. 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 somethng. Words were coming out of my mouth even before my mind could think of what it was actally 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, 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 towards 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 tight 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 towards 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 or kill me. I will never forget that look for as long as I live.
I tried to jump off the bed but was knocked backwards 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. 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 the word "shit" 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 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. That was 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 bothered 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 rememeber beating little boys like that?
Thank you, for caring, Mr. Sea Lander. Where ever you are, I want to thank you for your kindness and understanding. I especially want to thank you for the time you caught me doing something that little boys do once in a while. You never told anyone, and you did not embarrass me. Because of that one kind deed, as I have grown up, I have learned to trust, respect, and take the word of my fellow man. I will always remember, respect, and love you for that.
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.
(copyright 1981)
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 scool 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
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Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.