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
------------------
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.