The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (11 page)
This particular day was a sunny Thursday afternoon, and my cottage was assigned to go to the pool for a swim. After changing my clothing and taking a fast rinse in the pump house, I headed out the doorway and began walking toward the pool. Joseph walked around the corner of the building and stopped me. He asked me to wait until he changed into his bathing suit and the two of us would try and get up enough nerve to jump off the high-diving board. He hurried inside.
My stomach dropped when I saw Mr. Tidwell.
“What are you waiting for?” he yelled.
“Waiting for my friend Joe,” I responded.
He began walking toward me. As I looked down at the ground, I was horrified to see a cigarette butt about an inch from my foot. Knowing I would be accused of smoking, I covered the butt with my bare foot.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m doing nothing at all, Mr. Tidwell, sir,” I replied.
“Move over to the other side of the sidewalk,” he instructed.
I stood there afraid to move for fear he would see the cigarette butt under my foot. I knew if I moved, I was as good as dead.
When he reached me, he pushed me backward with his one hand, and I fell against the brick building. Slowly, he reached down and picked up the small cigarette butt.
Holding it in his outstretched hand, he said, “What’s this?”
“It’s not mine, Mr. Tidwell. I didn’t even see it until you hollered at me.”
“Get your little ass inside that building and get your clothing back on.”
I turned, walked back into the shower room, and began dressing. Mr. Tidwell sent Joseph out, and then he stood there watching me the entire time. Several times I tried to explain that I had no idea how that cigarette butt got on the ground. But no matter how hard I tried to explain, he would not listen to me.
After dressing, I stood in front of him waiting for instructions. He held the cigarette butt out in front of me and told me to take it. I held out my hand, and he put the butt in my palm. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a book of matches, and struck one with the only hand he had. I’d never seen anyone strike a match with one hand before.
“Might as well smoke the damn thing. You know I’m going to beat your ass when you go down on Saturday, so you might as well give me a damn good reason.”
Shaking, I nervously brought the butt to my lips and walked toward the lit match. Within one puff, the cigarette was so short that I could not hold it any longer without being burnt, so I dropped it to the wet floor. Just at that moment, several boys and another instructor walked in.
“Caught this little bastard smoking,” stated Mr. Tidwell to the other man.
“No, sir. I wasn’t,” I replied.
“Walk over there and smell his breath,” Mr. Tidwell told him.
The man walked over, placed his nose to my mouth, and asked me to blow.
The man turned and said, “He was smoking alright.”
Knowing I was as good as dead and that there was no reason for me to try to explain the circumstances, I just stood there shaking, doing my best to stare a hole in the concrete floor until I was told to report to my cottage housefather.
When I got to Mr. Sealander’s office, he asked me to explain what had happened. I told him there was no reason to explain. He asked me if I was guilty of smoking, and I said that I was not. He patted me on the back and told me to go join the capture-the-flag game already in progress on the basketball court.
To me, Mr. Sealander was a kind and gentle man. He knew exactly what I meant when I said that there was no use to try to explain. He knew that the Florida Industrial School for Boys at Marianna had turned into nothing more than a concentration camp for boys, that all sense of right and wrong had totally lost meaning.
On Saturday morning, I walked to Mr. Hatton’s office and sat down on the wooden bench. Within thirty minutes, Mr. Hatton, Mr. Tidwell, two other boys, and I made our way to the White House. The five of us walked into the narrow, smelly hallway and made our way to the beating chambers.
As Mr. Tidwell pointed for me to enter the chamber cell on the right, I looked up into his face. His expression did not seem as cold and hard as usual. I smiled and waited to see if his expression would change, but it didn’t. For two days, I had hoped and prayed that some form of compassion would come over the man. But, in Marianna, prayers were useless. Even to this day, I ask God for very little.
My heart pounded as I defiantly smoked this cigarette in one of the White House beating chambers, fifty years after that beating. If you are going to be accused of something you did not do, guess you might as well go ahead and do it. This one’s for you, Mr. Tidwell.
A
s I entered the small chamber as Tidwell instructed, I stood at attention. Not surprisingly, the bed was covered in blood, spit, feces, and slobber. I had become accustomed to the site, as had many of the other boys, and we just took it as part of the emotional punishment. Besides, the stains and ungodly smells were the least of our problems when we were in the White House.
I laid down on the bed as ordered, holding my breath, and I turned my head to face the bloodstained wall. I buried my head in the soiled pillow. Suddenly, I felt something cold and hard against my cheek. Slowly and carefully raising my head so that I could see from my left eye, I saw a chunk of tongue and maybe a piece of lip that had been bitten off. Startled and frightened, I jumped from the bed screaming and was immediately knocked backward by Mr. Hatton.
In a state of panic, swinging, screaming, and yelling, I forced my way past Mr. Hatton and made my way to the corner of the cell.
All I could think about was mean old Mr. Ball, my houseparent at the orphanage, cutting off the head of a live possum when I was about eight. With its mouth still moving, he made me pick up the animal’s head and roll it down the driveway like a bowling ball. Then he laughed and cut off the tail of the still squirming body, and I screamed. He pushed the tail, still moving grotesquely, into my pants pocket. I will never forget the horrible feeling of the head in my hands and the wiggling tail against my body or the sight of the headless possum on the ground.
When Mr. Hatton and Mr. Tidwell realized what had actually happened—that I had put my face on pieces of tongue or lip—I thought they would never stop laughing. In the hopes of ending the beating, I joined their laughter, still huddled and shaking in the corner.
The beating came anyway.
A
t the end of a day of work or schooling and before we went to the dining hall, each of us boys from Cottage 11 would grab one of the many sickles or rakes that were lined up against the back of the building to begin the daily ritual of either raking up the pine straw or cutting the grass with the sickles.
This particular day, I was leaning my chin on my hand and the rake handle, gazing out across the grounds. I watched the entertaining antics of the squirrels as they chased one another through the tree branches.
“You had better rake or you won’t get no supper,” one of my cottage mates said.
I shrugged, dropped my rake, and walked toward the edge of our dormitory boundary. I looked across the way toward the field where some of the boys were gathering for an organized activity. A few of them were goofing around and laughing, but that quickly ended with a reprimand, which I didn’t have to hear to understand.
What even makes kids want to laugh?
I thought, clutching my fists.
“I’m getting out tomorrow,” a familiar voice came from behind.
My heart dropped. I turned to see Joseph standing there. He walked closer to me and placed his hands on top of his head. We stood there silently, watching the boys on the field.
“Where are you going to go?” I finally asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. Then, as if he really didn’t want to think about where he might end up, he added, “We better start raking if we wanna eat tonight.”
I nodded in agreement, and we went back to our rakes. I watched Joseph as he worked. He liked to make even lines in the dirt with his rake. I could tell he was not excited about leaving. He had left on other occasions but always ended up back here.
The next morning, I helped him gather his few belongings before walking him to the cement walk at the edge of our dormitory.
“Can you do me a favor when you get out?” I asked.
He looked at me and waited to hear the favor before responding.
“Can you laugh real loud for me when you get a chance?” I said. “Real loud, like no one will tell you to pipe down?”
“I don’t feel like laughin’ no more, Roger,” he mumbled apologetically.
I watched Joseph as he slowly headed toward the main office. He disappeared through the doorway, and that was the last time I ever saw him.
Over the years I have often thought of Joseph— about the beating he took for me and about the quiet comfort we had with each other. I have never stopped wondering if he was ever able to laugh for me . . . or for himself.
I
t was at least a quarter mile from our cottage to the dining hall. Three times a day, we lined up and marched to eat our meals. After receiving our meal, we sat down at one of the tables around the large room. At each seat was a six-inch-tall bottle of milk. On top of the milk rested about three-quarters of an inch of cream. We would remove the cream with a utensil, then one of the boys would drink his milk, leaving about one-half inch of milk at the bottom. Next, we’d all place our cream into the near-empty bottle and replace the paper cap. One boy would continuously shake the bottle secretly beneath the table until the cream and milk had been formed into a lump of butter. Then, we’d all spread the butter on our toast or bread.
During this particular meal and butter-churning process, several adults—three women and two men—stepped into the dining hall doorway. (Of course, anytime a woman was at the facility, every teenage eye in the vicinity went directly to her for a personal inspection. If, by chance, the top of a female breast might be seen, the image was captured in our minds and saved for later use.)
I looked over and noticed that the boy shaking the milk bottle had not noticed the adults or that they were walking toward our table. As they neared us, one of the women let out a terrified scream. “Oh, my God!” she shouted. “He is masturbating.”
Mr. Hatton jumped forward. He immediately saw who she meant. As the woman carried on, Mr. Hatton grabbed the boy and jerked him up from his seat at the table. The glass bottle went flying across the room.
Mr. Hatton began beating the boy with his fist about his face and head. Minutes later, the boy was being dragged out of the building. Mr. Hatton, Mr. Tidwell, and three other men were headed for the White House with the boy in tow. The men slapped and kicked him as they dragged him through the dirt and leaves like he was a worthless bag of trash.
The entire dining hall remained completely silent for an extraordinarily long time. Not even the sound of silverware could be heard as almost everyone in the room was afraid to move a muscle. Horror remained in many eyes and on many faces for the entire meal, each boy secretly giving thanks that he was not the one caught making butter beneath the table.
The boy was never seen again.