The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (3 page)

When a person has been locked away in one form or another, the days, weeks, months, and years all run together. Most every day, every week, every year is identical to the next. In fact, I spent two terms at the Florida Industrial School for Boys. Both times I was there pretty much just run into each other. I can’t say for sure from memory when I left or when I went back.

I suppose the best way to describe it would be like this: Your parents drop you off at the first grade and don’t come back for you. You never leave the building. All you know is the way to the bathroom, the cafeteria, and the classroom. Things change, you grow bigger, and the “caretakers” change, but you don’t know exactly when. It just happened.

“Exactly when did that occur?” someone asks you. How do you answer that question? You search your memory bank, but it’s all scrambled. The only thing you can do is take a guess based on simple logic—like
What song was playing on the radio when I was dragged out of my cottage?
It is this state of childhood confusion, along with a lack of celebratory milestones to go by, that clouds my recollections of the past.

It is bad enough to be a scared, lonely child. But even worse than that is becoming an adult with that same scared, lonely child still living inside. It is that feeling that inspired me to try to make a difference in the lives of children today by sharing my awful experiences, but also by sharing my triumphs despite those experiences.

Often, to some, foster children who are troubled and unhappy seem more trouble than they’re worth.
Why don’t they openly appreciate the opportunity to come into a loving home? What difference can I make now, now that this child is already broken?

Know that it is difficult for abused children to trust anyone. Sometimes the miracle to be achieved is not in trying to save the child by turning him or her into a “normal,” happy, carefree child today, but instead, looking into the future at the person that child will someday become. It’s about hanging in there with unconditional love and giving that child a chance to see what it means to be a good adult. That child will more likely grow into a kind adult and a good parent and grandparent. That is what is most important to teach a child who doesn’t know what it means to be a child. The prize is never won at the start of any game; it is achieved at the end of the game. And that can only be accomplished and proven by those who truly love someone. Fortunately, there were a few people in my early life who touched my heart just enough so that I could eventually release the haunting memories of my childhood.

So, not only do I write this book to expose the abuse we boys suffered, I also write this book in hopes that those who have been abused will see that no matter how difficult the task, no matter how bad the abuse, there is still a wonderful faint light always burning at the end of the tunnel. That light is you—standing there waiting for you to hug yourself. It is then that you can begin to save your marriage, your children, and your grandchildren. That is the reward you will receive for having survived the train wreck.

How wonderful it is to stand proud and know that your children and grandchildren will never have to suffer the slings and arrows of the abuse you suffered. There is no greater prize to be had. Yes, it may be a long hard battle, but in the end they will not beat you. You will know that YOU WON, and for that you will stand proud and smile, for you will be the winner of the game. As I am.

Looking Back and
Moving Forward

The White House, 2008.

Photo by R. Kiser

G
enerally, I’m a little nervous when I am about to give a speech. Even when speaking to groups of children about child-abuse issues, this unusual nervousness comes over me, a sort of stage fright. But this time, for some reason, things were different. I felt different.

I stood silently behind the wooden podium wondering what to say. Slowly, I raised my head and stared at the crowd of thirty or forty guards, each dressed in Department of Juvenile Justice uniforms, numerous Florida State employees, and a bunch of fancy-dressed individuals from the governor of Florida’s office, each waiting to hear what this uneducated dimwit had to say.

The word “masturbation” kept coming to mind, along with my memory of the traumatic experiences I had suffered as a small child, even before I had arrived at the Florida Industrial School for Boys, at the hands of the orphanage matron. I thought “masturbation” would be a good word to share with this audience, and so that’s what I did. No sooner had that word come from my lips when I saw one of the governor’s people drop his coffee cup. Most expressions were of shock, but I saw a couple of the female guards throw me a wink and a smile. Of course they wouldn’t have done that if they understood the significance.

I explained to the group that the molestation I had suffered at the orphanage had become a way of life for me, but it was a life I was glad to be leaving behind when I was sentenced to the Florida Industrial School for Boys. I naively thought better days were ahead. I’d been beaten at the orphanage, but it didn’t prepare me for the brutal beatings to come. After my first visit to the White House, the State of Florida had convinced me that helping Matron Mother Winters masturbate herself was the lesser of two evils.

It felt strange knowing that the “White House Torture Chamber” stood less than three feet behind me. As I recounted the horrors, rapes, beatings, and alleged killings that had taken place in that building, I kept pointing over my right shoulder with my thumb. I didn’t turn away; it was necessary for me not to lose track of any of the faces or the expressions on them before me. I had a very important point to make, and this was the chance I had waited for, for almost twenty years. I was there to have my say, as were four of the other “White House Boys.”

When we finished our speeches, the guards and other attendees were led through the doorway and into the narrow hallway of the chamber—still dark, damp, and smelly. Many of the guards covered their mouths; I heard others say, “Oh, my God!”

I suppose the blood stains on the walls and floor were more than a decent civil human being could take. I found some solace knowing that a new generation of juvenile guards found this building repulsive and totally disgraceful.

Afterward, a plaque was presented that signified the official sealing of the White House at the old Florida Industrial School for Boys in Marianna, Florida, and a tree was planted to forever mark the spot where the atrocities had occurred. Then, the crowd headed to the administration building for cold drinks and finger food. As the press began their interviews, I snuck out the side door and made my way back to the White House.

Now, all alone, the White House Torture Chamber standing before me, I began taking photographs. Every two steps forward, the camera lens would snap and a horrible memory from the past was preserved for future generations.

It was very difficult for me to keep the scared little boy inside me separated from the grown man now holding the digital camera. When I reached one of the small dungeon-type cells where I had been beaten, I reached out with a shaking hand and touched the cold, hard wall. Chills ran through my body, and I quickly removed my hand. I looked at the wall I had tried to climb while being beaten, almost to death.

Where are all the puddles of blood that were draining from my body and running down the wall that day?
I thought.

Lowering my camera, I looked up at the ceiling. Then, carefully, without thinking, I slowly sat down on the edge of the steel bed, but it was no longer there. I managed to catch myself against the wall before I fell on the filthy floor.

Next, I walked into another small room, the room with a dirty, broken toilet. I wondered if any boy had ever been allowed to use that commode before having “the pure living shit beat out of him.” I also wondered why the black boys, who I had heard were beaten even worse than the white boys, called this building the “ice-cream parlor.”

Finally, I walked out the front door. I turned to look down the dark, stained hallway one last time. I stood there thinking about which part was the worst of all. Was it the atrocious beatings? Or was it the fact they made me feel like I was a worthless piece of shit? I think I got over the beatings, but I don’t think I ever got over that feeling.

Toward the end of the day, we White House Boys along with the present warden of the school (a woman), several guards, and other employees traveled to the gravesite believed to house the bodies of some of the boys who died while incarcerated in the facility. We took pictures and said a few silent prayers, until the silence was broken by the warden’s shouts of pain.

The White House Boys were the first to arrive at her side. She had stepped into a bed of fire ants, and her shoes and legs were covered with the attacking insects. In extreme pain, yet holding her composure, she begged for assistance with her eyes. Quickly, three of us White House Boys grabbed the warden, removed her shoes, and rubbed the fire ants off her legs. Within minutes, all was back to normal. The White House boys had rescued the warden.

Who would have ever thought that it would be us—the boys who had been brutally beaten and tortured fifty years earlier—who would save the warden of the very facility where we’d been made to feel worthless?

The White House Torture Chamber was officially
sealed by the Florida Department of
Juvenile Justice on October 21, 2008.

“In memory of the children who passed
these doors, we acknowledge their tribulations and offer
our hope that they have found some measure of peace.

May this building stand as a reminder of the need to
remain vigilant in protecting our children as we help
them to seek a brighter future.

Moreover, we offer the reassurance that we are dedicated
to serving and protecting the youth
who enter this campus, and helping them
to transform their lives.”

The White House
Officially Sealed by the Florida Department
of Juvenile Justice October 21, 2008

White House main entrance, 2008.

Photo by R. Kiser