The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (8 page)

It seemed things had gotten out of hand with the beatings they were giving out these days. They were getting more severe and more frequent. This particular boy, Tony, had simply stepped on his housefather’s foot during a game of “capture the flag” to earn his beating.

We stopped at the rear entrance of the dining room. The White House was about 200 yards away. Suddenly, Tony broke free and ran, screaming at the top of us lungs. But within seconds, the guards tackled him and began beating him with their bare fists.

We boys remained quiet as we watched on. We knew better than to open our mouths or even acknowledge that we knew what was happening in the distance.

Mr. Tidwell sat on Tony’s chest while Mr. Hatton unlocked the White House door. Tony screamed, yelled, and kicked as they dragged him through the door.

During dinner, we kept a watch out to see if Tony would somehow miraculously be well enough after the beating to eat dinner. After an hour had passed, we had decided that Tony wasn’t going to make it out of the White House.

I kept looking over at Mr. Sealander with that worried look, but he would only smile and wink. “Don’t worry about it,” he mouthed a couple of times.

As we lined up outside for the return to our cottage, the White House door opened. Mr. Hatton and Mr. Tidwell were dragging Tony out the door by his legs.

I cringed when Tony’s head hit the ground as it came through the doorway. As the guards continued dragging him toward us, the boy twisted his body back and forth. Leaves, dirt, and pine straw stuck to his bloody face and clothes. Then, about twenty yards from us, the two men dropped his legs and left him lying in the dirt.

Tony rolled onto his stomach and managed to make it to his knees. We watched on as his house-father, the one he had stepped on, came around the building and stood over Tony. Tears ran down Tony’s cheeks, and he cringed in fear.

“You punk ass, little bastard. You’re afraid, you little coward!” said the man, as he slapped Tony on the side of his face.

Tony raised his arms into the air. He took a deep breath and yelled as loud as he could, “I EARNED THE RIGHT TO BE AFRAID!”

Again, his housefather slapped him.

In a moment of extreme bravery, one of the boys from my group shouted out, “He earned the right! He earned the right! He earned the right!”

His bravery wore off on us, and we all began to chant, “HE EARNED THE RIGHT! HE EARNED THE RIGHT!”

Mr. Sealander quieted us down as soon as he was able. He assured the other housefather he’d “take care” of us boys for calling out. To us, he said, “You made your point. Let’s get moving.”

When we neared the cottage, Mr. Sealander lined us up on the clay basketball court and began to speak. I didn’t think he’d hurt us, but we were all shifting nervously.

“You boys know that you have violated a serious rule and that severe punishment has to be accommodated. You know that I have to punish you in accord with the rules of this institution. What you did was very serious. As punishment, each of you is to report to the cottage and sit on your bunks for five minutes. I will turn on the radio to measure the time. After you’ve served your punishment, then you fellows can play basketball for about an hour. Now move it!”

We scrambled inside to sit on our bunks as instructed. All of us felt pride over what we had done. We had a vision of what it meant to accomplish something by standing together—that sometimes “the power” is in the masses, even in the worst of places.

“Was I Funny?”

“P
oison Ivyyyyyyyyyyy. Poison Ivyyyyyyyyyyyy,” sang the Coasters from the cottage speaker.

When the song ended, I could not get the lyrics out of my mind. Even the next morning, when we lined up and marched from our cottage to the dining hall, the song was still stuck in my head. Surprising myself, I began to sing out loud.

“Poison Ivyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

It amazed me that I sounded exactly like the singers on the radio. This made everyone in line laugh, especially Mr. Sealander, who was walking at the end of the long line. My friend Joseph laughed pretty hard too.

God, it felt so good inside to make everyone laugh!
I had never done anything like that before. There is just something about “the laughing thing” that makes you feel accepted and like everyone really, really likes you.

I continued to imitate that singing voice on and off for several weeks, which always made everyone who heard it laugh.

Then one day, I was called into Mr. Sealander’s study, and he told me to immediately report to Dr. Curry’s office. He seemed almost sorry. Dr. Curry didn’t like me very much because I would not answer his questions about whether or not I had ever jacked off. I hoped he wouldn’t ask today.

I entered the office and sat down on the wooden chair outside of Dr. Curry’s door.

He opened his office door and snapped, “Kiser, get your damn ugly little ass in here.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Curry, sir.”

I got up and walked as fast as I could into his smoky office. I sat down in a chair, which he had placed directly in front of his large wooden desk. As he sat down, he growled and then spun his chair to face me. He pushed his thick, black-rimmed glasses to the end of his nose and just sat there staring at me. He said not a word for more than a minute.

All at once, he snarled through closed teeth and said, “What’s this poison ivy crap you’ve been singing around the grounds?”

I swallowed and said, “Just a song that I heard on the radio, Dr. Curry, sir.”

“And the purpose in that damn shit?” he asked, pointing his pencil at me.

“It makes all the people laugh real hard,” I said, feeling scared and intimidated.

“No more of that shit. Do you hear me, young man?”

“What’s wrong with laughing, Dr. Curry, sir?”

“I SAID NO MORE OF IT!” he shouted.

“Yes, sir, Dr. Curry, sir.” I nodded and looked down at the floor.

“Get back over to your cottage. I’ll call Sealander and tell him you’re on your way.”

I left the office, closed the door behind me, and walked out into the reception area. As I stepped outside, I looked at Dr. Curry’s new pink-and-gray Chrysler DeSoto, which he had purchased several weeks before. I remembered the day that he showed off his new car and how everyone who worked at the school was standing around the automobile with him, talking and laughing.

I guess when you’re a kid, you can’t laugh until you are grown up and on your own,
I thought.

I kicked a rock off the sidewalk that flew up and hit his ugly new car on the door. I turned around and looked back at the office to see if anyone was watching. Nothing happened, so I walked back to the cottage. When I returned, I told Mr. Sealander and the boys what Dr. Curry had said and that I was not allowed to make the funny sound anymore.

After dinner, our group marched to the football field for the football championships. Our cottage was in the final playoffs against Washington cottage. We had never made it to the playoffs before, so we were very excited about winning.

At half time, we were down by two touchdowns, but by the fourth quarter, we made up much of the difference. Now Washington cottage was just two points ahead of us. There were only about two minutes left in the game and the ball was within a foot of making another touchdown. I came off the end and positioned myself over the boy who played center position.

When the ball snapped, I jumped over him. With both hands, I slammed down as hard as I could toward the football, knocking it loose from their quarterback’s grip. In all the confusion, I just stood there wondering where the ball had landed. Boys were piling up all around me.

“Run! Run!” yelled several boys.

I looked down and saw that the football was in my arms, lying against my stomach. Confused, I took off and ran down the field. I pushed and I pushed, running as hard and as fast as I could, trying to make it to the goalpost. Hundreds upon hundreds of boys were now yelling and shouting at the top of their lungs, as I made my way to the end of the field for the touchdown.

I will never forget the look of pride on Mr. Sealander’s face as he patted me on the back for the touchdown that allowed us to win the championship game. Even the men calling the game over the intercom were shouting in excitement about what had happened.

“Do the funny thing you do!” yelled out one of my teammates.

“Make that funny sound!” hollered another.

“Sing poison ivy,” Joseph chimed in.

“Poison Ivyyyyyyyyyy. Poison Ivyyyyyyyyyy,” I sang out in my well-practiced high-pitched voice.

The boys laughed and screamed at the sound of my voice coming from the loud speaker as we passed by the table where the announcers sat.

That was a very happy day in my life, a day I will never forget as long as I live. But the following day, that is a day I will also never forget.

I was once again called into Dr. Curry’s office. As I entered, I saw Joseph sitting in a corner chair. His cheeks were all wet from crying.

“You don’t learn very well do you, Kiser?” Dr. Curry yelled.

“Learn what, Dr. Curry, sir?”

“Did you sing out poison ivy at the ballgame last night? Joseph here says it was him. That he was trying to make people laugh. But I think it was you, Kiser? Was it you?”

He glared at me, waiting for my response.

I looked over at Joseph, who slowly shook his head back and forth, pleading with me to say I hadn’t sung the song.

“No, sir, Dr. Curry. You said not to do that anymore.”

Dr. Curry reached over and pushed the buzzer on his desk.

“Yes, Dr. Curry,” answered the secretary.

“Call Mr. Hatton and tell him to take Joseph to lockup for the night.”

He kept his accusing gaze on me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Kiser, you go back to your cottage . . . and Joseph, you sit in the other office until Hatton gets here,” Dr. Curry sneered.

I should have said it was me. I should not have let Joseph take the fall for it. But I kept my mouth shut. I went back to the cottage and told Mr. Sealander what happened.

“Joseph will stay in lockup for the night. That should be the end of the matter,” he assured me.

The next morning, as we rounded the corner on our march to breakfast, we saw Joseph and the guards walking toward the White House.

We stood and watched as they unlocked the door, entered the building, and closed the door behind them. None of us heard a sound as we sat in the dining hall and ate our breakfast. I was so overcome with guilt that I could barely eat.

Fifteen minutes after breakfast, we stood outside and watched as the White House door opened. The two men stepped out, pulling Joseph by his arms. He was backward and his heels dragged on the ground. They continued until they reached the dining hall. When they saw me, they stopped and dropped Joseph on the ground at my feet.

“Here’s your damn poison ivy buddy,” one of them said, as he pushed the almost unconscious boy with his foot.

I stood there and looked at Joseph, who was unable to move or speak. As they walked away, I looked down into his face.

“Joe, are you all right?” I whispered.

His eyes slowly opened and kind of rolled back in his head. He looked up at me, and with blood coming from his mouth, he said, “Roger Dean, can you kiss me?”

I felt my face flush at the request. “I ain’t never kissed no man person before, Joseph,” I said.

“I don’t mean like that, stupid. Like . . . like someone would kiss you on the top of your head, when they are supposed to like you a lot; sorta like a grandma would do when you’re hurt real bad . . . or something.”

His voice was quiet, exhausted, and I wasn’t sure he would finish. Slowly, I got down on my knees and gently kissed him on the forehead as he closed his eyes. As I stood up, I could see all of the boys, not one making a sound, watching us.

I turned to face the large group of boys who surrounded us, waiting with my head down for someone to holler the words, “Hey, we got us a couple of queers here!” But those words were never spoken.

One at a time, each and every one of the boys, some with eyes red from the tears they were holding back, raised their right hands into the air, pointed their thumbs toward the sky, and gave their sign of approval.

“Did everyone think I was funny, Roger Dean?” Joseph said, as he tried to smile.

“You were funny, Joe. Real funny,” I said, as I helped my best friend to his feet.

The Reason I’m Not Smiling,
Mr. Hatton, Is Because I Can’t

A
s I quickly walked down the sidewalk to report to Dr. Curry’s office as I’d been instructed to once again, I ran into Mr. Hatton. Several days before, I had crossed his path while leaving the dining hall. He grabbed me by the arm and wanted to know why I was not smiling.

“I feel sad inside today, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I told him, “and I don’t feel like smiling anymore.”

He slapped me across the face as hard as he could and ordered me to lie down on the ground face up.

Pointing his finger into my face, he shouted, “Do you want me to take you down to the goddamn White House and beat the goddamn pure living shit out of you, boy?!”