The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (13 page)
It awaits your words
So that it may hear.
With beer as thought
And drinks as ink,
The note progresses
And begins to think.
It develops its tone,
Based on sight and sound.
The lessons provided
Were never profound.
A belt, a bible,
At worst a sword
The note begins signing
Its awkward chord.
With slobber on sandals
It struggles to breathe.
With braces on eyeballs
Its mind never teethes.
Its crystal, now clouded
Unable to steer.
Rainbows never color
When shining from fear.
From rusted suggestion,
It struggles to call.
Another note locked forever
Out of Carnegie Hall.
—Roger Dean Kiser
PART TWO
The Child Now
Speaks as a Man
I
watched him closely as he approached me. Closer and closer he came toward me. All at once, he came to rest directly in front of me. All I could do at that point was gaze deep into his dark blue eyes.
As I stood there staring at him, I said to myself, “So this is the guy who spent several years in a federal penitentiary.”
I was amazed as my eyes slowly studied his face. He did not look like the criminal type. However, his face was somewhat sad and his eyes drooped a bit. I could not help but notice a deep-seated kindness to his facial features. Yet, the corners of his mouth pointed down as if he were a sad circus clown.
I had seen pictures of him throughout the years. Even as a little boy, he had those same expressions.
Several years ago, he finally admitted to me that as a little boy he had been molested for many years. I already knew, of course, but I never said anything to him about it. I had wondered for years when he was going to get around to admitting it to me. I guess that somewhat explains the look of sadness that is always present on his face. Not to mention the look of distrust I see every time I look at him.
I moved my eyes about his face and could tell the sadness I was seeing went much deeper than just the exterior. Slowly, his mouth started to open. I think he wanted to tell me more, but then he closed his mouth and just stood staring at me.
There was a time when that balding head of his was full of rich, dark brown hair. A time when his sagging eyelids were fully erect, soaking up the energy of his youth. A time when he was embarrassed when called “a hero” after pulling five people out of a burning car. Not to mention, the time he saved a cat when four teenagers had ripped off its front leg.
Is this the fellow who went on national television in February 1991 with Tom Brokaw to expose the manufacturing of dangerous ammunition that killed several Americans during the Gulf War? The same guy who remained friendless for years for doing “such an evil thing” to his coworkers at the Riverbank Army Ammunition Plant in Riverbank, California?
In spite of all I knew about this fellow and considering all that happened to him in his past, I did not see any meanness or hatred in his eyes. What I did see was a never-ending sadness and a blank stare of depression. I guess loneliness became his own personal monster. It was a fight he was never able to conquer. Mix in a whole bunch of loneliness and a few batches of disappointment, and his bad dream would never have an end.
Still, in spite of it all, he has been a good friend to me throughout the years. He has always helped his friends and his neighbors. Never once did he ever expect anything in return. Not even a “thank you” was expected.
He never actually told me so, but I know he is very proud of the fact that he did not turn out to be a child abuser himself. I know there were many times when he did not know what the term “right” even meant. He was a fellow doing his best to make sure he did not repeat the mistakes of his own caregivers.
There, before me stood a fellow who had no idea how to be a father. There was not one day in his memory when he could relate to what having a mother and a father was supposed to be like.
I smiled at him as my eyes left his for a second. I reached down and picked up the shaving cream from the bathroom counter. Quickly, I looked back up to see if he was still looking at me. He just stood there, staring at me with the can of shaving cream in his hand. I guess he was waiting for me to make the next move.
“Well, old man! How about let’s shave ourselves,” I said to my reflection in the mirror.
I
suppose we all have memories of our youth. The time we went swimming with our friends and screamed at the top of our lungs as we slid down the waterslide. Our first time on water-skis at the lake and feeling the cool wind on our faces. The time we went to see a scary movie, and when it was over, we laughed about it in an attempt to convince our friends that we were not really scared. And what about that first tender kiss in the backseat of a car? Will we ever forget that? Oh, how grown up we felt. And let us not forget the high school football games and all the pep rallies we attended. We shouted and yelled with our friends—what fun times they were! How great it was to ride down the sidewalk on a bicycle in the evening to meet up with friends on their bicycles so we could ride around the neighborhood.
Well, I never did any of those things, not one single one of them. As I look back, I do not miss any of the things most of you experienced as children. But what I do miss is never having had the opportunity to open a refrigerator door and make a sandwich when I was hungry. I miss never having had a cold glass of milk with my food. I miss never having a shirt and a pair of pants that belonged just to me. I miss never having had a picture of a fond memory to hang on my bedroom wall.
But I’m not unhappy, not anymore. My refrigerator has three doors, and there is ice-cold milk for anyone who wants some. My pantry is filled with hundreds of cans of meat, fruit, and vegetables. We’ll never go hungry. My closet is full of clothes and shoes, and they all belong to me. And the walls of my home are covered with dozens upon dozens of family photos, and yes, those photos are snapshots of happiness.
Would my life have been different if I had the memories of others? With wonderful memories inside my head, would I still have gone to the reform school, jail, and then on to prison? Exactly what did having none of those memories teach me? It taught me that I am lucky to have survived and that I should appreciate what is important in life. Tonight, I will stand out on my front porch with a glass of cold milk in hand, and I will give myself a toast. Not because of what I became, but because of what I did not become.
I
have been invited speak at many gatherings. I have spoken at Kiwanis and Jaycee conventions, 4-H Clubs, several colleges, and universities, but the speeches I remember most, those that affect me the most, are the speeches I have given to children in the public school system.
As I talk about the realities of child abuse and read my stories to them, I keep my eyes on the crowd and try to decide who is or is not listening. I often become emotional when I read and speak, mainly because I can recognize the children who know exactly what I am talking about. I can see the hurt in their eyes and the pain on their faces.
The children who know do not blink very often, and they stare straight ahead, mouths open. They swallow just before the salvia begins to drip from their lips. They look amazed that someone is able to tell them how they secretly feel, that someone is able to tell them what is hidden in that dark and secret place inside their hearts.
“Can you help me?” is written all over their faces.
I look at each and every one of them, and then I wink with my right eye. They smile, ever so slightly, knowing that I know what’s there inside and that I would hug them and make the pain go away if I could.
Generally, after each speech, I am silent while driving back to my home, with their innocent little faces appearing one after another in my mind. Though I ask God for very little, I do ask Him to help those children in pain so that they never know the loneliness I had felt for so many years.
I
think it is true that many people are not suited to be foster parents, and why they take on such a responsibility is unclear. However, there are people out there who are good and willing to take a chance on a troubled child. In many cases, by the time foster parents receive a child into their home, the damage to that child has already been done. It can be so extensive that it will take years to turn things around. Salvaging the childhood may already be a lost cause unless the child is very young.
Many people who take in abandoned children hope to make a difference in that child’s life, and while it may not seem apparent at the time, they are making a difference, maybe not right now, but hopefully someday something will click and that child will be able to grow into a better adult because of some kindness he or she received from a foster parent.
I remember the first time I was in an actual home, and I don’t recall how long I was there, but it wasn’t very long, maybe a day. I sat there watching the woman as she read the local paper, wondering why this stranger and her husband would take me into their home.
What was the catch?
I noticed tears running down her face. “Are you okay?” I asked.
She wiped her eyes with a tissue and looked at me. She told me she had just read an article about four teenagers who were killed in an automobile accident.
“You don’t even know them,” I said sort of coldly. “I ain’t never cried for nobody who died.”
She looked directly into my eyes. “You’re not such a hardnosed boy,” she said. “I can see that by looking at your face. The truth of the matter is that you just don’t know how to feel about certain things.”
She and I spent the next several hours on her front porch drinking Coca-Colas and talking. She didn’t ask a bunch of dumb questions like most adults. I don’t remember all that was said, but she talked about the good things in the world and tried to teach me something worthwhile. She tried to make me feel worthwhile. When she hugged me tight, my body went limp. I’d never felt such unconditional love before. She was a stranger, but she’d done more good for me during that talk than anyone had ever done for me up until then.
It is amazing how much money the state spent on unwanted children like me. That woman accomplished more in five hours with a bottle of Coca-Cola than the state did in a dozen or so years.
It is foster parents like her that I hope for the orphans of today.
My Thoughts on Today’s
Juvenile Guards
I
n most cases, a guard working in a juvenile detention facility does not hold a high-paying position. Most likely, there will be no family vacations to Paris, France. With luck and smart budgeting, they
might
be able to afford a trip to Disney someday.
Any person who works as a guard in a juvenile facility has a very difficult task. They have much more responsibility than a guard in a prison for adults. It takes a very special person to work with children. That person must not only be a guard, but must also take on the responsibilities of teacher, counselor, and in some cases, trusted friend. A juvenile guard must find a balance between firmness and kindness—always being firm, while at all times, being kind, respectful, and considerate of the children they guard.
In many cases, it is important to remember that the juvenile guard must protect the child from him-or herself more so than from society. The job of being “a guard” is more than just guarding. This job must entail making a difference so that the job of “a guard” will no longer be necessary.
I
do not hold any grudges against the men who beat me. If they had not beaten me, other men would have done the job. Those were the rules. Beat the boys who break them. To them, it was a job they were paid to do. I have always wondered, however, if they were ever the least bit troubled by handing out those brutal beatings for the slightest infraction.
