The White House Boys: An American Tragedy (7 page)
I stood there among the rows of carrots wondering if this could possibly be true. I thought about how some boys never returned from a White House beating.
Could I be standing over their bodies right now?
Mr. Sealander told us to go ahead and reach down to pluck a carrot from the ground. I watched the other boys do as he instructed.
I hesitated a few seconds, but then reached down and pulled up a large carrot. It was covered in dirt, and I pulled my shirttail out to clean it. Wiping off the soil, I looked up at Mr. Sealander. He motioned to me that it was time to move on and that I should hurry up and take a bite.
Slowly, I raised the carrot to my lips. I opened my mouth and crunched down. As I chewed, I began wondering,
Was this carrot actually grown from some part of a dead boy’s body?
I don’t recall if I dropped the carrot, but I certainly didn’t take another bite, and I never looked at a carrot the same way again.
I Can’t Stand to See
Nobody Die
T
here was hardly a day that went by when one of us boys was not beaten for breaking one of the rules. Having been assigned to hospital duty where I assisted Dr. Wexler and Nurse Womack, I had the unpleasant opportunity to witness the aftereffects of many of the beatings. Boys that we called “pukes”—the ones who tattled on other boys— were always beaten less severely when they broke a rule. Plenty of others, though, were beaten at least as severely as I had been my first time in the White House.
It was usually always the same: first, a soak in Epsom salts, then surgical removal of fibers from the wounds. I did not think a beating could be any worse than my first beating at the White House, but there were plenty of boys who received more licks than I did.
One evening Mr. Sealander instructed me to report to the hospital for evening duty. I thought it was odd because it was later than usual. Shortly after I arrived there, a boy who could not have been more than ten years old was placed on the examination table. He was unconscious or so it seemed, and he looked like he had been mauled by a dog. I assumed he had tried to run away and one of the local farmer’s hounds had got to him. I had heard plenty of stories about that happening.
The boy’s clothing was torn to pieces in places and blood was everywhere, and he had a deep wound on his throat. Nurse Womack began cutting away his pants and instructed me to remove his brogan boots and socks. After unlacing the first boot, I slipped it off his foot and blood started dripping onto the floor. I suddenly felt very ill and ran from the room to throw up.
“Get back here, you!” Nurse Womack shouted at me, and I obeyed.
I began untying the other lace, swallowing back my dinner every time it came up. The boy did not move a muscle.
When Dr. Wexler did not show up right away, Nurse Womack instructed me to carry the injured boy to the tub at the far end of the hallway. Another boy was sent in to help me. We carried the boy as gently as a pair of boys could. When he was in the tub, I began splashing cold water on his bloody feet and legs.
The boy groaned and moved, turning over onto his side. Then, he just lay there in the tub in a fetal position. I did not know what more I could do, so I walked out the back door and petted Nurse Womack’s cat for a while.
When I finally went back inside, Nurse Womack looked at me. “Get yourself back to the examination room and wait there for the rest of the evening. I’ll let you know when you can go back to your cottage.”
“Where’s Dr. Wexler?” I asked.
“Don’t mind yourself with that,” she scolded. “Just do as I say.”
I started toward the examination room, but glanced back at the boy in the tub. “Is he gonna be okay?” I asked.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” she said, shooing me out and shutting the door behind us. She walked with me to the examination room. I sat on the table, watching her from the corner of my eye. When she sat down and began to hum, I knew right then and there that the boy no longer needed anyone’s help.
“I can’t stand to see nobody die,” I told her.
“Then put in for a transfer,” she replied without looking up.
That I did the very next day, and I was transferred to the dry cleaners.
I
guess it is only proper to say that Sunday is a day set aside each week in order to praise God. That was certainly the case at the reform school. Not so much because of the religious aspect, but because I could thank God that Sunday was the only day of the week we boys did not have to worry about getting beaten at the White House.
Every Sunday we were required to put on a white shirt and tie and attend Sunday services at the chapel. The hard wooden pew was not comfortable under normal circumstances, but when one has been beaten, the pew would become even more uncomfortable.
The preacher stood before us talking about the kindness of God and how mankind was his gift to the universe. As he spoke, I looked about the large dimly lit room as Mr. Hatton, Mr. Tidwell, and the housefathers stood almost in every corner. I would quickly look at their mean faces, the faces of men who just the day before had beaten several boys to within an inch of their sanity.
As the preacher talked of love, kindness, and brotherhood, I sat there somewhat in a daze thinking,
How much crap can this fellow spew out?
There was little doubt in my mind that there truly was a God, but I knew, or at least I felt, that he was smart enough to stay away from this hellhole.
My young body jerked and stiffened as the preacher began raising his voice. I watched in amazement as he began flinging his arms around to do his weekly sermon of hellfire and brimstone.
“This preacher is as bad as all the others,” I whispered to the boy sitting next to me.
“I know. He smokes cigarettes. I saw him out behind the dining hall one day.”
I glanced to my right and saw that Mr. Hatton was looking directly at me. I tried to turn away, but he’d already curled his finger at me to come to him.
Quietly, I stood and tiptoed to the side aisle of the chapel where Hatton was standing. Grabbing me by the arm, he twisted me around.
“You get your little goddamn ass back over to your seat and stop screwing around. You had best pay attention. Do you understand me, young man?” he snarled in a whisper.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I whispered back.
As I made my way back to the pew, I began to wonder if Mr. Hatton’s saying the word “goddamn” in church would make him go to hell one day. As badly as I hated Mr. Hatton and Mr. Tidwell, I did not want them to go to hell. I wanted them to go to heaven so that God himself could beat the holy goddamn hell out of them just like they did me. That thought brought a smile to my face, but I made sure no one saw it.
“Do any of you young men want to come forward and give your souls to God?” asked the preacher.
I ain’t got no soul left to give nobody,
I thought to myself.
The chapel, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
This building was the one safe haven on the reform school grounds.
I
n the morning, when the bugle blew, we boys would jump from our beds and scurry around in every direction trying to prepare for the day as quickly as we humanely could so we wouldn’t be late. It was as if someone had turned on the light and thousands of roaches went scampering in every direction.
Within minutes, each of us was dressed and lined up, two abreast, to march to the dining hall for breakfast. After eating in record time, some of us would attend school and others would go to their assigned duties. Every day was hectic and everything and everyone were always moving at a fast pace. The entire system was structured in that manner. This fast pace did not allow time for any of us boys to think on our own, much less consider getting into any mischief.
And, by the end of the day, each boy was so exhausted that taking a fast shower and getting to bed was all that was important.
They say that “a mind is a terrible thing to waste,” but the State of Florida had not come to that conclusion. We were not allowed to think for ourselves: we were told when to eat, when to drink, when to shower, when to use the bathroom, what to do, what not to do . . .
Was it ever going to end? Would the day ever come when I would be free to make at least a few decisions on my own? Were the adults right? Was I really too dumb to make decisions myself?
The showers were timed for each boy. We learned to lather and rinse real fast. But that evening, being the last boy on the list scheduled to take a shower that night, I decided I was going to take a stand. As I sat on my bedside, waiting for my turn to take a shower, I had decided that I would stand in the shower for as long as I wanted, allowing the warm, clean water to run down my face. I would close my eyes to the entire universe and for just a moment in time allow all the fear and terror to drain from my mind.
As my turn came, I walked to the shower room, reached in the stall, and adjusted the water temperature. Placing the towel onto the wet floor, I stepped in the stall, tilted my head backwards, and closed my eyes. Within seconds, I had searched my entire memory bank for a pleasant thought and soon realized that I was wasting my time. There were no memories of girls or cars or friends to be found in such a vacant space.
Placing my hands on the tile wall, I leaned forward and tears began to fall from my eyes.
“BOY!” yelled someone from down the hallway. As I looked through the steam, I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror at the end of the toilet stalls. He had a length of a rubber garden hose in his hand. He was swinging it back and forth as he neared my location.
“Why is there a goddamn flood in here, boy?” he shouted.
The water was warm but my teeth chattered. “It was already like this,” I tried to explain, too scared to think to turn off the water now.
The water, it seemed, was backing up and running over, and perhaps he’d had that hose with him to drain the excess water. Someone must have reported the flood to the handyman.
I tightened my fists and jaw as he drew back the rubber hose. I stood perfectly still, just like I did for my beatings at the orphanage, and he struck me across the legs. A second blow came, and I stepped backward into the stream of warm water once again, and I closed my eyes. I tilted my head back so the warm, clean, refreshing water would flow across my face as I unwillingly accepted yet another toxic memory into that soiled place in my mind.
“I Earned the Right
to Be Afraid!”
A
s we did every evening, the Cleveland cottage boys marched two abreast toward the dining hall, with Mr. Sealander at the rear of the line. “Move to the left and right and come to a stop,” he shouted.
The boys walking to the left of the sidewalk moved out onto the grassy area, the boys on the right moved to the right, and we all came to a halt. Seldom did we move off the path because that was considered breaking the rules, but tonight Mr. Sealander told us to, and we sure did as we were told.
Our heads turned toward the commotion, as a boy was being dragged along by Mr. Hatton and Mr. Tidwell. From the look of horror on the boy’s face, we knew he was headed to the White House.
“Move forward and follow,” instructed Mr. Sealander.
Looking about, I noticed from the nervous expressions on the other boys’ faces that we were all horrified for the boy, but thankful it wasn’t us.
