Free The White House Boys: An American Tragedy by Roger Dean Kiser

chin touched his chest, and he sat there like that for more than a minute. Then, all at once, he jerked his head upward and shouted, “Get your perverted little goddamn ass out of here, you freaky little bastard. DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
    I pulled up my pants quickly and darted out of his office in complete and utter shame. I hated the entire world. I knew the day would come when I would get even with grownups. They were all cruel and evil, and somehow I had to save the world from them, even if I had to destroy it.

    I can only thank God that a few good, kind people came into my life before I totally destroyed myself because of people like Dr. Robert Curry.
    The beatings at the White House were bad enough, but the verbal and sexual abuse were far worse than was any beating. The physical wounds would one day heal, but for some reason, the hatred I felt for Dr. Robert Curry has always remained. It’s as if those psychological wounds try to close up, but then something will remind me, like the smell of that cherry tobacco, and the wounds tear open.

Guilty Without a Trial
    T hough I had taken puffs of discarded cigarette butts at the orphanage from time to time, I was smart enough to know that smoking was not worth a brutal White House beating. Anytime I saw someone with a cigarette or even if a cigarette butt was just lying on the ground, I stayed clear of the area.
    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