Read Online The White House Boys: An American Tragedy by Roger Dean Kiser - Free Book Online
Authors: Roger Dean Kiser
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tumble dryer!” cried a boy.
At that moment, I saw the supervisor walking toward me, so I ran over to the press and began working on the uniforms.
When he entered the room, I turned to him and asked, “Who’s dead?”
“Another one of you little fuckers just bit the dust,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Just shut up and get back to work,” he snapped.
About ten minutes later he got up from his desk and walked outside as several cars pulled up to the walkway. Lines of boys were marching away, two abreast down the roadway. As the supervisor walked down the ramp, I ran over to the large window and peered outside. Unable to see down the ramp, I went to the door and stuck my head out.
Within ten minutes, the area was completely cleared of boys. Then, several men came out of the laundry building carrying what appeared to be a body covered in a white blanket or sheet. The bundle was thrown into the backseat of one of the cars and fell to the floorboard. The doors were closed and the car sped away.
I ran back to my work station and turned off the steam valves and prepared myself to go back to my cottage. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, our supervisor returned and told us to go back to our cottages.
On the way back to the cottage, I heard that the boy who was killed was a black boy; someone else said it was a white boy. (It always confused me why the white boys and black boys were kept separate.)
I heard that the boy, who may have been there to deliver dirty laundry, had got right up into the face of the laundry supervisor and began cursing him. The supervisor told several of the boys to put him in the tumble dryer, and they obeyed. Days later, word was going around that some boys overheard the cottage housefathers saying that the dead boy’s body was taken out into the woods and dumped in a shallow grave.
Who would be next? I wondered.
The road leading to the laundry, located near the smoke stack, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
Perhaps I would have been better off keeping my original assignment at the hospital. At least there, they intended to repair the damage, not cause it.
The Movie I Will Never Forget
O ne Saturday evening, the boys from Cleveland cottage lined up to march over to one of the other cottages to watch a movie. (Saturday mornings were for beatings, but Saturday nights were generally for movie watching. The bad and the good all in one day.)
The large white movie screen was attached to the side of the building and a projector was lined up with it atop the small grassy hill where we sat. Not far from us were five or six large steel garbage cans with steam rolling out of them.
“What’s burning in those cans?” I asked one of the boys in front of me.
“It’s peanuts,” he told me.
“Why would they put peanuts in a garbage can?”
“To cook ’em,” he replied.
It sounded strange to me, but right before the movie began, we lined up to receive a scoop of the peanuts on a piece of newspaper for a snack during the show. As the movie was just beginning, the boy next to me accidentally spilled his peanuts into the grass. Unable to clean them off, he left them there to be thrown away after the movie.
Feeling sorry for him, I offered to share my small pile of peanuts with him. As the movie played, I sat with the newspaper lying across my lap. He would reach over and pick up a peanut or two, eat them, and reach for more.
Suddenly, the two of us were being snatched up by the shirt collars.
“What the damn hell are you two queers doing over here?” snarled Mr. Hatton.
“I’m just sharing my peanuts with him,” I told him.
“I’ve been watching you two, and I am trying to figure out who is playing with whose balls over here.”
“We ain’t doing nothing wrong, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I said, my voice shaking.
“You two get your little asses up and stand to the side.”
The boy and I got up from our spots and walked to the edge of the building.
“Do you think we’re going
At that moment, I saw the supervisor walking toward me, so I ran over to the press and began working on the uniforms.
When he entered the room, I turned to him and asked, “Who’s dead?”
“Another one of you little fuckers just bit the dust,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“Just shut up and get back to work,” he snapped.
About ten minutes later he got up from his desk and walked outside as several cars pulled up to the walkway. Lines of boys were marching away, two abreast down the roadway. As the supervisor walked down the ramp, I ran over to the large window and peered outside. Unable to see down the ramp, I went to the door and stuck my head out.
Within ten minutes, the area was completely cleared of boys. Then, several men came out of the laundry building carrying what appeared to be a body covered in a white blanket or sheet. The bundle was thrown into the backseat of one of the cars and fell to the floorboard. The doors were closed and the car sped away.
I ran back to my work station and turned off the steam valves and prepared myself to go back to my cottage. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, our supervisor returned and told us to go back to our cottages.
On the way back to the cottage, I heard that the boy who was killed was a black boy; someone else said it was a white boy. (It always confused me why the white boys and black boys were kept separate.)
I heard that the boy, who may have been there to deliver dirty laundry, had got right up into the face of the laundry supervisor and began cursing him. The supervisor told several of the boys to put him in the tumble dryer, and they obeyed. Days later, word was going around that some boys overheard the cottage housefathers saying that the dead boy’s body was taken out into the woods and dumped in a shallow grave.
Who would be next? I wondered.
The road leading to the laundry, located near the smoke stack, 2008.
Photo by R. Kiser
Perhaps I would have been better off keeping my original assignment at the hospital. At least there, they intended to repair the damage, not cause it.
The Movie I Will Never Forget
O ne Saturday evening, the boys from Cleveland cottage lined up to march over to one of the other cottages to watch a movie. (Saturday mornings were for beatings, but Saturday nights were generally for movie watching. The bad and the good all in one day.)
The large white movie screen was attached to the side of the building and a projector was lined up with it atop the small grassy hill where we sat. Not far from us were five or six large steel garbage cans with steam rolling out of them.
“What’s burning in those cans?” I asked one of the boys in front of me.
“It’s peanuts,” he told me.
“Why would they put peanuts in a garbage can?”
“To cook ’em,” he replied.
It sounded strange to me, but right before the movie began, we lined up to receive a scoop of the peanuts on a piece of newspaper for a snack during the show. As the movie was just beginning, the boy next to me accidentally spilled his peanuts into the grass. Unable to clean them off, he left them there to be thrown away after the movie.
Feeling sorry for him, I offered to share my small pile of peanuts with him. As the movie played, I sat with the newspaper lying across my lap. He would reach over and pick up a peanut or two, eat them, and reach for more.
Suddenly, the two of us were being snatched up by the shirt collars.
“What the damn hell are you two queers doing over here?” snarled Mr. Hatton.
“I’m just sharing my peanuts with him,” I told him.
“I’ve been watching you two, and I am trying to figure out who is playing with whose balls over here.”
“We ain’t doing nothing wrong, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I said, my voice shaking.
“You two get your little asses up and stand to the side.”
The boy and I got up from our spots and walked to the edge of the building.
“Do you think we’re going
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