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Authors: Roger Dean Kiser
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down?” whispered the boy.
We stood at the edge of the building for almost an hour until the movie ended. We were told to return to our cottages and that we were to report to Mr. Hatton’s office the following Saturday morning, a week later. Since it was Saturday night, the scheduled beatings had already concluded for the previous week’s violations.
For the next six days, I could not eat or drink anything without throwing up. Almost every night I lay in my bed, covering my face with the scratchy, wool army blanket so the other boys in the cottage would not see me crying.
When Saturday arrived, I walked to Mr. Hatton’s office and stood in line with the other boys who were scheduled to be beaten. As we marched toward the White House, I counted the boys lined up in front of me. I was too afraid to turn my head and count the ones behind me.
After arriving at the house of horror, Mr. Hatton took out his keys and opened the side door of the building. Mr. Tidwell looked on. When the door opened, we marched inside and headed down the short hallway leading into the beating chambers. As always, the smell was almost unbearable, and there was blood on the walls, floor, and ceiling.
Reaching the end of the hallway, we took a left and were ordered to stop. There was a small cement cell on the right and another cell on the left. Two boys were pushed into the room on the left and the others were made to stand in the small hallway.
“KISER!” yelled Mr. Hatton.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I responded, as I did my best to squeeze between the other boys in order to make my way to the front of the line. He reached out and grabbed the boy behind me and pushed him into the small cell on the right.
“Get on that goddamn bed, grab that bedrail, and I had best not hear a peep!” he shouted.
Shaking and crying, the young boy lay down on the bed and grabbed the rail. I watched as Mr. Hatton reached beneath the pillow and pulled out the leather strap.
I near went crazy as I watched Mr. Hatton bend both his knees and, with all his might, swing the leather whip down upon the boy. The sounds and the screams were like nothing I had ever heard before or would ever hear again, even in the worst of horror movies.
With my mind in a state of chaos and total confusion, I stuck my left hand in my mouth and bit down so hard that blood squirted out. (The scar that resulted still remains even to this day, fifty years later.) I do not remember how many licks the boy received, but the beating went on for about ten minutes.
As the boy slid off the bed and tried to get to his feet, Mr. Hatton grabbed me by the neck and pushed me into the room, knocking the boy he had just beaten to the floor.
“So, we like feeling other boy’s balls do we?” asked Mr. Hatton.
“I wasn’t doing anything like that, Mr. Hatton, sir. Really I didn’t.”
“Then you admit he was feeling you?”
“No, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir. We weren’t doing anything ’cept eating peanuts, Mr. Hatton, sir.”
“Just a bunch of goddamn niggers and fuckin’ queers is all they send us nowadays,” he replied, pushing me back out into the hallway.
After another boy had been beaten, I was called forward and questioned about the peanut incident. Then another boy was beaten, and I was questioned again. This happened over and over. Each time I was called forward, I feared it was my turn for a beating. Each time, I would be questioned and then pushed back out into the hallway to wait. When the last boy had been whipped, I knew it was the end of the line for me. With my head down, I walked forward and stood before Mr. Hatton.
“I’m sorry for what I done, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I mumbled.
“I’m too tired to beat your goddamn queer little ass today. You report to my office next Saturday morning.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Hatton, sir. THANK YOU, MR. HATTON, SIR!” I shouted, then ran out the doorway as fast as I could back to the safety of my cottage.
The Fear, the Anger, the
We stood at the edge of the building for almost an hour until the movie ended. We were told to return to our cottages and that we were to report to Mr. Hatton’s office the following Saturday morning, a week later. Since it was Saturday night, the scheduled beatings had already concluded for the previous week’s violations.
For the next six days, I could not eat or drink anything without throwing up. Almost every night I lay in my bed, covering my face with the scratchy, wool army blanket so the other boys in the cottage would not see me crying.
When Saturday arrived, I walked to Mr. Hatton’s office and stood in line with the other boys who were scheduled to be beaten. As we marched toward the White House, I counted the boys lined up in front of me. I was too afraid to turn my head and count the ones behind me.
After arriving at the house of horror, Mr. Hatton took out his keys and opened the side door of the building. Mr. Tidwell looked on. When the door opened, we marched inside and headed down the short hallway leading into the beating chambers. As always, the smell was almost unbearable, and there was blood on the walls, floor, and ceiling.
Reaching the end of the hallway, we took a left and were ordered to stop. There was a small cement cell on the right and another cell on the left. Two boys were pushed into the room on the left and the others were made to stand in the small hallway.
“KISER!” yelled Mr. Hatton.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I responded, as I did my best to squeeze between the other boys in order to make my way to the front of the line. He reached out and grabbed the boy behind me and pushed him into the small cell on the right.
“Get on that goddamn bed, grab that bedrail, and I had best not hear a peep!” he shouted.
Shaking and crying, the young boy lay down on the bed and grabbed the rail. I watched as Mr. Hatton reached beneath the pillow and pulled out the leather strap.
I near went crazy as I watched Mr. Hatton bend both his knees and, with all his might, swing the leather whip down upon the boy. The sounds and the screams were like nothing I had ever heard before or would ever hear again, even in the worst of horror movies.
With my mind in a state of chaos and total confusion, I stuck my left hand in my mouth and bit down so hard that blood squirted out. (The scar that resulted still remains even to this day, fifty years later.) I do not remember how many licks the boy received, but the beating went on for about ten minutes.
As the boy slid off the bed and tried to get to his feet, Mr. Hatton grabbed me by the neck and pushed me into the room, knocking the boy he had just beaten to the floor.
“So, we like feeling other boy’s balls do we?” asked Mr. Hatton.
“I wasn’t doing anything like that, Mr. Hatton, sir. Really I didn’t.”
“Then you admit he was feeling you?”
“No, sir, Mr. Hatton, sir. We weren’t doing anything ’cept eating peanuts, Mr. Hatton, sir.”
“Just a bunch of goddamn niggers and fuckin’ queers is all they send us nowadays,” he replied, pushing me back out into the hallway.
After another boy had been beaten, I was called forward and questioned about the peanut incident. Then another boy was beaten, and I was questioned again. This happened over and over. Each time I was called forward, I feared it was my turn for a beating. Each time, I would be questioned and then pushed back out into the hallway to wait. When the last boy had been whipped, I knew it was the end of the line for me. With my head down, I walked forward and stood before Mr. Hatton.
“I’m sorry for what I done, Mr. Hatton, sir,” I mumbled.
“I’m too tired to beat your goddamn queer little ass today. You report to my office next Saturday morning.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Hatton, sir. THANK YOU, MR. HATTON, SIR!” I shouted, then ran out the doorway as fast as I could back to the safety of my cottage.
The Fear, the Anger, the
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