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The Rape Room at the Florida School for Boys at Marianna


I lay in my dormitory bed at Cleveland Cottage twelve (12), approximately two months after being taken to the White House and having my underwear beaten into my buttocks, watching Mr. SeaLander's shadow on the wall. Several minutes later the speaker in the dormitory fell silent. In my mind, I continued to think about the finishing words of the song "El Paso" which was being sung by Marty Robbins when the radio was turned off.

I am not sure how long I had been asleep when I was shaken awake to see Mr. Hatton and a strange, tall thin man standing at the foot of my single bunk.

Ordered to get out of bed, I immediately jumped to my feet and stood at attention facing the door leading out into the bath room. The stranger grabbed me by the arm and replied "I bet this skinny little bastard could really such a dick."

I had no idea what he meant. My only thought (and horror) was that I was going to be taken back to the White House for another brutal beating. Ordered to move forward, my legs would not respond and I began to cry and my body began to shake as if it were convulsing in a seizure. The tall man grabbed me by the back of my neck and forced me toward the open doorway. Crying at the top of my lungs, I placed my hands over my mouth trying to muffle the crying sounds so the other boys would not think me a coward. All at once the strange man kicked me in the backside and yelled, "SHUT UP. I'll give you something to cry about in a few minutes you wimpy little son-of-a-bitch."

It was then that I remembered what Joseph Wells, from Hollywood, Florida, had told me about several men taking boys to a strange place and then doing it to them in the behind. By then we had reached the hard dirt area know as the "capture the flag court." Standing to the right of the court, by the stationary bars, stood Mr. Robert L. Currie, the FSB psychologist. In a car were two boys and another man that I can not identify.

"You ever been fucked in the ass you little fucker?" said someone from behind me.

All at once I began to scream at the top of my lungs. I fell to the dirt and began to kick at the two men as hard as I could. The next thing I knew Mr. Sealander (my cottage house father) was standing next to me screaming at the two men. "I'll call the damn police department," he shouted. A very heated argument ensued for several minutes. All at once Mr. Sealander sat down in the dirt beside me and wrapped his arms around me. Carefully, he picked me up off the ground and told me to go back into the cottage and take a shower. When I entered the building several boys were standing at the doorway to the dormitory.

"Did they do the bad thing to you?"

Unable to speak, I walked to the shower, turned on the warm water, laid down on the shower floor and fell asleep.

The next morning I awoke in my bed and was ordered to report to Doctor Currie 's office. He made it very clear to me, by screaming and pointing his finger in my face that if I ever told anyone about what had happened that I would be buried in the grave yard along with the other kids who had opened their mouths. Until this date, Sunday September 28th, 2008, I have never voiced or written about this particular incident.

That was the second time I had been told by someone on the FSB staff that they would kill me if I ever told anyone about what was happening at that facility.

On October 21st, along with several other boys (now men), I will watch as a memorial is placed on the building in memory of all who were raped and abused by a system set forth to protect them.

Thank you Mr. Sealander, whereever you may be today, for saving me from such a horrible experience. I will forever love and respect you for showing me that kindness.

Roger Dean Kiser, Author/Child Advocate
100 Northridge Drive
Brunswick, GA 31525