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I have never visited this White House.
But…
I have visited this one…
Four times!
The White House I speak of had no perfectly trimmed lawn or manicured landscaping.
There was no tour guide.
No historical paintings of past Presidents on it’s walls.
No First Lady.
And definitely no sense of pride as you walked through it’s halls.
I was eleven years old and already I had been in more trouble with the law than any boy that age should have ever been.
The reason…who knows?
Was it because I had five fathers already by this age?
Was it the lack of supervision that was never present?
Maybe the constant moving from town to town?
Maybe the constant beatings from men who had no intention of being ‘my father’.
It was easier for them to just smack me instead of trying to teach me moral values.
Maybe I was damaged…not able to distinguish the difference between right and wrong?
Or could it have been that I just didn’t care to be a part of the society around me.
The society that shunned me for as long as I could remember.
I never fit in with the other kids around me.
They all had families to go home to after school.
Someone to fix them a snack.
Someone to make sure they did their home work…and helped them with it if they needed it.
Someone to make sure they brushed their teeth and said their prayers.
Someone to tuck them into bed at night and give them a feeling of security and love.
The other kids I went to school with always made fun of me and talked about me behind my back.
I’m sure they thought I couldn’t see their disapproving looks or hear their humiliating comments about me.
But I did.
And it hurt.
It hurt in ways that most of you reading this will never be able to understand or feel.
Yes I overheard many of their comments.
Some things were even said right to my face.
This was done by kids who wanted to make sure I knew exactly where my place was in their world.
I was always the ‘poor kid’ from the ‘poor family’ in every school I went to.
And I went to a lot of them.
Other kids made fun of me all the time.
My cloths were different from theirs…never new always hand-me-downs or from Goodwill.
My hair cut was always different.
Usually given by a drunken man using a bowl and a pair of scissors or shaved with a razor.
And my attitude was defiantly different than any other they had ever seen or known before.
As my mother would meet and marry the next man in her life it was off to another town and school for me.
Never given the opportunity to make and develop a true friendship with any of the kids I met.
I’m now seventy years old and to this day I don’t have a single childhood friend from my past…not one.
I have memories of names and blurry visions of young girls and boys from those past years.
But that’s all I have.
There are no photos.
Not from any school year book or from a friend of times we shared together.
Not one photo from my entire youth.
I receive no phone calls.
I receive no letters or emails from past friends.
There are no invitations to school reunions.
Nothing.
But I do have found memories of the times I spent with them.
Yes memories of days gone by.
Memories of things that could have been.
Loves and friendships that never were.
The only evidence of my youth…
maybe
…might be obtained from the police stations or juvenile shelters that I had the misfortune to have landed in.
And there were quite a few of them also.
Trouble just seemed to follow me where ever I went.
I was always behind a set of steel bars grasping them with hands so young.
Always asking…
“Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Why?”
Every time I turned around and looked at where I was in my life…
There I would be grasping onto a set of steel bars that kept me from living a life of peace and happiness.
It was something I just couldn’t shake.
I was always on the inside looking out.
My crimes at the age of eleven?
Auto theft and Breaking and Entering.
I stole a car from a car lot in Jacksonville, Florida.
I drove it over the Georgia state line and broke into a remote small town local grocery store.
My plan was to steal cigarettes and booze to sell to kids to get money for gas and to survive.
The owner, who lived upstairs unknown to me at the time, didn’t approve of that.
He heard me and came running downstairs yelling at me.
I ran outside to my awaiting running car as shots from a gun rang out at me as I drove away.
I drove down a highway for a while and pulled off onto a deserted road and hid there for awhile.
It only took minutes after I got back onto the highway before three police cruisers pulled me over.
This of course ended my current crime spree.
The next thing I knew I was in the Macon County Jail along with the other catches of the police that day.
I was not in a Juvenile Shelter.
This was the real deal.
This was JAIL.
I was now with the big boys.
These were full grown men.
They laughingly wanted to know what I was in for.
After telling them what I had done I could see a look of amazement come over their faces.
A look of almost pride followed.
A look that a father might give his son for doing something that made him feel proud.
“Looks like you made it to the Big Time kid…welcome to your new home.” one of them said to me.
Saying this in a manner that implied that he knew what the road ahead of me was to be.
I knew that this was the end of the line for me this time after hearing that.
I laid on one of the bunk beds provided by my hosts that evening and I quietly cried myself to sleep.
I hoped that none of the men could hear me.
After all I was a ‘Big Boy’ now.
In the morning I was driven back to Jacksonville and was placed into the hands of the local juvenile shelter.
Two days later I was in court and sentenced for my crimes.
I was committed to the care of the Florida School For Boys in Marianna, Florida.
F.S.B. it was called.
Florida’s Reform school for boys.
I was to remain there until I was reformed.
I will be writing a story in great detail about F.S.B. but for now I will only be covering the “White House”.
Most boys sent to F.S.B. stayed on the average of five to six months.
You got out working your way up through a grading system.
You came in as an Explorer and worked your way to a Pioneer and finally to a Pilot.
Each week you were there, if you were good and stayed out of trouble you’d get a star.
Your goal was to work your way up to becoming a Pilot with four stars.
If you screwed up a star would be taken away from you.
The more trouble you got into the more stars taken away.
You’d work your way down to what you were when you came in.
An Explorer with no stars.
If you got into trouble when you reached this level your next grade was to become a “Grub”.
Instead of stars you now got zeros.
Once again you needed four zeros to get out of the Grubs.
This of course added another month to your time.
This is one of the reasons why most boys only stayed at F.S.B. five to six months.
They knew if they got into trouble, more time would be added onto their stay at F.S.B..
Most kids got that.
Most kids.
And what would happen to you if you reached a Grub with no zeros?…you might ask.
There was no place left to go but down.
Down to the White House to get a beating with a paddle.
This was done to help you see the wrong in your ways and teach you a lesson.
It sounds pretty simple right?
Stay out of trouble and get the heck out of there as fast as you can.
Most kids understood that.
Then there was me!
As mentioned above, trouble just wouldn’t leave me alone.
My stay at F.S.B….
Sixteen months and three days.
One of the longest stays by any kid at that time.
On my sixteenth month anniversary three new kids came into my cottage.
That evening my House Father made an example of me to the new recruits.
He said, “You new boys take a long and hard look at Mr. Ragsdale here.” as he pointed me out.
“This is who you do not want to be like while you are here.”
“Tell them Mr. Ragsdale how long you have been here.”
“Sixteen months sir.” I replied.
“Sixteen months.”
“Your stay here should be four to six months…not sixteen.”
“Tell our new boys why you have been here so long Mr. Ragsdale.”
“I’m always getting into trouble sir.” I replied.
“Always getting into trouble…this is who you do not want to be like while you are here.”
I can still hear our conversation ringing in my ears as if it were just happening now.
The ironic thing is that three days after that evening I was released from F.S.B..
A group of lawyers from Jacksonville were looking into reported accusations of abuses that were happening at the school.
Through that investigation I was looked at as being abused for keeping me there for so long.
And just like that…I was released.
When I came to F.S.B. Elvis Presley was king.
During my stay there our President, John Kennedy was assassinated.
When I got out the Beatles had invaded the United States.
I was placed into Madison cottage upon my arrival.
This is the actual building.
There was always an average of twenty to thirty boys in each cottage at all times.
The photo below is what a typical group of boys with house parents looked like.
Ages of the boys there…
Five to twenty years old.
When I first saw this photo below I thought I was one of the boys in it.
We slept in a big dorm.
During the day we all were given jobs.
I got to work in the kitchen as a ‘Bakers Assistant’.
Which turned out to be one of the better jobs available at F.S.B..
This is a picture of the actual kitchen and some of the boys who were there at the time.
After my arrival at F.S.B. it didn’t take very long for me to work my way down to the status of Grub.
I was written up for smoking and other stupid things that other boys didn’t seem to do.
I was always late for things…that was a really big no-no.
When you were late it could be assumed that you were a run away.
F.S.B. had no walls or fences…not even guards.
What they did have though was…
Swamps surrounding the school with alligators and other creatures.
The ‘locals’ who would receive a five gallon jug of the syrup that was made at the school for your capture.
And the biggest deterrent was…
The WHITE HOUSE and the RUNAWAY PADDLE.
The paddle was a long skinny strap that was slit in the center down it’s length.
When it hit you it would open up and pinch you leaving some very impressive marks on your body.
Even with these deterrents, some boys couldn’t take it and ran.
One morning at 5:30 am on the way to work at the kitchen a boy was spotted running between the cottages.
The House Father that was escorting us ordered us to chase and catch him while he blew the “Runaway whistle”.
We all took off running in his direction.
None of us chasing him had any intention of catching him.
I was the closes to him when he tripped as he was running and fell.
All of a sudden I was on top of him.
I almost tripped over him.
He looked me right in my eyes begging me, “Please let me go.”
I had never experienced anyone begging for their freedom, actually their very life.
I told him “Get up…RUN”.
But just as quick, the House Father was right behind me yelling for me to grab him.
I had no choice.
I can still see the look he had on his face when he realized it was over for him.
I told him I was so sorry.
The House Father was there now grabbing the boy forcefully yelling at him and dragging him away.
We were told to go to the kitchen and wait for him there and that he would be there shortly.
The kitchen was right next to the White House.
We all stood around outside the kitchen waiting and talking about the White House.
We all knew this kid was going to be in there soon.
We saw him later that morning being brought down to the White House to receive his beating.
They brought a car down after it and had to carry the boy out and put him in the car.
He was taken to the hospital we found out later.
We never saw him again after that.
We could look out the windows in the kitchen and watch as the boys who were to be beaten were lead to their destiny.
Because we were so close we could hear the screams of the boys who couldn’t handle the punishment being issued onto them.
The screams still haunt me to this day.
If you resisted you were going to receive more swats…and harder.
Also because we were so close to the White House, if a boy couldn’t handle the beating and would jump up or resist.
One of the men who brought the boys down would come to the kitchen.
They would get two of the boys working there to come with him to hold the boy down while they beat him.
Of course when someone was brought down to the White House all of us would go to the windows to see who it was.
If we saw one of the men coming out and heading towards the kitchen we would all scatter and hide from sight.
We all knew why he was coming.
Usually our Supervisor would have to find the first two boys he saw and tell them to go with the man to hold the boy down.
I myself had to go and hold down two boys at different times.
It’s hard for me now to hold back the tears that are coming from my eyes from this memory.
One boy would hold the shoulders down.
The other the legs.
Then the beating and the screaming would start.
This was the most humiliating thing I ever had to do in my life.
I cannot explain what it feels like to hold a young boy down while a grown man beats him with a strap.
I knew that someday I would be experiencing the White House myself.
I had worked my way down to Grub with no zeros.
My next run in with trouble was going to lead me right down to it’s door and onto the bed where you had to lay.
It didn’t take very long.
I was caught stealing food from the kitchen trying to bring it back to the cottage.
I was written up.
Several days afterwards I was told to report to the office.
There I was informed that for my crimes I was to be beaten with a paddle.
A “Spanking” they called it.
This was to help me to mend my ways.
I was told to have a seat outside and another boy was called in to learn his fate.
On the bench were two other boys.
Both were headed to the same fate as myself.
I was asked “Have you ever been down before?”
“No” was my reply.
“Your going in last.” I was told.
They didn’t want to have to hear me screaming before they got theirs.
The last boy came out of the office, apparently having the same fate as the three of us on the bench.
A man came into the room from another office and said “The four of you come outside with me.”
This was Mr Burgess.
He had only one arm.
He was wearing a long sleeved shirt and the empty sleeve was folded up and pined to the shoulder seam.
We went outside and another man came out and we were told to follow him single file.
The walk was about two hundred yards as best as I can remember.
It felt like five miles though and seemed to take an hour to get there.
The whole time all I could think of was how much this was going to hurt.
Actually I thought about a lot of things on the way down to the White House.
I was back to my thinking about every time I looked at where I was in my life how it always seemed so bleak.
Finally we arrived at the door to the White House.
Upon opening it we were lead to a room and told to have a seat on a bed that was in the room.
This picture below truly amazed me when I first saw it.
I could not believe that there was a picture of boys actually waiting in the room for their turn to be paddled.
This is truly what boys looked like as they waited.
I don’t know who took this picture or how?
But I am grateful for it’s existence.
We all knew what was about to happen to us.
All the horror stories and the screams that I heard form the kitchen were now about to become a reality for me.
Mr. Burgess came into the room and ordered one of the boys to come with him.
Within seconds the horrifying sound of a fan came on.
I could hear Mr. Burgess informing the boy of his crime and continued to speak with him for a few moments.
Then it began.
The beating started.
It was so quiet in the room I was in.
All that could be heard was that loud fan.
And then…
A slapping of leather on a wall.
Then another.
And another.
Then the sound of leather hitting a young boy.
I only heard a murmuring of pain from the boy and then another swat was administered.
And another…
and another…
and another…
and another…
and another…
and another.
Forty two swats in all the boy received.
This was for lying to his House Father about something.
Forty two swats for just lying.
All I could think of was that I was gonna get killed for stealing.
Fifty one swats for the next boy.
Forty three for the third.
My turn now!
I entered the whipping room.
The only thing in the room was an old bed, a thin mattress and a nasty looking pillow.
These were just like the ones that were in the room I just left.
On one of the walls was a rack that had seven or eight different styles of paddles.
Some were wide, some thin.
Some long and some short.
I could see there was an empty slot missing a paddle.
Mr. Burgess was holding that one with his only arm.
I was reminded of my sin and I was informed of what was to follow.
I was to lay down on this thin filthy mattress and put my face into this disgusting pillow.
I was not to scream, yell out or start crying.
The more I did any of those things the more swats I was going to get.
And…they would be harder.
I listened to the sounds of the paddle hitting what I now knew was the wall behind Mr. Burgess.
The first hit was the paddle coming up from his back hitting the wall behind him.
The next hit was the paddle hitting the ceiling.
The third hit was the wall to my right side as I laid on the bed with my face buried into that rancid pillow.
I could smell the fear, the spit and the tears of all the boys that had come before me
I now started to add my own excretions to that pillow.
The first hit had arrived and hit my butt.
I thought to my self “That hurt, but I think I can handle this.”
By the fifth one I began to doubt my courage.
This really hurts…and it wasn’t going to be stopping too soon or feeling any better by any means.
Fifteen swats now.
I could feel the paddle each time it hit a previous spot.
They hurt the worst.
At times the paddle would hit above my butt and hit the small of my back.
I thought I was going to die.
It was a surprise to be hit that high.
Twenty eight now.
I actually started to pray to God to make this end.
Begging him in my mind to make the pain go away.
It didn’t!
Thirty four swats.
I screamed once and asked him to “Please Stop”.
I was told to lay back down and shut up.
“You’ve already made it worst for yourself…don’t make it any more.”
All I could do was sob into the pillow.
Forty swats now.
The pain is almost gone…I’m was beginning to feel numb in my butt area now.
“When is this going to end?” I kept asking my self.
I soon got my answer.
Forty eight was the magic number.
“You got that many because you screamed and acted like a baby.”
“Maybe now you’ll think twice about stealing.”
“Now get up and stop your crying.”
I tried to stand…but I couldn’t.
Mr. Burgess told two of the boys to help up and help me walk back to my cottage.
About half way to the cottage I was able to start walking on my own.
Later that night I got to look at my butt.
It looked like raw hamburger.
Red, blue, purplish and black.
I had black and blue makes on my back from where the paddle missed it’s mark on my butt and hit me up there.
It was hard to almost impossible to sit or lay down for the next few days.
I never stole again while in F.S.B..
But being me I found other ways to lead me to the White House again, and again and again.
Three more times.
Talking back to my House Father…forty seven swats.
Fighting…thirty two swats
Smoking…thirty seven swats.
Many other events happened during my stay at F.S.B. and will be told in other stories in the future.
As mentioned earlier, after sixteen months I was finally released from F.S.B..
No one came to pick me up.
I was brought to the center of Marianna, Florida to a Greyhound bus station.
I was given a bus ticket to Jacksonville, Florida and was sent on my way.
The man who drove me to the bus station said this to me as he was leaving…
“You’ll be back!”
I’m pleased to say…
“He was wrong.”
I was now thirteen years old.
That haunting image of always being behind bars of steel did come to it’s end.
I finally realized that all I had to do was to…
STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!
Years later a grave site was discovered on the F.S.B. property.
I believe they found the remains of fifty five boys.
I made it out alive.
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