Every now and then I come across a book that can move mountains.
This is such a book.
This compilation of "lessons learned the hard way" is written through the eyes of a young boy raised in horrendous conditions in the Children's Home Society Orphanage in Jacksonville, Florida. Through the telling of each story, based on the author's childhood, layers of innocence are peeled back until raw, bleeding, scabbed over. The progression of events details the spirit-crushing journey of a lonely little boy, whose only crime was to be an orphan.
One would be hard-pressed to dig up anyone more evil, more foul, than the head matron with a shriveled, dried-up, blackened, hard little nut for a heart.
My head was still sore where Mrs. Winters, the head matron, had hit me numerous times with her Bible.--"How It All Begins"
One can hear Roger's voice, the voice of a child, the one with big ears.
It is unbelievable how a cigarette hanging in the mouth of a nine-year-old can make the girls forget your big elephant ears. However, eventually you will run out of cigarettes, and then your ears seem to get big all over again, all of a sudden.--"In the Patio"
It has its share of bittersweet moments:
At twelve years old, I was living on the streets of Jacksonville. I was eating out of dumpsters and garbage cans, but only the ones located behind the better restaurants. If you have to be a bum, then you might as well be a high-class bum, or there is no point in living anymore.--"Chinese Drugs"
Moments that make you wonder:
"You got any belongings?" asked Don.
"What are belongings?"
--"I was a Cowboy"
Moments that punch you squarely in the heart:
Once again, I had run away from the orphanage--this time for being slapped across the face, because I refused to drink my warm powdered milk.--"America"
A warning is in order: this is not for the faint-of-heart. Which is exactly the point of this book. Life out on the streets is not for the faint-of-heart, where the scourge of predators abounds.
By writing this book, Roger Dean Kiser hopes to empower teens contemplating running away, so that they may avoid the same pitfalls. His goal is so that no one "will ever have to know what it is like to eat from a garbage can, or warm their bodies standing around a 55-gallon barrel."
The cold, hard truth is shattering. By the same token, this unflinching testimonial may very well have the power to save a life.
To all the lost souls, this book is for you.
Roger Dean Kiser, you are a true survivor.
You are my hero.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Runaway--Life on the Streets--The Lessons Learned" by Roger Dean Kiser
About "Runaway" (video)
E-mail Roger Dean Kiser for more details on how to obtain an autographed copy of his book.
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Comments: 38
I had no idea .
true serviver of life gone by.
Thank you for this book review. Well written , well done. Thanks for the extra info. I so glad I stopped in to read this.
God Bless
10*
peace-love-happiness
always dee-dee
Sounds like his life skills true to the children well rewarding gift he gives. It is always nice to see eveil turn good. Postive thinker for sure. Thanks
I have 9 grandson's so I think I will get this book & put it up for a short time, I have two others on my list before this one. Sounds like a book I need to read forsure.
Your unique style continues to shine through and is a model for other review writers to learn from, especially the short but strong sentences, solid details and compelling excerpts from the book. I always enjoy reading your reviews and hope you continue to give me a "heads up" every time you publish one. :)
interesting Jennifer. But if there is anything with
foul language or the like or real bad things that
happen it would not be a book for me to read as
It might give me nightmares and I'm having very
bad ones from something I stumbled upon not
knowing the contents therein.
Just Me
Barbie
I would like to say that my books, though powerful, have always been written in a very nice manner. Terrible situations and circumstances being related to others in as clean and respectful a manner as possible. I try, as best I can, to relate my stories without using foul or indecent language, when at all possible.
Many of you, who have read my stories regarding verbal abuse, physical abuse and/or child sexual abuse, know that my stories are written not so much on the physical or sexual aspect, but on the pain felt by a child at the time the abuse is taking place. My stories are meant to move the heart while not upsetting the mind. Child abuse is a big problem today; a story that needs to be told, and stopped, if we are going to have a better future.
Those of us who have chosen to write about such issues cannot continue to do so without the support of the reader. I can write the words for the children who can not speak for themselves, but I cannot make the public purchase those words. Believe me; writing books on such issues is not an easy job and it is not money making proposition.
Dear Mr. Kiser I came across your information while searching a video on Hoowdy Doody. Ironically that was also my favorite show as a kid also, and like you I was abused. The difference was that I had a family. I was the oldest of eight children and lived with my biological family. I wrote a 369 page novel to describe how abuse shaped my life. It is entitled "The Closer's Song". I am dislectic, so you can imagine the effort that went into this book. I would be honored if you read it, or if you would pass it onto someone who could help me promote it. It is available on Amazon.com or on my webpage www.geocities.com/closerssong/homepage.html also on mobipocket.com as an inexpensive e-book.
THE POETRY OF FEAR - CHAPTER 8
Not exactly poetry-not exactly prose- perhaps the poetry of fear
Chapter 8
The common denominator in all that I have related thus far is-RAGE. YET before there was rage there was GUILT. And before there was guilt there was -FEAR!
Gerald once described his situation to me in the following manner. As A ten year old boy:
"It's Sunday morning, Mom's in the kitchen. He's in the dinning room sitting at the head of the table. Cautiously I enter the room. Carefully I pull the center chair out from under the table. I sit gently, my breath short and controlled. Trying not to draw my father's glance, I act as if invisible. Very careful not to bang the spoon against the plate, I eat quietly, making little sound. He won't tolerate a slurp or a crunch. Don't want to spill anything, or knock anything over. The sugar had best make it to the plate without hitting the table, only to bang like bowling balls dropping from the rack onto the floor.
I don't dare look in his direction! I must remember to chew, swallow, and breathe gently. Even better if I don't breathe. Perhaps this time I will be able to escape, finish quickly, stand and excuse myself. Then I can retire into my room and into safety. But it won't be! It can't be.
It's going to happen all over again. I know it. He knows it. It cannot be stopped. It's already set in motion. I steal a glance. He's in a white tee shirt and unshaven. Tremendous arms protrude from the short sleeves that restrain his bulging muscles. His tremendous neck holds his balding head erect. His cereal is almost consumed. I note how he always leaves enough milk in the bottom of the bowl to pour into his coffee cup. Strange habit I think. Must not have had much as a kid. The last bit of cereal carefully removed, he ceremoniously tilts the bowl over his coffee cup and adds the milk.
Here it comes! He looks my way. I feel the static in the air. The mirror on the wall seems to crack. His methodical, yet restrained voice booms out:
"Moe Moe, did you clean up the yard like I asked you to do."
A frigid wind whistles through my spine, hardly able to breathe I anticipate what's to come. Barely able to open my mouth the word
"No" dribbles out.
My father's face begins to contort. His eyes bulge out of his head. The throbbing veins in his neck turn dark purple. His complexion is fire red. His fists clench tightly. His arm throb like liquid iron. Out of his bowels, a roar like a thousand-headed tormented beast is emitted
"Aaaaaaahhhhhrrrrrrrrrr!"
Erupting, his arm smashes against the coffeepot and sends it exploding against the wall! Hot coffee splashes everywhere. The Beast has come!
I let out a silent scream as the madman lunges at me. Petrified with fear, I can hardly move. I slide back into the corner like a trapped rat. I feel the first blows begin to land.
"Stop!" my mother screams from the kitchen as I am slammed against the wall. I try to slide into the hallway towards my room. The maniac slams me again. He's obsessed.
"He's going to kill me this time!" I think to myself.
Mom can't pull him off. He's too strong.
"I feel dizzy. Got to escape. He's kicking the shit out of my body. I feel numb!"
"I am going to die. That's got to be a better alternative. I can't feel the blows anymore. He's a madman out of control."
"It's my fault," I think as I sink to the floor. "I should have done as he asked. I provoked him. I should be killed. I deserve to die!"
As I succumb to the onslaught these weird thoughts continue.
"If I die I will go straight to Hell! Honor thy Father and thy Mother! Could Hell be worse?" I wonder.
"I sinned by disobeying my father, therefore I will be punished for all eternity in hell!" At this point I slump into the corner semi-consciously.
"My lungs feel frozen. My body numb. I'M THERE! I am outside my body looking in. I'm beyond fear and pain. He can't hurt me anymore."
"Am I dead?"
"It's been too many times. It must stop. I must defend myself from The Beast. I will slay the Beast!"
These were the final thoughts I had as I lapsed into unconsciousness. The very first time I raised my hands in self-defense, I felt sickened. Yet the very first blow I flung in retaliation slew him. The Beast just for a moment turned human, whimpered and walked away. He would be back no doubt, but some how the ground rules had changed!"
Christopher Cole
"The Closer's Song" http://geocities.com/closerssong/homepage.html
PEACE.
Thank you for bringing this book to my attention, I doubt I would have found it on my own.
U
Christopher, your powerful comment made me heartsick. Yours is yet another brutal testimony to child abuse.
I too am proud to call Roger my friend!
If you like true stories, check out the high school Diaries