Dave Pelzer - A Child Called 'It'

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Dave Pelzer

A Child Called

'It'

David J. Pelzer's mother, Catherine Roerva, was, he writes in this ghastly,

fascinating memoir, a devoted den mother to the Cub Scouts in her care, and

somewhat nurturant to her children--but not to David, whom she referred to

as "an It." This book is a brief, horrifying account of the bizarre tortures she

inflicted on him, told from the point of view of the author as a young boy

being starved, stabbed, smashed face-first into mirrors, forced to eat the

contents of his sibling's diapers and a spoonful of ammonia, and burned

over a gas stove by a maniacal, alcoholic mom. Sometimes she claimed he

had violated some rule--no walking on the grass at school!--but mostly it

was pure sadism. Inexplicably, his father didn't protect him; only an alert

schoolteacher saved David.

This book is not for sale!!!

This book is dedicated to my son Stephen, who, by the grace

of God, has taught me the gift of love and joy through the eyes

of a child.

This book is also dedicated to the teachers and staff members

of Thomas Edison Elementary School to include:

Steven E. Ziegler

Athena Konstan

Peter Hansen

Joyce Woodworth

Janice Woods

Betty Howell

and the School Nurse

To all of you, for your courage and for putting your careers on

the line that fateful day, March 5, 1973.

You saved my life.

Acknowledgments

After years of intensive labor, sacrifice, frustration,

compromises and deception, this book is finally published and

available in bookstores everywhere. I wish to take a moment and

pay homage to those who truly believed in this crusade.

To Jack Canfield, coauthor of the phenomenal bestseller

Chicken Soup for the Soul, for his extreme kindness and opening

a big door. Jack is indeed a rare entity who, without reservation,

assists more individuals in a single day than many of us can help

in a lifetime. Bless you Sir.

To Nancy Mitchell and Kim Wiele at the Canfield Group for

their enormous enthusiasm and guidance. Thank you ladies.

To Peter Vegso at Health Communications, Inc., as well as

Christine Belleris, Matthew Diener, Kim Weiss and the entire

friendly staff at HCI for their honesty, professionalism and

everyday courtesy that make publishing a pleasure. Kudos

galore to Irene Xanthos and Lori Golden for their tenacious

drive and for picking up the slack. And a gargantuan thank you

to the Art Department for all your hard work and dedication.

A special thank you to Marsha Donohoe, editor

extraordinaire, for her hours of reediting and eradicating “the

Wahoo” out of the tome (that’s “book” for those of you who

reside in Yuba/Sutter Counties in Northern CA), so to provide

the reader with a clear, precise sense of this story through the

eyes of a child. For Marsha, it was a matter of “… Farmer’s

Trust.”

To Patti Breitman, of Breitman Publishing Projects, for her

initial work and for giving it a good run for the money.

To Cindy Adams for her unwavering faith when I needed it

the most.

A special thank you to Ric & Don at the Rio Villa Resort, my

then home away from home, for providing the perfect sanctuary

during the process of this project.

And lastly, to Phyllis Colleen. I wish you happiness. I wish

you peace. May God bless you.

Author’s Notes

Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to

maintain the dignity and privacy of others.

This book, the first part of the trilogy, depicts language that

was developed from a child’s viewpoint. The tone and

vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that

particular time.

This book is based on the child’s life from ages 4 to 12.

The second part of the trilogy, The Lost Boy, is based on his

life from ages 12 to 18.

Contents

1 – The Rescue .................................................................... 7

2 – Good Times................................................................. 15

3 – Bad Boy....................................................................... 21

4 – The Fight for Food ...................................................... 30

5 – The Accident............................................................... 50

6 – While Father Is Away................................................. 60

7 – The Lord’s Prayer ....................................................... 77

Epilogue ............................................................................ 91

Afterword.......................................................................... 95

-7-

1 – The Rescue

March 5, 1973, Daly City, California – I’m late. I’ve got to

finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I

didn’t have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get

something to eat. Mother’s running around yelling at my

brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the

kitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. It’s

too late. She catches me with my hands out of the water.

SMACK! Mother hits me in the face, and I topple to the floor.

I know better than to stand there and take the hit. I learned the

hard way that she takes that as an act of defiance, which means

more hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture and

dodge her looks, as she screams into my ears.

I act timid, nodding to her threats. “Please,” I say to myself,

“just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food.” Another

blow pushed my head against the tile counter top. I let the tears

of mock defeat stream down my face as she storms out of the

kitchen, seemingly satisfied with herself. After I count her steps,

making sure she’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The act

worked. Mother can beat me all she wants, but I haven’t let her

take away my will to somehow survive.

I finish the dishes, then my other chores. For my reward I

receive breakfast – leftovers from one of my brothers’ cereal

bowls. Today it’s Lucky Charms. There are only a few bits of

cereal left in a half of a bowl of milk, but as quickly as I can, I

swallow it before Mother changes her mind. She has done that

before. Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knows

better than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows I’ll

dig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.

Minutes later I’m in the old family station wagon. Because

I’m so late with my chores, I have to be driven to school.

-8-

Usually I run to school, arriving just as class begins, with no

time to steal any food from other kids’ lunch boxes.

Mother drops my oldest brother off, but keeps me for a lecture

about her plans for me tomorrow. She is going to take me to her

brother’s house. She says Uncle Dan will “take care of me.”

She makes it a threat. I give her a frightened look as if I am truly

afraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hardnosed

man, he surely won’t treat me like Mother does.

Before the station wagon comes to a complete stop, I dash out

of the car. Mother yells for me to return. I have forgotten my

crumpled lunch bag, which has always had the same menu for

the last three years – two peanut butter sandwiches and a few

carrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car again, she says, “Tell

’em … Tell ’em you ran into the door.” Then in a voice she

rarely uses with me, she states, “Have a nice day.” I look into

her swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last night’s

stupor. Her once beautiful, shiny black hair is now frazzled

clumps. As usual, she wears no makeup. She is overweight, and

she knows it. In all, this has become Mother’s typical look.

Because I am so late, I have to report to the administrative

office. The grayhaired secretary greets me with a smile.

Moments later, the school nurse comes out and leads me into

her office, where we go through the normal routine. First, she

examines my face and arms. “What’s that above your eye?” she

asks.

I nod sheepishly, “Oh, I ran into the hall door … by

accident.”

Again she smiles and takes a clipboard from the top of a

cabinet. She flips through a page or two, then bends down to

show me. “Here,” she points to the paper, “You said that last

Monday. Remember?”

I quickly change my story, “I was playing baseball and got hit

by the bat. It was an accident.” Accident. I am always supposed

-9-

to say that. But the nurse knows better. She scolds me so I’ll tell

the truth. I always break down in the end and confess, even

though I feel I should protect my mother.

The nurse tells me that I’ll be fine and asks me to take off my

clothes. We have been doing this since last year, so I

immediately obey. My longsleeve shirt has more holes than

Swiss cheese. It’s the same shirt I’ve worn for about two years.

Mother has me wear it every day as her way to humiliate me.

My pants are just as bad, and my shoes have holes in the toes. I

can wiggle my big toe out of one of them. While I stand clothed

only in my underwear, the nurse records my various marks and

bruises on the clipboard. She counts the slashlike marks on my

face, looking for any she might have missed in the past. She is

very thorough. Next, the nurse opens my mouth to look at my

teeth that are chipped from having been slammed against the

kitchen tile counter top. She jots a few more notes on the paper.

As she continues to look me over, she stops at the old scar on my

stomach. “And that,” she says as she takes a deep swallow, “is

where she stabbed you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Oh no!” I tell myself, “I’ve done

something wrong … again.” The nurse must have seen the

concern in my eyes. She puts the clipboard down and hugs me.

“God,” I tell myself, “She is so warm.” I don’t want to let go. I

want to stay in her arms forever. I hold my eyes tightly shut, and

for a few moments nothing else exists. She pats my head. I flinch

from the swollen bruise Mother gave me this morning. The nurse

then breaks the embrace and leaves the room. I rush to put my

clothes back on. She doesn’t know it, but I do everything as fast

as possible.

The nurse returns in a few minutes with Mr Hansen the

principal, and two of my teachers, Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler.

Mr Hansen knows me very well. I’ve been in his office more

than any other kid in school. He looks at the paper, as the nurse

reports her findings. He lifts my chin. I’m afraid to look into his

-10-

eyes, which is mostly a habit from trying to deal with my mother.

But it’s also because I don’t want to tell him anything. Once,

about a year ago, he called Mother to ask about my bruises. At

that time, he had no idea what was really going on. He just knew

I was a troubled kid who was stealing food. When I came to

school the next day, he saw the results of Mother’s beatings. He

never called her again.

Mr Hansen barks he’s had enough of this. I almost leap out of

my skin with fear. “He’s going to call Mother again!” my brain

screams. I break down and cry. My body shakes like jello and I

mumble like a baby, begging Mr Hansen not to phone Mother.

“Please!” I whine, “Not today! Don’t you understand, it’s

Friday?”

Mr Hansen assures me he’s not going to call Mother, and

sends me off to class. Since it’s too late for homeroom class, I

sprint directly to Mrs Woodworth’s English class. Today’s a

spelling test on all the states and their capitals. I’m not

prepared. Usually I’m a very good student, but for the past few

months I gave up on everything in my life, including escaping

my misery through my schoolwork.

Upon entering the room, all the students plug their noses and

hiss at me. The substitute teacher, a younger woman, waves her

hands in front of her face. She’s not used to my smell. At arms

length she hands my test to me, but before I can take my seat in

the back of the class by an open window, I’m summoned back to

the principal’s office. The entire room lets out a howl at me –

the reject of the fifth grade.

I run to the administration office, and I’m there in a flash. My

throat is raw and still burns from yesterday’s “game” Mother

played against me. The secretary leads me into the teachers’

lounge. After she opens the door, it takes a moment for my eyes

to adjust. In front of me, sitting around a table, are my

homeroom teacher Mr Ziegler, my math teacher Miss Woods,

the school nurse, Mr Hansen and a police officer. My feet

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DavePelzerAChildCalled'It'DavidJ.Pelzer'smother,CatherineRoerva,was,hewritesinthisghast\ly,fascinatingmemoir,adevoteddenmothertotheCubScoutsinhercare,\andsomewhatnurturanttoherchildren--butnottoDavid,whomshereferredtoas"anIt."Thisbookisabrief,horrifyingaccountofthebizarretort\uressheinflictedonhim,t...

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