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  "A Child Chosen 'It' is a heart-stopping, compelling book. Information technology is one of the well-nigh important books of our time and a 'must read' for anyone who searches for the secret of internal motivation."

Vicki Binninger, Executive Managing director

Parents' Place

A California Child Corruption Prevention,

Intervention and Treatment Centre

" Once this book was in my hands, I couldn't put it downward. This is the best book on the subject of child abuse I accept ever read. As the reader moves with David through fear, loss, isolation, hurting and rage to eventual promise, the dark world of the driveling child becomes painfully clear. We become aware of the kid'due south cry through David's eyes, ears and body. A Child Chosen 'It' made me desire to hold my family close to my middle and cherish our dear."

Valerie Bivens, Social Worker

Child Protective Services

The Land of California

" Dave Pelzer's child experience is a testimony to the triumph of the human spirit. This volume vividly articulates the abuse he suffered at the hands of his female parent and the unbelievable apathy of others to his plight. Pelzer's courage and determination will go a long mode in helping the millions of children in America who, too often, suffer every twenty-four hour period in silence."

Mark Riley

Child Welfare League of America

" Everything began to point to one thing: this kid was beingness browbeaten and punished far beyond normal parental practice."

Steven East. Ziegler, Teacher

Daly City, California

"In my 31 years of instruction, David Pelzer was the most severely abused child I have known."

Athena Konstan, Teacher

Daly City, California

"To know the torment of abuse and how one child willed himself to survive, read this compelling, spellbinding account. One can only hope information technology volition help u.s. focus on stopping abuse earlier information technology occurs."

Anne Cohn-Donnelly

National Commission for Prevention of Child Abuse

"David Pelzer is a triumphant survivor of his babyhood corruption. David'south story will help people understand that each year hundreds of thousands of helpless children are being brutalized and tortured."

Glenn A. Goldberg, erstwhile Executive Manager

California Consortium

for the Prevention of Child Abuse

A Child

Called "It"

I Child'south Courage

to Survive

Dave Pelzer

Health Communications, Inc.

Deerfield Beach, Florida

world wide web.hcibooks.com

Permission to reprint I Never Knew was given past Cindy Adams.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pelzer, David J.

A child called "information technology": one child's courage to survive

/ David J. Pelzer.

p. cm.

Originally published: Omaha, Neb.: Omaha Printing

Pub. Co., 1993.

ISBN-13: 978-i-55874-366-3 (trade paper)

ISBN-10: 1-55874-366-9 (trade newspaper)

1. Pelzer, David J. 2. Abused children--California--Daly City--Biography. 3. Children of alcoholics--California--Daly City--Family relationships. 5. Family violence--California-Daly City. half-dozen. Foster home care--California. I. Title.

HV883.C2P45 1995

362.7'six'092--dc20 95-20792

[B] CIP

©1995 Dave Pelzer

All rights reserved. Printed in the U.s. of America. No role of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval organization or transmitted in whatever form or by any ways, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher.

Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.

3201 South.W. 15th Street

Deerfield Beach, Florida 33442-8190

R-xi-06

Cover design by Ileana M. Wainwright

This book is defended to my son Stephen,

who, by the grace of God, has taught me

the souvenir of love and joy through

the eyes of a child.

This volume is also dedicated to

the teachers and staff members of

Thomas Edison Simple School to include:

Steven E. Ziegler

Athena Konstan

Peter Hansen

Joyce Woodworth

Janice Woods

Betty Howell

and the Schoolhouse Nurse

To all of y'all, for your courage and for

putting your careers on the line

that fateful solar day, March five, 1973.

You lot saved my life.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author'due south Notes

1. The Rescue

2. Skilful Times

three. Bad Boy

4. The Fight for Nutrient

5. The Accident

6. While Father Is Away

7. The Lord's Prayer

Epilogue

Perspectives on Child Abuse

Resources for Assist

Acknowledgments

After years of intensive labor, sacrifice, frustration, compromises and charade, 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, co-author of the astounding 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 mean solar day than many of the states can help in a lifetime. Bless you Sir.

To Nancy Mitchell and Kim Wiele at the Canfield Group for their enormous enthusiasm and guidance. Thanks ladies.

To Peter Vegso at Health Communications, Inc., equally 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 Gilded for their tenacious drive and for picking upwardly the slack. And a gargantuan thank you to the Art Department for all your difficult work and dedication.

A special thanks to Marsha Donohoe, editor extraordinaire, for her hours of reediting and eradicating "the Wahoo" out of the tome, (that'southward volume for those of y'all 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, information technology was a affair of ". . . Farmer's Trust."

To Patti Breitman, of Breitman Publishing Projects, for her initial work and for giving information technology a good run for the coin.

To Cindy Adams for her unwavering organized religion when I needed it the most.

A special give thanks y'all to Ric & Don at the Rio Villa Resort, my then dwelling house away from home, for providing the perfect sanctuary during the procedure of this projection.

And lastly, to Phyllis Colleen. I wish you happiness. I wish you peace. May God bless you.

Writer's Notes

Some of the names in this book accept been changed in club 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 historic period and wisdom of the child at that particular fourth dimension.

This book is based on the child'southward life from ages iv to 12.

The 2d part of the trilogy, The Lost Boy, is based on his life from ages 12 to xviii.

Chapter

one

The

Rescue

M arch v, 1973, Daly City, California— I'm belatedly. I've got to finish the dishes on fourth dimension, otherwise no breakfast; and since I didn't take d

inner last night, I take to make sure I get something to swallow. Female parent'southward running effectually yelling at my brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the kitchen. I dip my hands dorsum into the scalding rinse water. It's too belatedly. She catches me with my hands out of the h2o.

SMACK! Mother hits me in the face, and I topple to the flooring. I know meliorate than to stand up there and accept the hit. I learned the hard manner that she takes that as an deed of defiance, which means more than hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture and dodge her looks, as she screams into my ears.

I human activity timid, nodding to her threats. "Please," I say to myself, "just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to accept food." Another blow pushes my caput against the tile counter height. I let the tears of mock defeat stream downwardly 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 crush me all she wants, simply I haven't let her take away my volition to somehow survive.

I finish the dishes, and then my other chores. For my advantage I receive breakfast—leftovers from ane of my blood brother'southward cereal bowls. Today it'southward Lucky Charms. At that place are simply a few bits of cereal left in a half of a basin of milk, but as quickly equally I tin can, I eat it before Mother changes her mind. She has done that before. Female parent enjoys using nutrient as her weapon. She knows ameliorate than to throw leftovers in the garbage tin can. She knows I'll dig it out afterward. Mother knows virtually of my tricks.

Minutes later I'm in the old family station wagon. Because I'm and then late with my chores, I have to be driven to school. Unremarkably I run to school, arriving simply as class begins, with no time to steal any food from other kids' lunch boxes.

Female parent drops my oldest blood 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 intendance of me." She makes it a threat. I give her a frightened look as if I am truly afraid. Merely I know that even though my uncle is a hard-nosed human being, he surely won't treat me like Mother does.

Earlier the station carriage comes to a consummate stop, I dash out of the automobile. Mother yells for me to render. I accept forgotten my crumpled lunch handbag, which has always had the aforementioned menu for the final three years—ii peanut butter sandwiches and a few carrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car once again, she says, "Tell 'em . . . Tell 'em you ran into the door." Then in a voice she rarely uses with me, she states, "Accept a squeamish 24-hour interval." I look into her swollen reddish eyes. She still has a hangover from last night'southward shock. Her once beautiful, shiny 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 expect.

Because I am so late, I accept to report to the administrative office. The grayness-haired secretary greets me with a grin. Moments later, the schoolhouse nurse comes out and leads me into her office, where we get through the normal routine. First, she examines my face and arms. "What's that to a higher place your eye?" she asks.

I nod sheepishly, "Oh, I ran into the hall door . . . by accident."

Once more she smiles and takes a clipboard from the elevation of a cabinet. She flips though a page or 2, then bends downward to show me. "Here," she points to the paper, "You lot said that last Monday. Think?"

I chop-chop alter my story, "I was playing baseball and got hit by the bat. It was an accident." Blow. I am always supposed to say that. Just the nurse knows meliorate. She scolds me so I'll tell the truth. I always break downwards in the end and confess, fifty-fifty though I feel I should protect my mother.

The nurse tells me that I'll exist fine and asks me to take off my wearing apparel. We have been doing this since concluding year, so I immediately obey. My long-sleeve shirt has more holes than Swiss cheese. It'south the same shirt I've worn for about two years. Mother has me wear it every twenty-four hours every bit her manner to humiliate me. My pants are just every bit bad, and my shoes have holes in the toes. I tin can wiggle my large toe out of i of them. While I stand clothed just in my underwear, the nurse records my various marks and bruises on the clipboard. She counts the slash-like marks on my confront, looking for any she might take missed in the past. She is very thorough. Adjacent, the nurse opens my mouth to look at my teeth that are chipped from having been slammed confronting the kitchen tile counter summit. She jots a few more notes on the paper. As she continues to wait me over, she stops at the former scar on my tummy. "And that," she says as she takes a deep eat, "is where she stabbed y'all?"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply. "Oh no!" I tell myself, "I've washed something wrong . . . again." The nurse must take seen the concern in my optics. She puts the clipboard down and hugs me. "God," I tell myself, "She is so warm." I don't want to allow become. I want to stay in her arms forever. I concur my eyes tightly shut, and for a few moments zippo else exists. She pats my head. I flinch from the bloated trample Mother gave me this morning. The nurse so breaks the cover and leaves the room. I rush to put my clothes dorsum on. She doesn't know it, only 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 part more than any other child in school. He looks at the paper, as the nurse reports her findings. He lifts my chin. I'g afraid to look into his optics, which is generally a habit from trying to deal with my mother. But information technology's besides considering I don't want to tell him annihilation. Once, about a year agone, he called Mother to inquire most my bruises. At that time, he had no idea what was really going on. He but knew I was a troubled kid who was stealing food. When I came to school the adjacent day, he saw the results of Mother'due south beatings. He never called her again.

Mr. Hansen barks he'south had plenty of this. I almost leap out of my skin with fright. "He's going to phone call Female parent once more!" my brain screams. I interruption down and cry. My torso shakes like jello and I mumble similar a baby, begging Mr. Hansen non to phone Mother. "Please!" I whine, "Not today! Don't you understand, it's Friday?"

Mr. Hansen assures me he's non going to call Female parent, and sends me off to grade. Since it's too late for homeroom grade, I sprint directly to Mrs. Woodworth'due south English class. Today'southward a spelling test on all the states and their capitals. I'm not prepared. Commonly I'm a very good student, simply for the by 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 end of her face up. She'southward not used to my smell. At arm'south length she easily my test to me, but earlier I can take my seat in the dorsum of the class past an open window, I'thou summoned back to the main's function. The entire room lets out a howl at me—the reject of the fifth form.

I run to the assistants office, and I'1000 there in a flash. My throat is raw and still burns from yesterday's "game" Mother played confronting me. The secretarial assistant leads me into the teachers' lounge. After she opens the door, it takes a moment for my optics to suit. In front of me, sitting effectually a tabular array, are my homeroom teacher Mr. Ziegler, my math instructor Miss Moss, the school nurse, Mr. Hansen and a police officer. My feet go frozen. I don't know whether to run away or wait for the roof to cave in. Mr. Hansen waves me in, as the secretary closes the door behind me. I take a seat at the caput of the tabular array, explaining I didn't steal anything . . . today. Smiles break everyone's depressed frowns. I have no idea that they are about to adventure their jobs to salve me.

The police officer explains why Mr. Hansen called him. I can feel myself shrink into the chair. The officer asks that I tell him about Female parent. I shake my head no. Too many people already know the secret, and I know she'll find out. A soft vox calms me. I call up it's Miss Moss. She tells me it'southward all right. I take a deep breath, wring my hands and reluctantly tell them nigh Female parent and me. Then the nurse has me stand up and show the policeman the scar on my chest. Without hesitation, I tell them it was an accident; which information technology was—Mother never meant to stab me. I weep as I spill my guts, telling

them Mother punishes me because I am bad. I wish they would leave me lonely. I feel then slimy inside. I know after all these years there is nix anyone can exercise.

A few minutes later, I am excused to sit in the outer office. As I close the door, all the adults look at me and shake their heads in an approving way. I fidget in my chair, watching the secretary type papers. It seems forever before Mr. Hansen calls me back into the room. Miss Woods and Mr. Ziegler leave the lounge. They seem happy, but at the same time worried. Miss Woods kneels downwardly and wraps me in her arms. I don't think I will ever forget the smell of the perfume in her hair. She lets go, turning abroad then I won't come across her cry. Now I am really worried. Mr. Hansen gives me a lunch tray from the cafeteria. "My God! Is it tiffin time already?" I ask myself.

I gobble down the food so fast I can hardly sense of taste it. I finish the tray in record fourth dimension. Soon the principal returns with a box of cookies, alarm me not to eat so fast. I have no idea what's going on. One of my guesses is that my father, who is separated from my mother, has come to get me. But I know it's a fantasy. The policeman asks for my accost and telephone number. "That's it!" I tell myself. "It's back to hell! I'k going to get information technology from her over again!"

The officer writes downwards more notes equally Mr. Hansen and the schoolhouse nurse look on. Before long he closes his annotation pad and tells Mr. Hansen that he has enough information. I look up at the principal. His face is covered with sweat. I can experience my tummy get-go to curl. I want to go to the bath and throw up.

Mr. Hansen opens the door, and I can see all the teachers on their lunch break staring at me. I'chiliad and so ashamed. "They know," I tell myself. "They know the truth nigh my mother; the existent truth." It is so important for them to know that I'k not a bad boy. I want so much to be liked, to be loved. I turn down the hall. Mr. Ziegler is holding Miss Forest. She is crying. I can hear her sniffle. She gives me another hug and quickly turns away. Mr. Ziegler shakes my hand. "Be a skilful boy," he says.

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