Dave Pelzer - A Child Called It

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 (thats 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 Farmers 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.

Authors 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 childs viewpoint. The tone and vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that particular time.

This book is based on the childs 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

March 5, 1973, Daly City, California Im late. Ive got tofinish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since Ididnt have dinner last night, I have to make sure I getsomething to eat. Mothers running around yelling at mybrothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards thekitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. Itstoo late. She catches me with my hands out of the wat er.

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 thehard way that she takes that as an act of defiance, which meansmore hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture anddodge 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. Anotherblow pushed my head against the tile counter top. I let the tearsof mock defeat stream down my face as she storms out of thekitchen, seemingly satisfied with herself. After I count her steps,making sure shes gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The actworked. Mother can beat me all she wants, but I havent let hertake away my will to somehow survive.

I finish the dishes, then my other chores. For my reward Ireceive breakfast leftovers from one of my brothers cerealbowls. Today its Lucky Charms. There are only a few bits ofcereal left in a half of a bowl of milk, but as quickly as I can, Iswallow it before Mother changes her mind. She has done thatbefore. Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knowsbetter than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows Illdig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.

Minutes later Im in the old family station wagon. BecauseIm so late with my chores, I have to be driven to school.

-7

Usually I run to school, arriving just as class begins, with notime to steal any food from other kids lunch boxes.

Mother drops my oldest brother off, but keeps me for a lectureabout her plans for me tomorrow. She is going to take me to herbrothers 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 trulyafraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hardnosedman, he surely wont treat me like Mother does.

Before the station wagon comes to a complete stop, I dash outof the car. Mother yells for me to return. I have forgotten mycrumpled lunch bag, which has always had the same menu forthe last three years two peanut butter sandwiches and a fewcarrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car again, she says, Tell

em Tell em you ran into the door. Then in a voice sherarely uses with me, she states, Have a nice day. I look intoher swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last nightsstupor. Her once beautiful, shiny black hair is now frazzledclumps. As usual, she wears no makeup. She is overweight, andshe knows it. In all, this has become Mothers typical look.

Because I am so late, I have to report to the administrativeoffice. The grayhaired secretary greets me with a smile.

Moments later, the school nurse comes out and leads me intoher office, where we go through the normal routine. First, sheexamines my face and arms. Whats that above your eye? sheasks.

I nod sheepishly, Oh, I ran into the hall door byaccident.

Again she smiles and takes a clipboard from the top of acabinet. She flips through a page or two, then bends down to