(gap: 2s) I grew up in the late 1960s, on a street where discipline wasn’t just a rule—it was a ritual, woven into the very fabric of our days. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the unspoken threat of a spanking, a language of correction that every parent spoke fluently. It was as if the whole neighborhood was tuned to the same frequency: the sharp, electric anticipation of a hand meeting a bottom, the sudden hush that followed, the way the world seemed to pause for a heartbeat. In those sticky, sun-drenched summers, with every window flung wide to catch a breeze, the sounds of discipline drifted through the air as easily as the scent of cut grass and the distant jingle of the ice cream truck.
Our rowhouses stood shoulder to shoulder, bricks warm beneath our palms, the paint on the stoops chipped and sun-bleached. There was no central air—just the constant whir of box fans, their blades slicing the thick heat, and the sticky, sweet smell of honeysuckle and gasoline. Every sound traveled: the slap of a hand, the muffled yelps, the stern voices echoing up and down the block. These noises were as much a part of our world as the laughter of children or the clatter of jump ropes on the sidewalk. Sometimes, if you were unlucky, you’d catch a glimpse through a neighbor’s window: a flash of a raised arm, a child’s face twisted in dread or shame, the moment suspended in time. But we never spoke of it—not even in whispers, not even in the secret language of children. The silence was its own kind of understanding.
The embarrassment was a living, breathing thing—hot and prickling, crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks, far worse than the sting itself. The memory of being bent over, your friends’ laughter suddenly silenced, their eyes darting away or—worse—watching, was enough to make you wish you could melt into the pavement. I remember the way my own cheeks burned, not just from the spanking, but from the knowledge that someone else had witnessed my humiliation. Each spanking had its own flavor, its own ritual: the slow, deliberate rolling up of a sleeve, the measured tone of a parent’s voice, the way the world seemed to shrink to the size of the room, the chair, the lap. Some of those moments are etched in my memory with painful, crystalline clarity, as if they happened only yesterday.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the rooftops and the sky turned the color of orange sherbet, I watched Tony’s father come striding down the block. His work shirt was streaked with sweat and machine oil, the scent of metal and effort clinging to him. In his fist, he held a thick leather belt, folded over itself like a coiled snake. The air seemed to tighten, the world holding its breath. Tony, who’d been wild and daring all afternoon, shrank before our eyes, his bravado dissolving in an instant. His father’s voice was low and flat, but the threat in it was unmistakable—a storm gathering on the horizon. He grabbed Tony by the arm, the belt dangling like a warning, and marched him back up the street. With every few steps, the belt snapped against Tony’s backside—a sharp, unmistakable sound, like a whipcrack splitting the evening air. Tony’s face was a mask of dread, his eyes wide and wet, his mouth twisted in a silent plea. When they reached their stoop, the front door slammed, and then the real punishment began. Through the open windows, we heard the belt’s rhythm—thwack, thwack, thwack—punctuated by Tony’s yelps, high and desperate, echoing through the dusk. I remember the way my own stomach clenched, the skin on my arms prickling with fear and a strange, guilty relief that it wasn’t me. For days after, Tony walked stiffly, his bravado gone, and none of us mentioned what we’d seen or heard. The silence between us was heavy, a shared secret we carried like a stone in our pockets.
Linda’s mother was a different force—sharp, quick, and unyielding, her presence as sudden and electric as a summer thunderstorm. If Linda let loose with a string of forbidden words during a front yard argument, her mother’s head would snap up from the porch, eyes narrowing to slits. The next moment, Linda would be hauled inside, her protests dissolving into frantic apologies. The kitchen window was always open, and we’d hear the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a wooden spoon being snatched from the drawer. Then came the smacks—rapid, stinging, each one punctuated by Linda’s cries. The sound of wood on flesh was unmistakable, a hollow, echoing pop that made my own bottom tingle in sympathy. I’d stand frozen on the sidewalk, my heart pounding, cheeks flushed with secondhand shame. Sometimes, to my secret confusion, I felt a strange excitement—a flutter in my stomach I didn’t understand, mingled with dread. Watching Linda’s punishment, I realized for the first time that the pain of a spanking was only half the story; the other half was the helplessness, the exposure, the knowledge that you were utterly at someone else’s mercy. The world outside that kitchen window seemed impossibly far away, and I wondered if Linda felt as small and powerless as I did just listening.
My own spankings were usually private affairs, delivered with grim efficiency by my mother. Her hand was broad and unyielding, her grip on my wrist firm as she pulled me over her knee. The kitchen was her preferred stage: the linoleum cool beneath my bare feet, the scent of dinner—onions, garlic, something frying in a cast iron pan—lingering in the air. She’d lecture in a low, steady voice, each word punctuated by a sharp smack. The pain was immediate—hot, blooming across my skin, building with each blow until my legs kicked and my breath came in ragged sobs. The sounds were intimate: the slap of flesh, my own gasps, her measured breathing. When it was over, she’d let me up, my face streaked with tears, my bottom throbbing and hot. I’d be sent to my room, the shame settling over me like a heavy blanket, the world outside my window moving on as if nothing had happened. But there was one spanking that stands out above all the rest—a public reckoning I’ll never forget, a moment when the private world of discipline collided with the bright, indifferent world outside.
It happened at Woolworth’s, the five-and-dime with its creaky wooden floors and aisles crowded with treasures. The store was a wonderland to me: bins of plastic animals, rows of candy in glass jars, the faint smell of popcorn and floor wax. I was maybe eight, and I’d fallen in love with a tiny plastic animal, its bright colors winking at me from the shelf. When Mom said no, something reckless took hold. I slipped the toy into my pocket, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure everyone could hear. At the register, I could barely meet the cashier’s eyes, my palms slick with sweat. We made it almost to the car before the toy tumbled out, clattering onto the pavement, the sound impossibly loud in the summer air. My face went cold, then hot, as Mom’s gaze fixed on me—her eyes sharp, her mouth a thin, hard line. I lied, of course—denied everything, my voice trembling, the lie sour on my tongue. That was it: stealing and lying, a double offense, the kind that left a mark deeper than any bruise.
My mother’s silence was terrifying, a storm gathering in the stillness. My mother didn’t say a word. She dragged me to the car, opened the back door and sat on the bench seat, her feet firmly on the parking lot and me awkwardly (and disbelievingly) yanked over her lap. She spanked the living daylights out of my bottom for at least three minutes.
It would probably have been reported as abusive these days but I suspect people were both amused and approving at that time, when good childcare meant good correction.
By the time I was allowed to stand up and pull up my panties, my flaming cheeks were thoroughly corrected but the humiliation wasn’t over. I was marched back into the variety store, made to hand over the pilfered animal to the check-out worker, and apologise.
I know my face was as red as my severely spanked bottom, on which I squirmed wretchedly all the way home. Nothing more was said – I’d paid dearly for that mistake and although I made many others, I never did anything again that would earn me a public paddling!
