In the Scotland of the 1960s, the world in which I grew up was shaped by the ceaseless clang and clatter of industry. The shipyards, foundries, and factories were the very heart of our town, their noise and smoke drifting over the rooftops like a second sky. My father, like most men, departed before dawn, his heavy boots echoing on the tenement stairs, and returned home with the scent of oil and metal clinging to his clothes. My mother’s hands were always busy—scrubbing, mending, and cooking—her knuckles red and raw from the cold water and the endless work. (short pause) The adults around us were stern, shaped by hardship and the expectation that one must simply carry on. Complaints were as rare as a warm day in November. Life was not easy, and neither were the people it produced. (short pause)
For boys, especially, there was an unspoken rule: one must become mature quickly, or risk being mocked by one’s companions. Tears were considered a sign of weakness, and any hint of softness was quickly noticed and ridiculed in the playground or on the street. Among friends, you learned to hide your pain, to laugh off a scraped knee or a bruised ego, because to do otherwise was to invite endless teasing and be branded as delicate. (short pause) I remember the sting of gravel in my palms after a fall, the way I would bite my lip and force a smile, even as my eyes burned. The older boys would watch, arms folded, waiting to see if you would cry. If you did, you would never hear the end of it. So you learned to swallow your tears, to turn pain into a joke, to wear your bruises as badges of honour.
If two boys had a disagreement, they were not expected to discuss it calmly. No, the expectation was clear: you settled it with your fists, right there in the street or behind the school. A proper fight was seen as the only way to prove yourself—a test of courage and pride. The winner might walk away with a bloody nose, the loser with a black eye, but both would be respected for standing their ground. To back down or attempt to reason things out was to risk being called a coward, or worse, a child who depended too much on his mother. (short pause) I can still recall the taste of blood in my mouth after a fight, the way my heart hammered in my chest, the mixture of fear and exhilaration. Sometimes, after the dust settled, the two of you would walk home together, silent but somehow closer, the fight already fading into legend.
This expectation did not end at the school gates. At home, fathers and mothers alike reinforced the message—boys were to be strong, to accept their punishments without complaint, to stand up straight and never let the world see them flinch. It was a lesson hammered in by both family and friends, a kind of armour you were expected to wear from the earliest age. (short pause) My own father was a man of few words, but his look alone could silence a room. My mother, though smaller in stature, was every bit as formidable. She believed in discipline, in the value of hard work, and in the importance of never letting your guard down.
In both Scottish schools and homes, discipline was not merely a word—it was a daily ritual, as real and as certain as the rising of the sun. The Tawse, a thick leather strap, hung in every classroom and behind many a door at home. Teachers wielded the strap with authority, and it was not unusual for children to be lined up for a sharp punishment for the smallest infraction. The ritual was always the same: the culprit would be called to the front, hands trembling as they were held out, palms up. The teacher would raise the Tawse and bring it down with a loud crack—once, twice, three times, sometimes even four, depending on the severity of the misdeed. Each smack left a red welt, the pain sharp and immediate, a lesson that would not soon be forgotten. (short pause) At home, the belt or strap was just as common. If a child disobeyed, the parent would unbuckle the belt with slow deliberation, the silence in the room growing heavy. The child would be told to bend over, and the belt would be brought down across the backside—three, four, or even five times, each blow a reminder of the importance of obedience and respect. The pain was real, and so was the lesson: actions have consequences, and discipline is the foundation of good character.
In this environment, it was not the cleverest children who were admired. Those who excelled in their studies were often dismissed as bookish and became targets for bullies. Instead, respect and admiration were reserved for the toughest.
I remember one time, , I had been caught skipping school and knew that the belt was forthcoming. I pleaded and begged but it had no effect whatsoever. Mother would make me wait 20 to 30 minutes
“Come out here and bring the belt with you,” Mother ordered. I complied, cringing, Two pillows were on the middle of the bed and I lay on them with my bottom in the air. Mother grasped my ankles and gave me about 6 to 12 licks with the belt. I howled and begged for mercy, to no avail; in fact, it seemed to me the belt just came down harder. I struggled and squirmed around, trying to get my bottom out of the way of that stinging length of leather.
By the time she had stopped, I was crying real tears of pain and humiliation.
I never skipped school after that, I’ll tell you.
