(gap: 2s) My childhood unfolded in the heart of Alabama, in a bustling home that echoed with laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the gentle hum of a family bound by love and tradition. Ours was a large, close-knit African-American family—three daughters, two sons, and a mother whose presence was both a comfort and a guiding force. The 1970s were a time of change, yet within our modest home, certain values remained steadfast: respect for elders, honesty, and the belief that discipline, when administered with love, was a parent’s sacred duty.
(short pause) Our home was a haven of warmth and order. The living room, with its faded floral wallpaper and the ever-present aroma of cornbread baking, was the stage for our daily lives. My siblings and I would gather on the threadbare settee, our knees pressed together, listening to the stories our mother told—tales of her own childhood, of hardship and hope, and of the lessons she had learned at her own mother’s knee. It was in this room, beneath the watchful gaze of family photographs, that we learned the meaning of right and wrong.
(pause) In our household, corporal punishment was not a matter of cruelty, but of care. It was a ritual, solemn and measured, intended to correct rather than to harm. In our earliest years, when childish mischief got the better of us, Mother would sit in her favourite chair, her lap a place of both comfort and consequence. With gentle firmness, she would lay us across her knee and deliver a spanking—never in anger, but with a gravity that impressed upon us the seriousness of our actions. I remember the hush that would fall over the room, the way my siblings and I would exchange anxious glances, each of us silently vowing to do better.
(pause) As we grew older, the nature of discipline changed, as if to mark our passage from childhood to youth. The belt, a sturdy leather strap with a polished wooden handle, became the instrument of correction. Its origin was a family mystery, but its purpose was never in doubt. When one of us erred, we would be sent to our room to await Mother’s arrival. The anticipation was often worse than the punishment itself—the creak of the stairs, the measured footsteps, the quiet click of the door. Before the discipline, Mother would sit beside us, her voice low and steady, explaining the gravity of our misdeed and the importance of learning from it.
(pause) I recall with particular clarity an incident from my ninth year—a memory as vivid as the Alabama sun. Temptation, in the form of a brightly wrapped sweet, proved too much for me at the corner shop. I slipped it into my pocket, my heart pounding with guilt and excitement. But the shopkeeper, a kindly man with sharp eyes, noticed my trembling hands. He called my mother, who arrived with a calm dignity that belied her disappointment. I remember the walk home, my small hand swallowed in hers, the silence between us heavy with unspoken lessons.
(pause) At home, I was sent to my room, where I waited in anxious anticipation. The familiar sounds of the household—my siblings’ laughter, the clatter of pots in the kitchen—seemed distant, muffled by my own shame. Only when Mother had composed herself did she come to me. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes kind but resolute, and spoke softly of trust, honesty, and the stain that dishonesty leaves upon the soul. She placed several pillows beneath my midsection, elevating me so that the lesson would not soon be forgotten.
(pause) The chastisement that followed was severe, and I wept bitterly, my sobs echoing in the quiet room. The sting of the strap was sharp, but sharper still was the knowledge that I had disappointed the woman I most admired. When it was over, Mother left me to reflect, her footsteps receding down the hallway. I lay there, humbled and contrite, the lesson etched not only on my skin but deep within my heart.
(pause) The next morning, I found it difficult to sit at the breakfast table, the memory of my punishment as fresh as the morning dew. Tears pricked my eyes as I tried to settle onto the hard wooden chair. Mother, ever observant, noticed my discomfort and quietly allowed me to stand while I ate. Her compassion in that moment was as instructive as her discipline had been the night before. I have never again taken what did not belong to me.
(pause) There were other incidents, of course—moments when tempers flared or rules were broken.
