(gap: 2s) Growing up in the wide, wind-swept plains of Wyoming in the 1960s, my big brother and I lived in a world shaped by the relentless rhythm of our mother’s hard work and the ever-present shadow of discipline. Our home was small, the walls thin enough that every sound seemed to echo, and the air always carried a faint scent of dust and laundry soap. My mother, a single parent, juggled two jobs—her hands always busy, her eyes always tired, but her resolve unbreakable. She had little patience for nonsense, and even less time for mischief. In our house, discipline was not just a rule—it was a necessity for survival.
(short pause) The instrument of our correction was a simple, oval wooden paddle, which Mother called ‘The Teacher.’ The name itself sent a chill down my spine, and it was spoken in our house with a mixture of dread and respect. ‘The Teacher’ was not just a tool; it was a symbol, a silent enforcer that hung in the shadows of our childhood, teaching lessons that went far beyond the sting it delivered.
(pause) Whenever one of us crossed the line, there was a ritual to the punishment. Mother would call us, her voice sharp and unwavering, and lead the guilty party to her bedroom. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever in those moments, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it. The door would close behind us with a soft but final click, sealing us in a world where time seemed to slow and the air grew thick with anticipation and fear.
(pause) I remember my first time as if it were yesterday. Up until then, my mischief had only earned me a quick slap on the legs, but by the time I turned five, I was deemed old enough to meet ‘The Teacher.’ My brother, always eager to share his own tales of woe, had filled my head with stories of the paddle—stories punctuated by the memory of his own cries echoing through the house. Those sounds haunted me, a constant reminder of what awaited if I stepped out of line.
(pause) I can’t recall what small crime I had committed that day, but I remember the details of the punishment with vivid clarity. Mother’s room was dim, the curtains drawn against the harsh Wyoming sun. She moved with purpose, crossing to her dressing table and retrieving ‘The Teacher’ from its hiding place. It wasn’t a large paddle, but to my small eyes, it looked enormous—its smooth, polished surface gleaming ominously in the half-light. My stomach twisted with dread as I realized it was more than big enough to cover both my tiny buttocks at once.
(pause) Mother sat on the edge of her bed, her face set in a mask of stern resolve. She beckoned me over, her hand patting her knee. There was always a lecture—short, direct, and impossible to ignore. Her words were heavy with disappointment, and I felt their weight settle on my shoulders, mixing with the fear already churning inside me.
(pause) She showed me how to lie across her lap, and as I did, my whole body trembled. Tears welled up in my eyes before the first blow even landed, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain itself. But then, with a firm grip, she brought ‘The Teacher’ down on my bare bottom. The sting was sharp, white-hot, and immediate. I screamed—loud, desperate, and unrestrained. The pain was overwhelming, a fire that seemed to burn away all sense of time. I lost count of the strikes, lost in a blur of tears and sobs, my face pressed into the scratchy bedspread.
(pause) When it was finally over, I was left standing, legs shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks. I reached for my underwear, my hands clumsy and trembling, only to feel another sharp slap—this time from Mother’s palm, a final punctuation mark to the lesson. The sting lingered, both on my skin and deep inside, a reminder that the rules in our house were not to be broken lightly.
(pause) Mother sent me off to bed early that night. I lay there in the quiet darkness, the muffled sounds of the house settling around me. My bottom throbbed, but it was the ache in my heart that stayed with me the longest. I thought about my mother—how hard she worked, how much she carried, and how even her discipline was a kind of love, fierce and unyielding. In that moment, I understood that ‘The Teacher’ was not just a paddle, but a lesson in survival, in respect, and in the complicated, enduring bond between a mother and her children.
