I went to a high school where getting swats was common – and males and females were treated the same. The school itself was a sprawling complex of red-brick buildings, with ivy climbing the walls and a sense of history in every corner. The hallways echoed with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the occasional stern reprimand from a teacher.
While the vice-principal could order the paddle for you, it was actually administered by the gym teachers, who alternated weeks. One week it was the male instructors, the other it was the female coaches. It didn’t matter what gender the student was; you could be paddled by either a male or female instructor. The anticipation of who would be on duty added an extra layer of anxiety.
The paddle itself was a thing of legend—solid oak, about two feet long and half an inch thick, with a broad, flat blade that had been worn smooth by years of use. Its honey-brown surface was polished to a dull sheen, but if you looked closely, you could see faint nicks and scratches, even a few faded initials carved by nervous hands. The handle was rounded and heavy, fitting perfectly in the coach’s grip, and the weight of it was enough to make your stomach drop when you saw it resting on the desk. When the paddle was swung, it cut through the air with a low, menacing whoosh, and the crack as it landed was sharp and explosive—echoing off the cinderblock walls and lingering in your ears long after the sting had faded. The wood felt cold and unyielding if you ever brushed your fingers against it, and the mere sight of it was enough to make your palms sweat.
The procedure was that if you were to be paddled, you were given an orange card, known as a ‘paddle card,’ to carry around with you. Half an hour before the end of the last period of the day, the orange card would get you excused from whatever class you were in to get your swats. Of course, everyone in the class knew that if you got up and left early, you were going to be paddled! The walk to the gym felt like a march to the gallows, with every step echoing your impending fate.
Once you left, you hurried to your gym locker and changed into your PE clothes. The thin nylon shorts the boys and girls wore offered the same (non-existent!) protection, which was supposed to make things equal. The fabric felt almost mocking against your skin, a reminder of the sting that was to come.
You stood outside the door of the appropriate set of coaches to await your fate. The hallway outside the gym was always eerily quiet, the silence only broken by the occasional murmur of other students passing by. Once called into their office, you gave them the card and you would then be told to bend over a small table. One of the coaches would pin your hands to the small of your back while the other would administer the swats. The table was cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the warmth of the gym.
The moment you bent over, time seemed to slow. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your breath caught in your throat. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself—your mind racing with dread, your body tensing in preparation for the sting. The coach would tap the paddle lightly against your shorts, almost teasing, before drawing back for the first swat.
The first impact was always a shock—a searing, explosive pain that seemed to radiate through your entire body. The sound of the paddle meeting flesh was sharp and unforgiving, echoing in the small office. Your eyes would water instantly, and your hands would clench involuntarily behind your back. The pain was hot and immediate, blooming across your backside and making your knees buckle slightly.
The second swat followed quickly, compounding the pain and making your skin feel as though it were on fire. Each blow left a deep, throbbing ache that settled in, and you could feel the heat rising through the thin fabric of your shorts. The humiliation of being bent over, exposed and vulnerable, was almost as intense as the physical pain. You could hear the coaches’ voices—sometimes stern, sometimes with a hint of amusement—reminding you to stay still, to take your punishment.
The male gym teachers were always more lenient than the females. The ladies always seemed to take great relish in smacking you as hard as they could and snickered as you cried out after each swat. The sting of the paddle was relentless, and the sound of your own yelps and gasps filled the room, mingling with the echo of wood on flesh.
You were normally given either three or six swats. But if you were a member of any school club (sport, cheerleading, etc.), you got an extra two smacks, as you were supposed to set an example for everyone. So you really could get five or eight swats from a nasty wood paddle. The extra swats felt like a cruel twist of fate, a punishment for trying to excel. By the time the last swat landed, your backside was burning, your eyes stinging with tears, and your pride thoroughly battered.
The first two swats were usually greeted with howls of ‘oh my’ or just a loud ‘owww!’ If you swore or used foul language, the swat did not count. The pain was immediate and intense, a burning sensation that spread across your backside. Each new blow reignited the fire, and you could feel your resolve crumbling with every strike.
When I was paddled, I could usually hold out until the third swat before I started crying. By the end (usually eight), I was bawling like a baby. The tears came hot and fast, blurring your vision and making your cheeks burn with shame. When you were done, there was no recovery time and you were basically pushed out of their office to get your street clothes on and the next person was taken in to be paddled. Waiting in line, hearing the howls and cries and seeing the crying students leave the office after punishment, was almost as bad as getting the swats themselves. The shared experience created a strange bond among us, a silent understanding of the pain and humiliation.
If you got five or more swats, your butt would be bruised and incredibly sore. Riding home on the bumpy school bus added to the punishment. Every jolt and bump was a reminder of the swats, a lingering pain that refused to fade. And for me, that was just the beginning – as I walked from the bus to my house, I knew my mother would be there with her hairbrush to really blister my butt – bare bottom this time. Whatever the school missed, she most certainly took care of! The anticipation of her punishment was almost worse than the swats themselves, a dread that settled in the pit of my stomach. The memory of those moments—the sting, the shame, the strange camaraderie—remains vivid, a testament to the discipline and innocence of childhood in that small town.
