(gap: 2s) I was never a master of spelling, and this deficiency led to my first and only experience of corporal punishment at school, many years ago in the 1970s.
I was a boy of seven, in the second grade at a school in Atlanta, Georgia, when one day our teacher, Miss Harvey, announced a spelling test without warning. We were to be tested on twenty words that, in her opinion, we ought to know perfectly by now. My heart filled with dread.
At first, I was astonished and rather pleased to discover that I knew the answers to the initial words. But soon, the words became more difficult, and then, for me, impossible.
It was then that I glanced at my desk mate, Jennifer Buckley. The desks were arranged in pairs, boy and girl, to encourage good behaviour. Jennifer was writing with great confidence, and I could see her answers. For the remainder of the test, whenever I did not know a word, I shifted my eyes, careful not to move my head, and copied Jennifer’s answers.
Miss Harvey collected our papers and instructed us to read while she marked the tests. When she finished, she told us to put down our books. Then, in a voice as cold as ice, she said, “Jimmy Williams, come out here to me, please.” I was startled to hear my name and walked to the front, trembling.
“Jimmy,” Miss Harvey said sternly, “did you copy Jennifer’s answers during that test?” “No, Miss Harvey, truly I did not!” I replied, my voice quivering.
“Truly,” Miss Harvey replied, “is not a word I would use for you, young man. If you did not copy Jennifer, how is it that these answers here, here, and here”—she pointed with her pen—“are identical to hers, and all are spelled incorrectly?”
Foolishly, I persisted in my falsehood. “Perhaps Jennifer copied me?” I suggested. Miss Harvey, now raising her voice, declared, “I know she did not, for I was watching you both. I know exactly who copied whom, Jimmy! You must go and see Mrs Johnson.”
We all regarded Mrs Johnson, the principal, with a mixture of awe and fear, and I did not like the direction in which events were heading. Miss Harvey, her face thunderous, scribbled a note and sealed it in an envelope. “Take this to Mrs Epstein, the school secretary.”
I crept to the principal’s office. Mrs Epstein sat at her desk, and I handed her the note. She tutted and looked at me with a knowing expression. “Oh dear! Someone has been very naughty, have they not? Please take a seat, Jimmy.” She indicated a row of chairs, and I obeyed.
Mrs Epstein picked up her telephone and pressed a button. “Mrs Johnson, I have Jimmy Williams here. Miss Harvey is requesting a paddling.”
Upon hearing my fate, I began to weep. Mrs Epstein ended her conversation, took two tissues from a box, and brought them to me.
“Here, Jimmy. There is no use crying now—you will have something to truly cry about soon, but Mrs Johnson has a visitor at the moment.”
I continued to cry, and she placed a gentle arm around my shoulders. “Come now, you must try to be brave and accept your punishment like a big boy. It will hurt very much, but perhaps it will teach you a valuable lesson.”
I quieted a little, and Mrs Epstein returned to her work. After about ten minutes, I heard Mrs Johnson’s door close, and then she entered the secretary’s office. “Jimmy? Come in here. Do you have that note?” she asked, and Miss Harvey’s note was handed over.
I followed the principal into her office. Mrs Johnson sat at her desk. There was a chair before it, but I was not invited to sit. She read the note carefully, then looked at me with grave seriousness. She did not shout, as Miss Harvey had, but spoke firmly for five minutes about the wrongness of copying another child’s work.
At last, she said, “Miss Harvey has requested that I paddle you for this, and I must agree that a spanking is necessary. I am going to give you four smacks, Jimmy.” With that, she opened a drawer and took out a wooden paddle. To my seven-year-old eyes, it seemed enormous, though it was likely quite ordinary.
Mrs Johnson placed the paddle on her desk, then telephoned her secretary. “Can you come in to witness, please?” Mrs Epstein entered, now looking very solemn. Mrs Johnson drew out the chair and turned it around.
“Now, Jimmy, I want you to bend over and place your hands on the seat of the chair—like this.” She demonstrated, then picked up the paddle. She checked my back pockets to ensure they were empty, then pressed the wood against my bottom. Suddenly, it was gone, and the next instant, a tremendous sting exploded across my buttocks. The first smack was so sharp and powerful that I cried out and tried to stand.
“Please hold his hands down for me,” Mrs Johnson said. Mrs Epstein came around and gripped my hands, holding me in place. The second smack landed, even more forceful than the first, burning across both cheeks. My bottom felt as though it were on fire, and I began to sob in earnest.
Mrs Epstein’s face was close to mine, and she murmured, “Be brave, now.” The principal applied two more of the same, then I was allowed to stand up, and I was given more tissues, this time from a box on Mrs Johnson’s desk. As she gave me a little time to compose myself, the principal wrote down my crime in the punishment book, and had Mrs Epstein sign it as well. Then she took another piece of paper, wrote on it busily, and put it in an envelope.
Looking up, Mrs Johnson said: “Well, I trust that has taught you a sharp lesson, Jimmy. I hope never to see you in here for this again – do you understand?” I nodded through my tears. Mrs Johnson handed me the envelope. “This is a note for your parents – I’m not sure your troubles are all over yet, young man. Mrs Epstein, will you take Jimmy back to his class for me, please?”
With my newly-sore bottom, I was escorted back to the classroom. My humiliation wasn’t over, as Miss Harvey had me stand in front of the class while she told them: “Jimmy cheated in the test, and he has been given the paddle. The same thing will happen to any boy or girl I find cheating in this class, is that clear?” “Yes, Miss Harvey,” the children dutifully chorused back.
During lunch, I found myself something of an unexpected hero among my classmates, with both boys and girls wanting to know about my punishment. “How big is the paddle?” “Does it hurt?” “Did you cry?” Naturally, I didn’t give an honest reply to any of these questions, but I was the first one in our year to be paddled so I felt something of a ‘big man’.
That feeling didn’t last very long, however. The note from Mrs Johnson required a signature acknowledging my punishment and Mother was not impressed by it, to say the least. “Go upstairs to do your homework,” she ordered. “You’ll be spanked at bedtime for this.”
No sooner was I in my bedroom in my pyjamas when she came in, sat on my school desk chair and ordered me to her side. Without a word, she put me over her knee. Finally, she spoke. “Well, Mrs Johnson made a good job of you, I’m glad to say. However, this lesson needs reinforcing, Jimmy. I won’t have a cheat for my son!”
Without further ado, she slapped her palm down on my poor little bottom and went to work, big style. Mother’s hand was hardened by housework and other manual labour and stung as much as any hairbrush. She had never spanked me so thoroughly and on top of the school punishment it was just unbearable.
Then I was put to bed – on my tummy, naturally – and left to cry myself to sleep. Looking back, it was perhaps all a little harsh for a small boy’s sins but it did what it was meant to – I never cheated again.
