When I was in my late teens, I traveled to Jamaica with my mother and younger sister to visit my aunt, who worked in the tourist industry on the island. Us youngsters had a wonderful time down there – but one day we got into big trouble with my aunt’s son, who was about to head off to college back in the States.
One evening we got back late without an excuse, and as a result messed up plans already made by our respective mothers. Needless to say, there was the devil to pay when we got back to the house as both adults were livid – very quickly, we were informed that the result was going to be a severe blistering for all of us.
We stood in the hallway, our hearts thumping with apprehension, awaiting our turn to face the consequences of our mischief. My younger sister was summoned first. Through the closed door, we heard her voice, trembling with fear: ‘Please, not the hairbrush!’ The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation, and we knew a stern lesson was being delivered.
Suddenly, the quiet was broken by the unmistakable sound of a firm spanking—each smack delivered with purpose and care. The implement, a sturdy wooden hairbrush, struck with a crisp, resounding crack. Though the punishment was severe, it was administered with the intention of teaching right from wrong, as any caring parent would do.
My sister’s cries grew more desperate, her pleas for leniency echoing down the hall. The smacks continued, each one a reminder of the importance of obedience and honesty. After what seemed an age—perhaps twenty firm smacks—the lesson was complete, and her sobs filled the corridor, a testament to the seriousness of her misdeed.
The door opened and my sister emerged, her cheeks wet with tears, clutching her bottom and hopping from foot to foot. She was told to stand quietly as a reminder of the consequences of disobedience. My mother then took my hand and led me into the den, my legs trembling with dread, knowing my turn had come.
Inside, my mother wasted no time. She seated herself on a sturdy chair, placed me over her lap, and held me firmly. I glimpsed the hairbrush, its surface polished and unyielding. Without delay, she brought it down upon my bottom, each smack sharp and stinging. The punishment was stern, but I knew it was given out of love and a desire to guide me rightly.
The first few smacks made me stiffen, but my mother’s grip was resolute. The spanking grew more intense—each of the twenty smacks a lesson in self-control and respect. I wriggled and pleaded, but my mother remained steadfast, determined that I should learn from my actions. The pain was real, but so was the care behind each stroke.
At last, the spanking ceased. I was left sobbing, my bottom sore, but my conscience clear. My aunt helped me to my feet, and I joined my sister in the hallway, both of us wiser for the experience. The lesson was harsh, but it was given with affection and a hope that we would remember it always.
My cousin was next. He protested, but to no avail. The hairbrush was applied with equal firmness—twenty-five smacks, each one a reminder that rules must be respected. His cries soon matched our own, and when it was over, he too stood in the hallway, chastened and subdued.
When the ordeal was finished, we stood together, our lessons learned. Our bottoms were sore, but our hearts understood the reason for such discipline. It was not cruelty, but a caring resolve to teach us right from wrong, as all good families do.
We were lined up and told our ordeal was not over. The final punishment would be the cane. My sister and I had never been caned before, but my cousin’s anguished cry told us all we needed to know about what was coming.
My aunt appeared with a long, whippy cane. My sister was ordered to bend over the back of the chair . My aunt announced she would receive three strokes, warning her to stay perfectly still or the stroke would be repeated. The cane tapped her already blistered bottom, then whistled through the air and landed with a sickening crack. My sister screamed, her body shaking violently, her pain and humiliation complete.
The second stroke landed lower, drawing an even more desperate cry. The third, right on the sensitive sit spot, made her shriek at the top of her lungs, her whole body convulsing in agony. Her bottom was now covered in angry, raised welts, the pain etched on her face.
As my sister staggered back to the line, I saw my cousin’s face flush with embarrassment, his body reacting involuntarily to the spectacle. I was next. Forced over the chair, I waited, trembling, for the first stroke. When it landed, the pain was so intense I thought I would faint. My body shook uncontrollably, and I could barely breathe.
The second stroke was even worse, making my knees buckle. I glanced back and saw my sister still sobbing, while my cousin’s discomfort was obvious. The third stroke landed on my sit spot, the pain so overwhelming I could not even cry out. My mother pulled me upright and placed me back in line, my legs barely able to support me.
My cousin was told he would receive six firm strokes. He pleaded most earnestly, but his appeals were met with gentle firmness. He was asked to bend over, presenting himself for discipline, his body tense with apprehension. The cane landed low on his bottom, and he let out a cry of distress. The second stroke was delivered to his sit spot, and he nearly lost his balance over the chair. The third stroke was placed just above the second, leaving a deep, purple mark. The fourth and fifth strokes overlapped the others, and my mother had to steady him as he wept and cried, quite overcome by the punishment. The sixth and final stroke landed on his upper thighs, and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his bottom and sobbing. My aunt tapped the cane against his leg and said, ‘Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. In this house, we learn from our mistakes and always strive to do better.’
I found even walking to be painful and slept face down on my bed that night. The next morning, my bottom was still too sore to sit and I put on loose clothing, as anything tight would have just added to my distress.
We all stood for our meals that day, and my cousin was still standing the next day too, so severely had he been beaten. He never showed me his bottom but I do know it took about a week for the welts and bruises to disappear from me and my sister’s behinds.
We clearly learned the penalty for our errors, and thankfully I never experienced the cane again.
