(gap: 1s) One of my more memorable spankings came in seventh grade, a year when the Atlanta air seemed thick with the scent of cut grass and the distant echo of children’s laughter. I was struggling with my math class—pre-algebra, the numbers and symbols swimming before my eyes every time I tried to focus. Mother knew this, of course. She was always vigilant, making sure I was working through every practice test and workbook, her voice a constant presence: “You can’t just wish your way through math, you know.”
(short pause) The Sunday before a big exam, she cornered me in the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour from baking biscuits. “Have you been studying?” she asked, her eyes searching mine. “Are you ready for this test?” I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, the guilt already prickling at my skin. I lied, forcing a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’m ready.” But the truth was, I’d spent the weekend outside, running wild with my friends, never once cracking open that workbook. The lie tasted bitter, but I swallowed it anyway.
(pause) When the test came, I froze. The questions blurred together, and I knew I was in trouble. I failed—badly. My teacher, Mrs. Carter, handed back the paper with a sigh, her red pen circling my mistakes like little wounds. “You’ll need to get this signed by your mother,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. My stomach dropped. I could already picture Mother’s disappointment, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. Desperate, I waited until I was alone and tried to forge her signature, my hand trembling as I copied the loops and slants of her name. I knew it wasn’t right, but I hoped it would be enough.
(pause) On Tuesday, I handed the paper back to Mrs. Carter. She glanced at the signature, then looked at me with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. “Nice try,” she said quietly. I felt my cheeks burn. What I didn’t know was that she called my mother during lunch, her voice low and serious as she explained what I’d done. When I got home, the apartment felt unusually quiet. Mother was waiting for me in the living room, her arms crossed. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked. I tried to hold her gaze, but my voice came out small. “I… I lied. I didn’t study. And I tried to sign your name.” The words hung in the air, heavy and shameful.
(short pause) She didn’t yell. Instead, she told me to go upstairs, change, and bring down the paddle. My legs felt like lead as I climbed the stairs, the familiar creak of each step echoing my dread. I could hear my brother and sister at the kitchen table, their pencils scratching against paper as they did their homework. I wondered if they knew what was coming.
(pause) When I came back down, Mother was waiting, the paddle resting on her lap. She looked at me, her face stern but not unkind. “You know why this is happening,” she said. I nodded, my throat tight. She guided me over her knee, and the sting of the paddle was sharp and immediate, each swat punctuated by the sound of my siblings’ silence. Afterward, she sent me to the corner, my face burning with embarrassment and regret.
(pause) About twenty minutes later, I heard her footsteps on the stairs. She came down, holding the strap in her hand—the one reserved for lying. My heart pounded. “Hold out your right palm,” she instructed. I did, and she gave me six quick licks with the strap, each one making my eyes water. “This is for forging my name,” she said. Then she told me to bend over and grab the seat of the kitchen chair. I braced myself as she delivered a dozen licks across my backside, the pain sharp and lingering. “And this is for lying to me,” she finished, her voice steady.
(pause) Finally, she handed me a small bar of soap. “Hold this between your teeth,” she said. The taste was awful—bitter and soapy, clinging to my tongue. I stood in the corner, tears stinging my eyes, the sounds of my family moving quietly around me. In that moment, I felt the weight of my choices, the sting of discipline, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d do better next time.
