My parents reached adulthood in the 1960s and both were what one might call admirers of President Kennedy’s ideals. My mother was a classroom teacher for several years, and my father was a proud member of a trade union.
While they held progressive views on many matters, their approach to parental discipline was firmly rooted in tradition. The modern philosophies of Dr. Spock found no place in our home. Corporal punishment, specifically spanking, was the immediate recourse for acts of disobedience, disrespect, or dishonesty.
I am the eldest of four children, with a sister two years my junior and two brothers, five and eight years younger, respectively. Each of us received spankings well into our teenage years. At the time of this particular account, I was sixteen and a half years old.
By this age, I had a young man whom I was seeing. Although I was not permitted to begin courting until I turned fifteen, I had secretly been meeting this gentleman since the summer between eighth and ninth grade. He was a year ahead of me in school, and we shared several acquaintances.
During the summer months, it was common for children to gather at whichever home was unoccupied during the day. Boys and girls would often pair off for innocent companionship. It was in such a setting that I met my beau.
In the course of these secret meetings, I was discovered on more than one occasion to have been untruthful about my whereabouts. Rather than admit I was with a young man, I would claim to have been at a gathering, fearing that the truth would result in a prohibition against seeing him. For these acts of deception, I received the strap, in addition to the customary spankings administered for other infractions.
By the time of this story, I was permitted to see my young man openly, though my parents did so with reluctance. My mother, in particular, imposed many restrictions and sought to limit our time together. This led to several disagreements, which frequently concluded with my being grounded or otherwise disciplined for what was termed my ‘attitude’.
Matters reached a head one day in May, near the end of my second year in high school. I was a member of the swim team, and although our season had concluded, we continued to practice after school three times a week. I had arranged to meet my young man for dinner after returning home to change.
Upon arriving home, I informed my mother that I would not be present for dinner, as I intended to leave as soon as I had changed. She replied that I could not go out until my homework was completed and that she wished me to dine with the family.
I explained that I had no homework, as the school year was drawing to a close, and I saw no reason to remain for dinner, especially as my father would be absent due to his participation in a softball game that evening.
My sister and brothers were all seated at the kitchen table, diligently working on their assignments, in accordance with my mother’s rule that homework must be completed before any other activity. Our discussion became heated, and I accused her of seeking only to keep me at home. She cautioned me about my ‘attitude’, and I, in a moment of frustration, told her that her actions were unjust. This was the moment I crossed a line. My mother fixed me with a stern gaze, her arms folded.
She accused me of attempting to defy her authority and declared, “As long as you live under this roof, you will abide by the rules and do as you are told. Go upstairs and fetch the hairbrush.”
I returned her gaze and protested that such a punishment was unreasonable, that I ought not to be treated as a child, and that she was being entirely unfair.
My mother did not respond, but continued to look at me with unwavering resolve. In our contest of wills, I relented first. “Very well,” I said, and ascended the stairs to the closet where the implements of discipline were kept, closing the door firmly behind me. I returned to the kitchen, where my mother was seated in a wooden chair, and handed her the hairbrush.
This moment was always the most difficult for me as I grew older. I could endure a sound spanking and was not prone to tears. I have always been of a stubborn disposition and never wished to give my mother the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Yet, while the physical discomfort was bearable, the indignity of standing there, required to lower my undergarments, was truly mortifying.
Mother’s ritual was to lecture us while we stood there . I was not too old to be spanked. I was expected to follow their rules. If I insisted acting like a child I would be treated like one. Blah blah blah.
This went on for an eternity – well, maybe like two minutes, but it seemed longer standing there, hands at my sides. Finally, Mother was done and she motioned with the brush for me to get over her lap. I climbed over, palms and toes on the floor, bottom propped up on her right thigh.
Once the spanking started, Mother kept the talking to a minimum. The only sound was from me counting out loud the number of swats, as she required of us.
There were two or three beats after that, then another whap! Mother did not have a set pattern for the swats – sometimes alternating sides, sometimes applying two or three to each side, then switching.
She provided thorough coverage, top to bottom, with the occasional wicked swat reserved for the tops of the thighs, which elicited a loud grunt or ‘ouch!’ from me, and an involuntary scissor-kick from one of my legs.
Mother usually spanked in groups of 12, and when the 24th swat was counted,
I was told to get up.
My mother pointed to the empty corner in the kitchen. I trudged to the corner and stuck my nose in and put hands at sides, as required.
I was glad to be facing the corner so that my tears were not visible – not tears from the physical part of the spanking, but from anger at the unfairness and the humiliation that I felt.
