In the early 1960s, life on our Scottish council estate was simple, and as children, we knew our place. We did as we were told, without question. The word of an adult—especially a teacher—was law, and to disobey was unthinkable. (short pause) Respect and a healthy dose of fear shaped our days, and we never dared to step out of line.
That winter, snow had fallen thick and fast, and in the school yard a great mound of snow had been piled up by the janitor. We were strictly forbidden to climb it after a boy had fallen and broken his arm. In those days, a rule was a rule, and it was not for us to question why.
But one break time, as we played in the snow, the old temptations crept in. Dares were whispered, and the most popular girl in our class turned to me. If I wanted to be accepted, she said, I would have to climb the forbidden mountain. (short pause) The pressure of her words was heavy, but the fear of being left out was heavier still.
So, against my better judgement, I started to climb. I was nearly at the top when the bell rang, calling us back inside. (short pause) But I had been seen. One of the teachers, sharp-eyed and stern, called me down at once.
She scolded me for my disobedience, her voice cold and clipped, and marched me straight to my classroom. There, she told my own teacher what I had done, her words carrying the weight of authority that brooked no argument.
My teacher, Miss McIntyre, was the embodiment of discipline—her word final, her presence commanding. After her colleague left, she fixed me with a look that made my heart sink, then sent me to stand in the corner while she set the rest of the class to work.
When the room had settled, she called me out and took me by the hand to the back of the class, where a small playroom stood. The door was left open, as was the custom—discipline was never hidden, and shame was part of the lesson.
The playroom was cold, the linoleum floor hard beneath my shoes, and the air tinged with chalk and polish. Miss McIntyre sat on a straight-backed chair, her skirt perfectly pressed, her hair in its usual severe bun. Her face was grave, her eyes unwavering. She spoke quietly, but her words were iron: I had not only broken a rule, but set a poor example and put myself in danger. In those days, such things were not taken lightly.
She told me, as was the way then, that I would be punished. My heart pounded as she took my wrist and guided me over her knee. The world seemed to shrink to that small, cold room. (pause) Her hand was steady as she reminded me that rules were there for a reason, and that to disobey was to invite consequences.
The first smack landed with a sharp sting, and I gasped, more from shock than pain. Each smack that followed was firm and deliberate, echoing in the little playroom. By the fourth, my eyes filled with tears, and I began to sob—not just from the sting, but from the shame of having disappointed an adult. Ten smacks in all, each one a lesson in obedience and respect.
When it was over, she set me on my feet. My bottom smarted, my cheeks were wet. Miss McIntyre handed me a tissue and told me, in a softer voice, to dry my eyes. She knelt so we were eye to eye, and told me she hoped I would remember this: that rules were there to protect us, and that true strength was in doing what was right, not what others dared us to do.
