Ingrid, our Jamaican housekeeper and nanny, who was entrusted with the care and discipline of the younger children in our home. She was a tall, dignified woman with a gentle smile, but when it came to matters of behaviour, she was resolute. Whenever I was naughty enough to earn a whipping, Ingrid would sit me down and explain my misdeed in a calm, stern voice. Then, she would take me by the arm and lead me to the centre of the room. If it was a minor offence, she would seat herself, pull me over her lap, and raise her firm hand high. The first smack would land with a sharp crack, stinging my skin and making me gasp. She would deliver a steady rhythm of ten hard smacks, each one burning more than the last, until my bottom was hot and sore. For more serious misbehaviour, Ingrid would reach for her thick leather belt. She would make me bend over the edge of the bed, my heart pounding in my chest. The belt would whistle through the air before landing with a fierce snap, leaving a fiery stripe across my skin. She would give me six to eight hard strokes, each one making me cry out, tears streaming down my face. Afterward, she would hold me close, reminding me that the punishment was for my own good, and that she expected better behaviour in the future. Each time, I promised myself to behave better, but childhood mischief always seemed to find me again.
As I mentioned before, Ingrid had raised her own children in Jamaica before coming to work for my parents. She once confided in me, her voice soft but unwavering, that she sometimes took a switch to her younger son, and, on rare occasions, to the older one as well. She described how she would make them fetch a thin, flexible branch from the garden, and then, after explaining their wrongdoing, she would have them bend over. With the switch, she would deliver a dozen quick, biting strokes across their bare legs, each one leaving a red welt. The boys would yelp and squirm, but Ingrid believed in teaching right from wrong, and her methods, though strict, were always fair. I listened with wide eyes, imagining what it must have been like for her children, and feeling a curious mix of fear and fascination.
Surprisingly, I never thought of Ingrid as mean for her discipline. In fact, I respected her for it, and I often wondered what it would feel like to be switched, as she described. The thought lingered in my mind, both frightening and oddly intriguing, as I tried to imagine the sting and the lesson it would bring.
One day, I asked Ingrid some probing questions about whether she had ever considered taking a switch to me. Her answer was that we were not in Jamaica but in America, where the spanking customs were less strict.
That pretty much put an end to my questions. Nevertheless, everyonce once in a while I would ask again if I deserved the switch for my latest offence. Ingrid’s invariable reply was: “I know there’s a part of you that enjoys me spanking you, young man, and I ain’t gonna give you the satisfaction. Anyway, my hand and my belt hurt that bottom of yours enough for when you’re in need of it.”
To be honest, I think there was a big part of Ingrid which enjoyed spanking, and when we had these discussions about corporal punishment she would hold me close.
Then, one fine day, I got caught spray painting buildings in the town. Ingrid was so angry that she said I was going to get the switch after all – but not from her. Instead, she pointed at her own mother, who was visiting us and was in the room while my latest misdemeanour was being discussed.
Ingrid was a strong, heavy-set woman, but her mother was even more formidable – chubbier and even larger hands. “You’re gonna be one sorry boy,” was all she said to me. Then she rose, went into the kitchen and came back with two switches which she had evidently already cut for me.
Suddenly, the fantasy of being switched didn’t seem so appealing and I began to cry at the prospect. “Shush now, John – you need to take your punishment like a big boy. All right?” I nodded, trying to look brave.
Her mother spoken again: “Bend him over your lap with his bottom facing outwards.”
“Let’s just get his shirt out of the why,” I heard Ingrid’s mother say, then there was a brief brush of her hands against my bottom as she lifted my shirt to expose the target.
The next second, I felt a line of fire flash across from one buttock to the other as the switch hit home. Ingrid’s mother was merciless, her arm strong and unyielding. The rods were light but so thin that each stroke felt like a razor slicing my skin. She delivered the first five strokes in quick succession, each one making me jolt and cry out. My bottom burned and throbbed, the pain building with every lash. She paused only to switch hands, then continued, landing another five strokes, each one more unbearable than the last. I bawled like a banshee, my legs kicking helplessly as she wore out both switches on my behind, delivering a total of twelve sharp, stinging blows. By the end, my bottom was covered in angry red stripes, and I sobbed uncontrollably, the lesson seared into my memory. Ingrid’s mother finally set the switches aside, telling me that I had received exactly what I deserved for my mischief.
