(gap: 1s) In the late 1940s, the air in our small town seemed always tinged with the scent of cut grass and the distant echo of children’s laughter. Back then, spanking was as common as the sound of the brass bell above the shop door, a sharp punctuation in the daily rhythm of childhood. Yet, somehow, I had always escaped it. My friends would recount, with a mix of dread and bravado, their time spent over their parents’ knees, the sting of discipline still fresh in their minds. I, on the other hand, was the odd one out—grounded, privileges revoked, but never spanked. I used to tell my friends, almost with pride, “Mother does not spank.” But deep down, I sometimes wondered what it would be like, and if perhaps I was missing some rite of passage.
(short pause) One golden summer Saturday, the kind where the sun seemed to hang in the sky forever, two friends and I lost ourselves in the cool darkness of the local movie theatre. We watched film after film, the sticky scent of popcorn and the flicker of the projector making time slip away. Five hours later, we emerged blinking into the late afternoon, our laughter echoing down the quiet streets. But as we walked home, a heavy sense of dread settled over us. My friends, Bobbie and Irwin, began to moan, their voices trembling, “We’re going to get it good.” I tried to laugh it off, but my heart thudded in my chest, a nervous drumbeat.
(pause) As we rounded the corner to our apartment house, the world seemed to slow. There, on the front step, sat the three Mothers, their faces set in a mixture of worry and stern resolve. The sunlight caught the lines on their faces, and for a moment, I felt very small. My friends’ bravado crumbled; Bobbie’s lower lip trembled, and Irwin’s eyes filled with tears. I felt a lump rise in my own throat, my bravado slipping away as we drew closer.
Each Mother reached out—Bobbie’s with a firm grip on his arm, Irwin’s with a swift tug, and my own with a gentle but unyielding pinch of my ear. The world seemed to shrink to the narrow stairwell as we were marched inside, the air thick with the scent of floor polish and the distant clatter of dinner dishes. Bobbie lived on the second floor, I on the third, Irwin on the fourth. As we passed the second floor, Bobbie’s Mother turned to mine, her voice low but clear: “I’ll send it up to you with Rose as soon as I finish with him.” The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. My stomach twisted. I knew what was about to happen on the floors above and below, and for the first time, I felt a cold, creeping fear.
My mother marched me to my bedroom, her footsteps measured and deliberate. The room felt smaller than ever, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across my bed. “Into your pyjamas,” she said, her voice calm but steely. My hands shook as I changed, the fabric cool against my skin. “Go to the bathroom, come back to your room, and wait for me.” The words echoed in my ears as I shuffled down the hall, the tiles cold beneath my bare feet.
(short pause) Then, from below, came the unmistakable sounds—Bobbie’s cries, muffled but unmistakable, the sharp rhythm of discipline echoing up the stairwell. Each sound sent a jolt through me, my imagination running wild. I pressed my hands to my ears, but it was no use. I could almost feel the sting myself, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst.
(pause) After what felt like an eternity, the noise stopped. Silence settled, heavy and expectant. Then, the front door bell rang—a sharp, metallic sound that made me jump. My mother’s voice floated down the hall, “Hello, Rose. Thank you.” I was called to the living room, my legs weak beneath me. There, in the center of the room, stood a kitchen chair, its wooden back gleaming in the afternoon light. My mother stood beside it, holding a leather paddle I recognized from the shoemaker’s window down the street. The sight of it made my breath catch. Bobbie’s Mother had sent it up with Rose, just as promised.
My mother’s eyes met mine, gentle but resolute. “Come here,” she said. I took a step back, fear prickling at my skin, but she closed the distance, her grip firm as she guided me forward. The first blow landed on my thinly-covered rear, a sharp, stinging shock that made me gasp. Before I could recover, she pulled me over her knees, the world tilting as I stared at the faded rug beneath the chair. My pyjamas offered little protection; each smack of the paddle sent a wave of heat and pain through me, my eyes stinging with tears I tried desperately to hold back. My mind raced—shame, fear, and a strange sense of inevitability all tangled together.
(short pause) The first blow sent shockwaves through me, and was followed by another dozen or so, each one burning hotter than the last. My rear was ablaze, my breath coming in ragged gasps. When it was over, I was sent to the wall, told to stand there for fifteen minutes. The wallpaper swam before my eyes as I tried to steady my breathing, my cheeks wet with silent tears. Mother’s voice was quiet but firm: “I’m not finished. The first spanking was for all the years I should have spanked you.” The words stung almost as much as the paddle.
(pause) After fifteen minutes, she called me back. My legs trembled as I returned to the chair, dread pooling in my stomach. The second round was no easier—another dozen sharp, stinging blows, each one a lesson I would never forget. When it was finally over, I was left standing in the quiet room, the late sunlight slanting through the window, my heart pounding and my mind swirling with shame, relief, and a strange, aching understanding. That day, I learned what it meant to be truly disciplined—and, perhaps, what it meant to be truly loved.
