My childhood unfolded in the small, sun-drenched streets of the 60s and 70s, where the air always seemed tinged with the scent of cut grass and the distant laughter of children. In our house, discipline was as much a part of daily life as breakfast or brushing your teeth. My stepmother, a woman of unwavering conviction, believed with all her heart that spanking was the only way to teach right from wrong. Her presence filled every room—her footsteps on the old wooden floors, the rustle of her skirt, the sharpness in her voice when she called us by name.
(short pause) My sisters and I lived under the constant shadow of her discipline. At least five or six times a month, we’d find ourselves summoned, hearts pounding, to the living room or the kitchen, where the air would grow thick with anticipation. Her tools were simple but effective: her own hand, quick and unyielding, or a worn leather strap that hung on a hook in the hallway, always within reach. I can still remember the way the strap felt in her hand, the way it would snap through the air with a sound that made my stomach twist.
(pause) The first time I felt the sting of that strap, the world seemed to shrink to the four walls of our living room. The sunlight slanted through the curtains, dust motes swirling in the golden air, but all I could focus on was the cold dread pooling in my stomach. My hands were clammy, my breath shallow and quick. I tried desperately to explain, my words tumbling out in a rush, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. Her face was set, her eyes cold and determined. The room felt impossibly still, every sound amplified—the creak of the floorboards beneath my bare feet, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room.
(pause) Before I knew it, I was standing in the middle of the room , the cool air prickling my skin and raising goosebumps along my arms and legs. My cheeks burned with humiliation, my heart thudding so loudly I was sure she could hear it. She told me to bend over the chair, her voice low and final, and my hands shook as I obeyed. The chair’s wooden back pressed into my stomach, the seat edge digging into my thighs. I could smell the faint scent of polish and old fabric. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself, every muscle tensed and quivering.
(pause) The first stroke of the strap was a line of fire across my skin, sharp and unrelenting. The sound was deafening—a crack that echoed off the walls, mingling with my involuntary gasp. The pain was immediate, blooming hot and bright, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. But the second stroke came, and then the third, each one building on the last, until I couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears streamed down my face, hot and blinding, my breath coming in ragged sobs. The strap left a burning trail, each blow a fresh wave of agony that seemed to last forever. My legs trembled, my fingers dug into the seat of the chair, desperate for something to hold onto.
(pause) She must have strapped me a dozen times, each one worse than the last. The sound echoed off the walls, mingling with my cries. My stepmother’s voice cut through the pain, lecturing me about responsibility and respect, her words sharp and unyielding. I could barely hear her over the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing tight, the air thick with the smell of leather and fear. When it was finally over, she sent me to the corner, my cheeks wet and my legs trembling. I stood there, staring at the faded wallpaper, the sting still throbbing, the lesson seared into my memory. My skin was hot and swollen, every movement a reminder of what had just happened. I felt small, exposed, and utterly powerless.
(short pause) The aftermath was a blur of shame and relief. I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, trying to steady my breathing, my tears drying in salty tracks on my cheeks. The pain lingered, a deep ache that pulsed with every heartbeat, but even more lasting was the humiliation—the knowledge that I had been stripped, punished, and left to stand in silence. That day, I learned that discipline in our house was not just about punishment—it was about power, about control, about making sure we never forgot who was in charge.
(short pause) But nothing compared to the day I watched my oldest sister get punished. She had stolen money from me—something I could hardly believe—and then, when confronted, she mouthed off to our stepmother. I’ll never forget the look on my stepmother’s face: a storm gathering, her jaw set, her eyes flashing with anger. She told my sister to get upstairs to her room, her voice like thunder, and then she turned to me. “You’ll watch,” she said, and I could only nod, my voice caught in my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
(pause) I followed them up the creaking stairs, my heart hammering in my chest. The room was small and sunlit, but the air felt heavy, charged with fear and anticipation. I sat in a chair in the corner, my hands clenched in my lap, as my stepmother began to lecture my sister. Her words were sharp, each one a blow: about stealing, about respect, about the consequences of a smart mouth. My sister stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide and glistening with tears.
(pause) Then came the command: “Bend over the bed.” My sister hesitated, her shoulders shaking, but she obeyed. My stepmother took the strap from her pocket, the leather gleaming in the afternoon light. The first strike made my sister cry out, her voice raw and desperate. She tried to say she was sorry, but the words were lost in her sobs. Each stroke seemed to last forever, the sound filling the room, the pain written across my sister’s face. I watched, frozen, my own eyes stinging with tears I refused to let fall.
(long pause) I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The experience was searing, unforgettable—a lesson I never wanted to learn firsthand. But it taught me more than I could have imagined: about fear, about shame, about the complicated love and resentment that grew in the shadow of discipline. Even after that, I still received a few more hand spankings along the way, each one a reminder of those days, of the house where innocence and discipline were always intertwined.
