When I was in second grade, I attended a school that allowed the students to be paddled. It was a place of legend among us children, a shadowy room at the end of a long, quiet hallway that you never wanted to be summoned to. The whispers on the playground were that the paddle was a thick piece of wood with holes drilled in it to make it sting more. It was always done at the Principal’s office and never in public, which somehow made it even more terrifying. The mystery of what happened behind that closed door was a powerful tool for maintaining order.
I was always a good girl by school standards and never got the paddle. I followed the rules, turned my homework in on time, and always raised my hand before speaking. I was determined to remain invisible to the school’s disciplinary system. However, my situation was complicated. My mother was the art teacher at the school, and she had different, much higher expectations of behaviour for me. Being the teacher’s daughter meant I was under a microscope. There was no blending in. Every small misstep felt magnified, not just as a student’s mistake, but as a reflection on her. She expected me to be a perfect example, a standard that felt impossible for me to maintain.
I was spanked often at home – usually just a few swats on the bottom or a smack on the hand for talking back or not finishing my chores. A few times, at this point in my life, I had received an extended chatisement which was a little more serious. Those were different. They involved being taken to my room, a stern lecture, and a punishment that left me feeling sore and deeply remorseful for hours. They were reserved for bigger offenses, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that morning, a strange premonition that I couldn’t shake. Today was to be one of those days.
The art room was usually my sanctuary. I loved the smell of clay, tempera paint, and that sweet scent of Elmer’s glue. We were making construction paper collages, a vibrant mess of colors and shapes spread across our shared tables. I was sitting, working quietly, completely absorbed in cutting out a perfect, sunshine-yellow circle. I was an angel, at least in that moment! That’s when Billy, who sat across from me and had a reputation for being a pest, reached over and snatched my scissors right out of my hand. It was so sudden. Without a single thought, my hand flew across the table. I slapped at him and landed a loud, echoing slap on his back. The sound seemed to hang in the air. In that split second of silence, my mother seemed to appear instantly at my table, as if summoned by the sound itself.
Her face was a thundercloud. The warm, encouraging art teacher was gone, replaced by my furious mother. “Sasha, stand up!” she yelled. Her voice cut through the classroom chatter, and everything stopped. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled to look at me. I was really scared, the shock of my own action now completely overshadowed by the terror of her anger. My heart hammered against my ribs. I stood quickly, my chair scraping loudly on the floor. Tears immediately welled up in my eyes, blurring the faces of my classmates. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low and menacing. She grabbed my upper arm, her fingers digging in, and pulled me from my chair. I stumbled after her as she led me toward the small coat room at the back of the classroom.
The coat room was dark and smelled of damp wool and playground dirt. I always wore the one-piece dresses that were popular at that age, and I suddenly felt incredibly small and vulnerable. Before I could even process what was happening, my mother, who was quite large and strong, scooped me up under her arm like I was a sack of potatoes. My feet left the floor, and I was trapped, facing the wall. I squealed, a high-pitched sound of pure panic, not caring that the whole class could clearly hear every single thing that was occurring just beyond the thin wooden door.
“You like to slap?” my mother yelled, her voice echoing in the tiny space. Her question felt like a trap. “No!” I cried out, the word choked with sobs. It was a reflex! He took my scissors! But there was no room for explanation. “You are lying,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And we will see how much you like slapping now.” And that’s when the spanking began. My dress was flipped up, and I was utterly helpless, screaming with a mixture of pain and humiliation as her hand fell repeatedly upon my bottom. The sound was sharp and awful. I remember it being a long, hard spanking. In reality, it was probably only about 20 swats, but to my body and mind, it was a brutal and seemingly endless ordeal.
Just as suddenly as it began, it was over. She set me down roughly on my feet. I was disoriented, my body trembling. “Fix your dress and go sit in your chair,” she commanded, her voice cold. I fumbled with my dress, my fingers clumsy, my face burning with shame. I pushed the coat room door open and walked slowly back into the bright, silent classroom. A few stifled giggles broke the silence, each one feeling like a physical blow. My face was wet with tears, and I instinctively brought a hand back to rub my stinging bottom. The walk to my seat was the longest, most shameful walk of my life. I could feel every eye on me.
I walked to my seat and sat gingerly, letting my weight down with a wince onto the hard plastic of my small chair. There was no comfort to be found. I laid my head down on my desk, on top of my unfinished collage, and cried. The bright yellow sun I had been so proud of was now just a blur through my tears, the art room no longer my sanctuary, but the scene of my greatest humiliation.
