A Georgia school made national news on September 11, 2018, when it reinstated corporal punishment. Parents comments ranged from: “Great, it’s about time, we’re so glad that this is happening again, they should’ve never taken it out of schools.” to: “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you are doing that.”
Corporal punishment in the schools was an accepted procedure during much of my early teaching career, 1961-1997. These are my experiences with it. I will let you draw your own conclusions as to its value. (Names of persons in the essay have been changed to protect privacy. Locations and dates are accurate.)
New Town Elementary School. North Dakota, 1962
“You have to do something about Jeffrey. You can not allow him to behave like that.”
Superintendent Berg had called me into his office. He remained seated, peering up over his glasses, as I stood, my face hot, looking down at my purple mimeograph-stained fingers.
Jeffrey, with his brown crew-cut hair, blue eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose, looked like the average six-year-old. Unfortunately, on a surprise visit to my first-grade classroom, Mr. Berg had seen Jeffrey at his worst, under his desk, barking like a dog, and laughing at me when I reprimanded him.
“I had a conference with his parents about his behavior,” I told Mr. Berg. “They said they have trouble with him at home, too.”
“Hummph.” Superintendent Berg was not interested in excuses. “You need to get permission to spank him. I could do it, but he has to learn that you’re the teacher. Get permission and next time he acts up, do it.”
I dreaded making the phone call. Jeffrey, I thought. You’re giving me gray hairs and I’m only 20 years old. I remembered the joke I heard at the teachers’ convention in the fall. “Have kids early in your career. If you wait too long, you won’t be able to name them.” The crowd of teachers roared at that one, and I was starting to get it. I used to love the name Jeffrey. I associated it with my favorite movie actor, Jeff Chandler. But not anymore. If I ever had a son I sure wouldn’t name him Jeffrey.
To my surprise Jeffrey’s parents were in favor of spanking. Maybe they thought shaping up at school would carry over and help at home.
I had never spanked anybody before in my life. Well, too bad. I would just have to do it. I couldn’t let one more naughty thing get by.
I didn’t have to wait long for my opportunity to act. The next morning brought the not uncommon zero-degree temperature reading. It was too cold for the children to play outside. They came in as they arrived, shedding jackets and overshoes that left muddy puddles in the hallway. The little girls pulled off the long pants that had kept their legs warm under the compulsory dresses and skirts. Jeffrey strolled in just as the last bell rang. On the way to his seat and with a swoop of his arm, he deliberately knocked Karen’s crayon box off her desk.
“Miss Carroll,” she cried, as she scrambled to pick up the crayons rolling about on the gray-tiled floor. “Look what Jeffrey did!”
“I saw him,” I answered. Narrowing my eyes and folding my arms across my chest, I commanded, “Jeffrey, come up here.”
He came to the front of the room. I turned him around so that he faced the rest of the students. Holding him by the shoulder with my left hand, I gave him a hard swat to the butt with my right.
He laughed, gave me a look that said, “Is that the worst you can do?” and sauntered back to his seat.
“It’s not funny, young man,” I said, knowing he’d won, but determined to get the last word.
After school, I went to confess my failure to the superintendent.
“You’re small,” he said, “And,” looking down at my still inky fingers, “you have small hands. Next time use a paddle.”
I left, cowering under his disapproval. It was beginning to feel like it was Jeffrey or me. If I couldn’t control him, I would probably be fired. But a paddle! Where would I get a paddle? Minot was 100 miles away. Would they even have paddles at the teacher-supply store? Anyway, Jeffrey would not change overnight. I needed it by tomorrow.
I went back to my room and sat down on the piano bench. Although we didn’t have much in the way of books and supplies, every first grade room had a piano. I’d already taught the children many songs, and music was a favorite part of the day for everyone.
The pepperminty smell of paste from the art project we’d just completed hung in the air. Idly, I played a few notes of “Mary had a Little Lamb,” and then I saw it. On top of the piano was a board that had fallen off the back of the aged instrument. It was stout and strong, thick and heavy. I didn’t have a paddle. I would have to beat Jeffrey with a board.
The next day was slightly warmer, but still too cold for outside play. I pulled the faded blue percale curtains open to let in more of the scarce winter light. Snowflakes blew against the narrow horizontal windows. The 8:30 bell rang.
“Boys and girls, it’s time for school. Please clear your desks and get ready for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Obediently the 28 first-graders, put away color crayons and papers, leaving just a pencil lying in the pencil tray. Hands folded, silent, eyes were focused on me waiting for the command to stand and put their hands on their hearts. All except for Jeffrey, who still had his crayons out and was not coloring, but scribbling. Giant black whirls desecrated his paper.
“Jeffrey, did you hear me?”
He continued to scribble.
“Do I need to spank you again today?”
He shot a defiant glance in my direction accompanied by a scornful laugh.
This time I didn’t ask him to step forward. I marched to the piano, grabbed the board, jerked him out of his seat and hit him. How many times I don’t know. As many as it took to make him cry.
Jeffrey cringed on the floor, trying to escape that cruel hardwood club, squeezing back the hot tears I’d never before seen shed. His eyes were filled with cold, unforgiving hate.
The rest of the year Jeffrey and I were deadlocked in an uneasy truce. The threat of violence had entered our relationship, the learning atmosphere had been poisoned and we were frozen in our adversarial roles.
Elementary School. Security, Colorado, 1967
The twins were so cute! I had Mark in my class and my colleague Shelley, next door, had Matt. They were a head shorter than the rest of their first-grade classmates. They were identical, but Mark’s face was slightly fuller, and Matt was just a little more wiry. Others might be fooled, but Shelley and I could tell our two apart.
Their dad was an officer at the nearby army post and their mom was a homemaker. The twins had a stable family, did well academically and were well-behaved.
So I was surprised when I heard the principal’s authoritarian voice come over the intercom: “Please send Mark Waters to the office.”
The whole class was aghast. They were all afraid of the principal. This was like a call to the firing squad.
I went with Mark to the hallway. Shelley stood by her door. “He just called Matt, too.”
“It’s okay, boys,” we said looking into their white, terrified faces.
They clutched each other’s hands and continued the long walk past the three second-grade classrooms and two third-grades. They looked so little. Shelley and I wanted to go with them, but we returned to our classrooms.
Ten minutes later, Cindy, the secretary came to our doors. “Mr. Jackson wants you to come to the office. Give your classes something to do and I’ll watch both rooms.”
I felt like holding Shelley’s hand for comfort, too, as we proceeded to the office.
At the door we saw Matt and Mark, still scared, but looking relieved to see us.
Mr. Jackson removed his suit coat and loosened his tie. A cloud of English Leather cologne assailed us as his body heat escaped into the air. Unsmiling and grim, he spoke in a tight voice. “At lunch hour, instead of putting the milk button in the box, two people put in underwear buttons.”
Oh gosh. I almost laughed. I thought of the black “milk buttons” that the children with cold lunch purchased for three cents each morning and how strange it would look having two delinquent white misfits in with the mix.
“These boys said they didn’t do it.” Mark and Matt vigorously shook their heads. Their brows were furrowed with worry, but they were too afraid to say anything aloud.
“BUT,” Mr. Jackson bellowed, then lowered his voice to an even scarier pitch as he spit out the words, “the lunch lady saw them do it!”
The case was closed. It didn’t sound like something Mark and Matt would do, but defending them was not an option.
“ I need you to be witnesses,” Mr. Jackson said to Shelley and me.
He stepped to the wall behind his desk and removed the wooden paddle from the hook.
“Which one’s going to be first?” He didn’t know them apart.
Mark bravely stepped forward.
“Grab your ankles.” His little bottom, stuck up in the air, was only as big as a man’s palm. Shelley and I were shaking. Tears filled our eyes.
WHACK! It almost knocked Mark off his feet.
“Next.” Mr. Jackson ordered.
Matt was crying by this time, for himself or for his brother, probably both, but he managed to get in position. Mr. Jackson wound up and delivered the second blow.
“You may go back to your classroom,” he declared and the four of us left.
The next day as I went through the lunch line, Mrs. Lacey, the lunchroom assistant stopped me. “You know Mr. Jackson got the wrong twins yesterday for putting the underwear buttons in with the milk money. I told him it was the twins, but I meant those second grade twins.You know Joey and what’s the other one’s name?”
I knew whom she meant immediately. I often had trouble with them at recess. Untrimmed hair, dirty faces, oversized t-shirts hanging out of their jeans. They matched each other in appearance, wily and street smart. Joey had once sold a playground rock to a first grader for a nickel.
“Timmy is the other one, Mrs. Lacey. They’re brothers, but they’re not twins. Joey is in third grade and Timmy is in second.”
“Oh,” she shrugged and went on punching the lunch tickets.
Helen Hunt Elementary, Colorado Springs, 1971
Tricia looked gorgeous as usual. Her mom had added pink satin bows to set off the braided loops of her hair and the carnation pink just matched her stylish dress. I thought that the other third graders might tease her about her fancy clothes since very few of them could afford anything close, but they never did. With the democracy of childhood, they accepted her.
It was Thursday and so far Tricia had not completed any of her work for the week. This had been her pattern since school started six weeks before. Her mother was concerned, and when I sent work home to be finished, it sometimes got there, but not always. Tricia would say it got lost or she just didn’t remember what happened to it.
She was smart, with no learning problems. She read aloud fluently. She did math problems at the board with ease.
The golden fall sunshine streamed through the tall windows of the nineteenth century building. My high heels resounded on the polished wooden floor as I walked over to see how Tricia was doing.
She had laid her pretty head down on her desk, and the satin ribbons fell gently against her pencil in the pencil tray.
“Tricia,” I kneeled down beside her, tilting my head sideways to look into her face. “I’ve talked to the principal and your mom about getting your work done, and your mom said that if you don’t do it, the principal can give you a spanking. Get something done before recess or I’m going to have to tell him.”
She raised her head, looked thoughtfully at her papers, but by recess she had done nothing.
I didn’t have recess duty, so I had time to go to the office. Mr. Anderson looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. Competent and fair, he had won the respect of the community as a white principal in the black, inner-city school. He listened as I told him about Tricia’s lack of cooperation.
“I’ll come by after recess.”
Ten minutes later Mr. Anderson was at my classroom door, wooden paddle in hand.
“Send her out,” he ordered quietly.
Mouths dropped open and eyes got big.
“It’s the principal!” someone whispered.
“And he’s got a paddle!”
Twenty-four third graders began working furiously, with an occasional furtive glance toward the doorway.
WHAP! Several students startled in their seats at the sound.
Pink ruffles were not much protection, but I didn’t hear any outcry.
Tricia returned, eyes wet, but not crying. She picked up her pencil and did all her work. And she did it every day for the rest of the year.
***
Lucy Bell’s 35-year teaching career included over twenty years as a writing consultant. Her latest book, Coming Up, A Boy’s Adventures in 1940s Colorado Springs, combines narrative non-fiction with the history of the black community of Colorado Springs. It features rare historical photographs and the watercolor illustrations of Linda Martin. Release date: October 14, 2018. Her children’s novel, Molly and the Cat Who Stole Her Tongue, published in 2016, is available at Poor Richard’s Bookstore, Colorado Springs and Amazon.
