A Good Whooping

Might these instruments of doom build character?

I am no stranger to the flyswatter, switch, belt, and paddle. I even got a good whooping with a paint brush. I ought to be a disciple because I sure got disciplined a lot. Deservedly so. To this day, I remain proud of a record I set my senior year in high school. I was the only male to get a whooping and I got three. Two for fighting and one for defacing public property. That got me a whooping the day I graduated. Here’s how it went down.

On our last day of school—the very last—I wrote my sentiments about algebra in a text book. I “rough talked.” That is I used foul language. Imagine that, but with good reason. In a moment of clairvoyance I looked to the many years ahead and realized I would never, not once, use algebra in my life. And I didn’t.

The algebra teacher, a man known for his elocution and prissy ways, called my father to tell him of my egregious act.

“Your son, Tommy, has defaced public property. He wrote obscene language in ink in an algebra textbook. You have two choices. I can withhold him from graduation tonight or I can give him a spanking.”

My father responded faster than a lash of a belt. “Tear him up.”

My obscene language? An algebraic formula for breaking wind. Yep, sophomoric.

I was a feisty boy. One summer day Mom sent me to the elm out back to retrieve a switch. “Boy, you’re begging for an appointment with Dr. Green, Dr. Green Switch, that is. Go fetch me a switch.” I don’t recall what I did but fetching that switch was like bringing a snake into our home. She placed that switch, green and limber and perfect for lashing on the dining room’s china buffet. It lay there menacing, a snake eager to strike. That’s when an idea came to me. Snap that sucker into one-inch segments and fit it back together. And I did. It lay there perfect once again, except it had no fangs now. Try and switch with me that.

Eager to see that switch in action I showed out as folks will say. Mom went for the switch. She grabbed it and came up with a stem. Tried again. Same result. With the third try, she gave up.

Two uneventful days passed. I sat in the living room, shirtless, reading Reader’s Digest. Now our living room was perfect for sneaking up on someone. The thick carpet rendered footsteps silent. I was reading “It Pays To Increase Your Word Power” when a live wire fell from the ceiling across my back. What! How can a hot wire come loose like that. Then the second wire burned me. Mom had slipped up and lashed me twice with a new switch courtesy of Dr. Green. Out the front door I flew clearing the front stoop by five yards.

Never again did I mess with her switches.

“Now you know this will hurt me far more than you.” Ever hear that? Dad laid the belt to me and it is the ultimate whooping I received.

I can’t explain what all these whoopings did for me but I assure you it was a good thing. Some folks with good intentions label all corporal punishment as abuse. Maybe it’s because Muhammed Ali said, “I gotta whoop George. I gotta whoop George good.” Maybe it’s because RD Mercer liked to tell a troublemaker, “Man I got me an aerosol can of whoop ass, and I’m gonna bring it.”

I cannot count the times I got a good whooping, but I can tell you how many times I whipped my daughters. Not once. Spankings, whippings, paddlings ... whatever you call them don’t seem right for girls. An ornery ol’ boy with evil and trickeration on his mind? Yep.

Maybe if I had used a pencil instead of a pen that algebra teacher wouldn’t have had me bend over and grab my ankles. He gave me three whacks with what looked like a cricket bat. I graduated with my class that night and set sail into the big, wide world. And do you know what? I entered adulthood quite aware that life dishes out consequences for bad behavior. Other than a few more fights, I’ve lived a fairly clean life. I thank my whoopings in large part for that. They made me a better man.