The paddle's infinite sting

Corporal punishment at school leaves temporary welts and permanent shame.

By Ted Gup

Sep 4, 2001 | In a recent story in the New York Times with the headline "Lawsuits Touch Off Debate Over Paddling in the Schools," I read of children in Zwolle, La., who felt the sting of the paddle and whose parents were now suing. The item brought back some unwelcome memories. Even as a 50-year-old university professor, I could not suppress the anger that welled up inside me reading about something I had wrongly assumed was a relic of the past -- my past.

Twenty-three states, most of them in the South, still allow corporal punishment. The most recent data indicates that some 365,000 students are paddled each year. But I have no wish to write about numbers. It is about one individual child I write and of the invisible scars that paddling leaves behind.

In 1956, I was a first-grader at Belle Stone Elementary School in Canton, Ohio. I was 7 years old. I stood 4 feet tall and weighed all of 52 pounds. I was basically a good kid. Like many back then, I said "Yes, Sir," and "No, Ma'am," when addressed by adults. Teachers brought out in me an equal mixture of respect and fear. The fear would soon overtake the respect.

After reading about the Louisiana lawsuit, I decided to dig out my first grade report card. It was divided into two sections. The first was called "Scholarship," and recorded that I had a mix of B's and C's. The second section was dedicated to "Citizenship." And there, under "Thinks and Works Well Alone," were two check marks -- a record of the charges against me. I had been whispering with my friend Billy Rosenthal in the back of class while the teacher, Mrs. P, was talking.

Mrs. P was a large and stern woman who glowered at anyone who did not pay strict attention or who did not sit perfectly still. I was a squirmer. So was Billy. What I remember is this: One day in that first year of school, I was hauled out of class by the scruff of my neck and told to put my hands against the cold ceramic tiles of the wall. Then I was told to spread my feet apart and bend over. In her strong hands, Mrs. P held a 3-foot-long oak paddle with Greek letters on it -- a memento of a college fraternity. That paddle had long hung by a leather thong just outside the principal's office -- a warning to one and all, a symbol of authority, like a Roman fasces.

"I am doing this because I care about you," Mrs. P told me, wrapping the leather thong around the wrist of her right hand. An instant later, I felt the wood slam against my buttocks. I lurched forward into the wall, stiffening my arms to absorb the shock. The crack of the paddle resounded down the hall. I imagine there was not a soul in that school who did not hear it and wince. In later years I associated it with the dimming of the lights when an executioner throws the switch on the electric chair.

Other students and teachers walked by and gawked. I neither cried nor flinched. I took my punishment as I was told I must -- "like a man." I received half a dozen whacks. I remember limping home over the hill, Mrs. P's words still in my ears: "I am doing this because I care about you." I was thinking, "I wish she didn't care so much."

At home I inspected the damage in the privacy of my bedroom. There were red welts on both cheeks. I never said a word to my parents. After that paddling I did not whisper in class again. In fact, I did not speak in class at all. Mostly I tried to be invisible and in this, at least, I succeeded. After the first grade, I was never again paddled, though the threat of it was as much a part of every school day as the recitation of the Lord's Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Scarcely a week went by when the crack of the paddle did not fill the halls.

Next Page: It was a kind of branding iron that marked me for public scorn and private shame

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