Thursday, December 21, 2006

Beat Down

I don't know if this is still the case, but when I was growing up in the South, the schools could still enforce discipline with corporal punishment. Like, if you were caught talking in class or whatever, the teacher could beat you. With a paddle. Or a weapon if you prefer. It seems hard to believe that sort of thing could still be possible in this day and age of enlightenment, but back in the dark ages of the mid-80s, you could still get smacked by a teacher, or worse, the vice-principal, for being a twerp in school.

My point is not to talk about the virtues or travesties of my Mississippi education. It had moments of "What the...?" and some good times. Just like any other High School experience. No, I just want to tell the story of how I ended up getting beaten.

The actual story of what I did to merit punishment is immaterial. Truth be told, I'm having a hard time recalling what happened. Mostly, it was the end of the school year, I was a "good" kid who never misbehaved and kind of felt like I needed to step out onto the "wild" side. I'd never been in trouble or done anything untoward. Yes, I know, yawn-city.

Anyway, even though I knew that people got smacked, I just sort of felt like my life wouldn't be complete (i.e., that someday I might need to tell this story at a party), if I didn't "get licks."


Yes, friends, that's what they called getting smacked with a paddle. "Licks." Kind of makes it sounds vaguely "interesting" and just a little bit sexual and not at all painful and demeaning. Which, I hope to all that is holy in life, that it wasn't a sexual thing for either the givers (teachers and the cliché ridden over-disciplining vice-principal) or the receivers (poor wayward junior high and high school students).

So my friend Mark, who had been on the receiving end quite a few times in his checkered past, said that he'd help me get into a situation where I could get "licks." (He was a such good friend, huh?) In today's modern parlance, we began "acting out." My Chem teacher just said that we were being a pain in the ass and began threatening escalating punishments.

"Y'all are fixin' to get licks. Do you boys want to get licks?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Benson, I do believe that we do need licks." (Yes, I really talked like I had a big ol' stick up my booty back then. Sometimes I broke into iambic pentameter, because I just didn't know any better.)

Mark pointed out that he really didn't need licks after all, and that the getting licks thing was my idea, but Mr. Benson didn't really care. He promptly sent both of us (despite Mark's protests and much to Mark's dismay) down to the Office where we'd get our licks, delivered by the vice principal, who's name escapes me right now.

We presented ourselves at the Office and the secretary said, "What can I do for you boys?"

I said this:



She gave a look that said "Are you sure?" since I wasn't the usual clientele for licks and Mark had cleaned up his act a long time ago.

I said my thing again, just like in the above MP3.

She parked us in the vice-principal's office and said he'd be back to deal with us in a minute. I think they have you sit in the office to help build up the terror factor. Because you are sitting across from the guy's desk and hanging on the wall is "The Paddle." It was a pretty gnarly looking piece of hardware, frankly. Flat like a cricket bat, maybe two and a half feet long, duct and electrical tape on the handle and about twelve holes drilled through it. I think the holes were there so it could be swung harder and had less resistance through the air. He had burned the words "OLD HICKORY" along the face of it. And I kid you not, the other side had "JUSTICE" scorched across it.

Now until the vice-principal walked through the door, I was pretty much treating the whole thing like a big joke. He wouldn't really hit me with that thing, would he? I mean, come on! It's the eighties! And I'm a good kid. I'll just explain that this was a bit of a lark and that Mark and I would go back to class and behave. We'd even limp and wince when we sat down, so everyone would know that we'd been appropriately punished. I looked over at Mark and said, "We are going to get beaten, aren't we?"

Mark looked at me like I was nuts, "Um, yeah, we going to get licks, all right." He didn't add, "You dumb ass" which was pretty nice of him in retrospect.

"Well, I think maybe we should try and not have that happen."

Mark rolled his eyes at me, a sure sign that my butt was going to be very sore in a few moments.

The V.P. rolled in and said, "What are you boys doing here?"

I said my thing again, because I just couldn't help myself. (hit play again). Though this time I was a bit less flippant, I must admit. A bit of a lump in my throat as a matter of fact.

"How many?"

I hadn't realized that the number of licks could be a variable in this mediaeval torture equation. Mark had the slip of paper that Mr. Benson sent down with us.

"Five each, sir."

"Britches up or down?"

What?!! I had no idea that having my pants pulled down and smacked on the ass was on the menu. Had I known that, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have signed up for this little adventure. I couldn't take my eyes off the paddle by this point. It sort of loomed over the whole room. A silent observer, waiting for it's entrance into the scene.

"It doesn't say here."

"Well, what do you boys think? Up or down?"

I couldn't put voice to words at that point, but Mark spoke up.

"We were just talkin' in class, sir. Pants up, I think."

"Fair enough," and then he gave us a lecture/sermon on obedience and how there were consequences and ramifications for our actions here on this earth. He didn't, but he may as well have said "Amen" at the end of his speech. He would have been a fine hellfire and damnation Baptist preacher if he hadn't chosen the higher calling of educating (i.e. disciplining) Mississippi's youth.

He asked which of us would go first and Mark said he would.

He bent over with his hands the V.P.'s desk and took his licks. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Mark didn't make a sound while it was happening. There were about two seconds between each swing. I got a little nauseous and had a huge lump in my throat.

"Your turn, son."

I was going to say, "You know, I don't think this is really necessary. I'm pretty sure I'm never going to talk in class again," but I just couldn't get any sound out of my mouth.

I bent over the desk and looked at the pictures of his wife, kids and grandkids on the desk while he pounded on me. The first one didn't really hurt. The anticipation of when that first one will land is far worse than the pain of the first blow. It was more like a wake up call, I guess. Apparently there is a an art to licks, and building up to the final crescendo is a part of it. By the end, I could definitely feel it through my Levi's 501s. To say it stung would be a gross understatement. I certainly didn't want to sit down anytime soon.

Licks done, one final and stern "don't let me catch you back here again!", we shuffled back to class, heads hung in shame as we walked through the door. Mark told me that he'd had far worse. The V.P. had apparently gone easy on us. Mark said it was probably because I was a Yankee and I had to remind him for the seventieth time that I was born in Hattiesburg, Mississippi and just because I didn't really have an accent like his, didn't mean I was a Yankee per se. Not that I really wanted to claim my southern heritage at that point in my life, but being called a Yankee is a pretty nasty insult, you know?

I didn't tell my mom about the incident at the time. She'd have turned seventeen shades of purple and begun filing arrest warrants and lawsuits, I'm pretty sure, bless her heart.

And people wonder why I have zero desire to move back down to the South.


Jon scribbled this mess on 12/21/06 at 11:29 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post Favorite Entries. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

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