( This brief autobiography outlines youthful experiences in the United Kingdom just after the second world war. Comments are welcome. firefighter129@excite. com )
I grew up in the residential part of a preparatory school where my father was the headmaster. He believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment. At least once a week I was over his knees, examining the patterned axminster carpet while he spanked my bare behind. A spanking was painful and I wriggled and yelled each time his big hand made contact.
It was a far from ordinary upbringing. I attended the village school but played with the prep school lads. My parents tried to make the school as homely as possible. Boys as young as 6 were accepted so homesickness was inevitable. Still, a real effort was put into running the school. My mother prided herself on the kitchen which provided delicious meals instead of the usual starchy, stodgy school food.
After my seventh birthday I attended the prep school. The teachers were mostly enthusiatic young men, fine educators, who did their best to provide us with learning. Discipline was in the form of a pink slip which had to be taken straight to the headmaster. This invariably meant a sore bottom - a spanking for the younger boys and the cane for older lads. For some unknown reason my father did not use a slipper which I'm told was an excellent implement for punishing intermediate boys.
I seemed to have an aptitude for naughtiness and was spanked for it. Then came the day when I was waiting outside my father's study pink slip in hand. Standing there I heard the cane whack six times. The boy had been caught smoking. The door opened and a pale faced lad of about 11 emerged, desperately trying to rub both the tears from his eyes and the sting from his bottom.
My father read my pink slip.
"This is the second time this week!" he observed. "What am I to do with you?"
I shuffled my feet and looked at the axminster. My father walked over to a cupboard and rummaged around until he found a light cane. My stomach lurched with fear.
"Take your trousers and underpants off", he commanded. "Now bend over the arm of that chair".
I did as I was told without argument. His hand gently pushed my shirt-tail up, well clear of the seven year old target.
"You will receive two strokes. If you attempt to get up or rub your bottom you will receive extra strokes".
I felt the stick touch my flesh as he took aim. Then, it was lifted. There was a sudden rush of air and a thud! as it connected. For a second I felt nothing but then searing pain engulfed my tiny buttocks, literally knocking the breath out of me. Then the second stroke landed and compounded the hurt 100%. My backside was on fire. I lay there as waves of pain radiated from my nether regions.
"Alright old chap, you can get up now."
Slowly, I got to my feet and put my pants back on.
"Sorry, Dad...Sir", I said: "I'll be good, honest!"
It was a hot summer's afternoon and I walked to the school swimming pool in something of a daze. It had all happened so fast. I didn't even cry. Although the beating had not been laid on with any great force, the hurt was awesome. I was very tender. Beside the pool, boys lay naked on the tiered seating, soaking up the sun. When they saw the stripes on my bum even the senior lads were impressed.
"Cor! A perfect set of tram-lines!" Fingers gently touched the weals. I lowered myself into the pool, grateful for the soothing effect the cold water had on my swollen bum.
There was a dramatic improvement in both my school work and attitude at home. The selfish little brat had learned the hard way that wrongful actions can have very painful consequences. My father was forced to beat me very few times after that. I loved him dearly but was terrified of that cane.
At age 13 I was sent away to boarding school and learned first hand what it was like to be homesick. I soon adjusted to my new life though. Beatings were administered by either the housemaster or a senior prefect who was the dormitory monitor. I eventually came to hold the latter position myself. The first boy I had to beat simply dropped his pjs and bent over, offering up his firm, young buttocks. He took his thrashing well and thanked me for it. Other lads hesitated undressing and some were in tears before the first stroke had landed. I soon found the more time I spent organising impromptu games on the field or helping with indoor activities, the less the cane was needed.
Coming from such a background, it is difficult today to believe how quickly corporal punishment fell out of favour. It had been a trusted discipline tool for centuries with many virtues. In my opinion, the greatest benefit had to be the speed with which the beating was administered. A boy quickly paid his tariff for doing wrong and then got on with the all important business of learning. Locking children up in detention with the supervising teacher also a prisoner, is no answer. Rewarding bad behaviour with a holiday called 'suspension' denies a child that one precious chance of learning skills to help them succeed as an adult.
In my day, children did not riot in classrooms. My father had the right idea for keeping order: it was about 3 foot long, flew through the air and connected most unpleasantly with my backside. I firmly believe in corporal punishment and fear society is the worse for its demise.