My name is Jose Bustamante. My best friend is Rodolfo Mendoza. Actually, he is not really my friend but I call him that because we are together a lot. While I try to emulate him, I must confess that Im also somewhat jealous of him which prevents him from really being a friend.
My mother has very dark skin, my fathers is slightly lighter. Im sort of in between but still my brown skin is so much darker than Rodolfos whose parents are very white. Their parents had come from Spain.
Rodolfo was also rich and intelligent, and, to make matters even worse, he was also pretty good at football. He always wore nice suits with shirt and tie even though he was only 16 years old, three-and-a-half years my senior. I, on the other hand, was poor. Not that I didnt have enough to eat or had to sleep in the streets, like some boys I knew. My father was a laborer at a nearby construction am my mother took in washing and mending for some of the wealthier neighbours. So we always had the necessities.
But I had never owned any long trousers, my shorts being too short and too tight after having outgrown them some months ago. The seat is threadbare on most of them and my jumper has small holes in them. We have no running hot water and I must confess that Im not always impeccably washed.
I have asked myself many times why Rodolfo permits my company and the only reason I can find is that he enjoys feeling superior to me and boys like me. He sometimes makes condescending remarks to his friends who look me up and down and smirk. And why do I stay with Rodolfo? I have asked myself this question many times and I guess it is because I want to be like him, imitate his self-assuredness, his grooming and manners. So far I havent succeeded at any of this. My wrinkled little shorts and dusty legs after a football game are strikingly different from Rodolfos and his friends who apparently dont perspire and never get dirty.
Then one day I stopped seeing Rodolfo. I avoided him and he didnt look me up again. It was the day of a championship football game in which Rodolfos team played a team from a neighbouring town. I knew I had to be home by 3:00 to do the chores and help my father with his cleaning up. But the game had been extended again and again and it was nearly 4:00 before I arrived back home. My father was already there, fuming. In his hand he had the strap.
I would have died rather than admitting to anyone, much less to Rodolfo, that my father beat me with that thick, long strap almost daily. And not just a few slaps on the behind. He always made me take off my shorts and underpants, kneel at the end of my cot and then whipped my buttocks for ten or fifteen minutes. Afterwards I was made to do the chores and some extra work, my bottom bruised and swollen.
I remember so many times when I had played football badly because running was so painful, or not concentrating at school because of the hard seats. But I never told anyone the reason, despite the fact that some of the boys in my class were also whipped at home. I didnt want Rodolfo to find out; I wouldnt be able to look him in the eyes if he knew.
So the day of the championship I was thrashed with the strap longer and harder than ever and I couldnt help yelling with the pain. It took ever so long and I thought it would never end. At last my father dropped the strap.
Jose, get up. Your friend Rodolfo is here.
I struggled to my feet and with a cold sense of dread realised that Rodolfo had been standing in the doorway watching my shame. Here I stood, face wet with tears and snot, my shorts and pants around my ankles, my dark-skinned behind even darker, covered with thick welts from top to midway down the thighs. I wanted to die right then and there. I tried to retrieve my clothes and run from the room, but my father gripped my arm.
Jose, dont you want to greet your friend? What kind of manners are those? Perhaps youd like another little taste of the strap, eh?
I wriggled and twisted, but my father held me fast. Please, Papa, I moaned.
Tell your friend why you were punished, my father insisted. He would not allow me to get dressed and so I stood fully exposed from the waist down before that haughty figure who smiled down at me.
I didnt think that skin of yours would show such distinct marks, he said with an insolent chuckle. I thought that black skin of yours was made of leather.
Tell him, Jose, my father said and, without letting me go, bent to pick up the strap. He whacked it sharply across my calves. Tell your friend what happens when you disobey orders.
I - er - I got whipped for being late, I croaked staring at the floor, my face in flames.
Yes, and this isnt the only time. I can tell you, my young friend, Jose gets a good dose of the strap every day in the week and he still disobeys. What can anyone do with a boy like this but more whippings?
Yes, what indeed? Rodolfo said smugly. Oh, how I hated him at that moment. Tell me, Jose, did it hurt?
The question was meant to hurt and hurt it did. I felt so small and insignificant in front of him, I could have been his slave like the Spanish had their slaves when they conquered Mexico. I was dark and pitiful, he was white and strong, in command of the situation. I was humbled and humiliated, he seemed to be enjoying his higher status.
Answer the young man, Jose, my father said, giving me another sharp slasher across the calves.
Yes, it hurts, I spat at him.
Now, Jose, is that a way to speak to a friend of yours? Maybe you need some better manners beaten into you, eh?
Yes, I think that would certainly do the little scamp a lot of good, Rodolfo said, and there was a glitter in his eyes I didnt like.
Well, you heard him, my father said and with one push he threw my back across the cot. Kneel on the edge and spread your knees as wide as they will go.
No, no, papa, por favor, I gasped. In that position I would expose myself fully to Rodolfos gloating eyes. No, I just couldnt. I lay there, hugging my knees, trying to twist myself into a ball and disappear.
Jose, Im warning you, my father said, raising the strap. I didnt move and the strap lashed across my sore bottom. I squealed but didnt move. The strap fell again and again. I thought if he beat me enough in this position, he wouldnt beat me again in the shaming position he had told me to get into.
Jose, if you dont kneel on the bed as instructed, I will thrash your backside until you do, even if it takes all night.
I can wait, Rodolfo said helpfully. I really want to see this. I cant wait to tell my friends about this.
I burst into tears. The strap fell again and again and I realised that I had no choice. I rose slowly, kneeled at the edge of the bed and spread my knees wide apart.
Now bend over, face in your pillow, my father ordered and I obeyed.
Knees wider apart and get that bottom higher up, was the next command. As I reluctantly obeyed, I felt my buttocks spreading, exposing everything I wanted to keep hidden.
Now lets see if we can teach this little brat to show some manners towards a visitor who had come to tell you about having won the championship for our town. Instead of being grateful, you behave in this rude manner. Cincuenta azotes en cada nalga, creo ( I think 50 strokes across each cheek).
Papa, no, I screamed at this sentence on top of what I had already received. But it was no use.
Si te mueves, cincuenta mas, he said. Fifty more if you move. Vamos a ver si este chico va a aprender a obedecer. Lets see if this boy will learn to obey.
The whipping was dreadful. The welts from the previous beating were still on fire and the new strokes took my breath away. Also, in this position, the tip of the strap curled into the cleft each time, right onto that most sensitive spot.
Rodolfo was curious and stepped closer to have a better view.
Right across his hole, he laughed as I screeched into my pillow. I never felt as ashamed as I did now with my bare bottom sticking up into the air, indecently open for Rodolfos inspection.
When it was finally over, I was told to get off the bed and stand in the corner, hands behind my neck. I stood there, whimpering and sniffling while my father and Rodolfo commented on the state of my buttocks.
Well, Jose, Rodolfo snortled, I guess next time you will greet me with more respect or I will have to complain to your father. And I can now see what will happen when I do. So better watch out.
I was allowed to get dressed while Rodolfo sat and watched. Then it was back to my chores and Rodolfo left.
Although I try to avoid Rodolfo from that moment on, its not always possible. And when I run into him at school or on the fields, I greet him respectfully while his friends grin at me. Had your little bottom been whipped lately? some one may ask and I have to answer truthfully, fearing that Rodolfo will report me to my father. And the reply is usually a small, shaking yes.
Then I try to get away as fast as possible, knowing that some weals across my upper thighs are plainly visible to Rodolfo and all his friends, and I could cry again with humiliation.
But I didnt always escape. Rodolfo had his fun complaining to my father about my bad manners regardless of what I did and I got my thrashings. My father never believed me when I protested my innocence. The following day, Rodolfo and his friends would surround me and ask, Well, little boy, did you get a nice spanking? Lets have a look. They didnt have to take my shorts down. All they had to do was look at my upper thighs or raise the brief hems to see the thick welts. This went on for several months until they lost interest.