I wasn’t a model child. I was always rebellious, always
curious, often to a fault. Sometimes my need to know resulted in a need to be
punished. I got into trouble occasionally but if you looked around the
neighborhood, in comparison to others around my age, I was thought of as a good
kid. Back then, I’d see bad kids doing bad things all the time and their
parents didn’t care. For a time I thought they were cool. Those kids had it
made. On the other side of it I was held to a higher standard. When some of the
neighborhood kids stayed out a few hours late, they’d waltz in to no repercussions,
no consequences. Their punishment was that maybe they missed dinner. When I did
the same, I would be in “big trouble”. Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t do
these things often and that probably heightened the seriousness of when I did,
but at the same I didn’t think it was fair. I would get in trouble and others
wouldn’t. When I acted the right way and followed the rules, I didn’t get
anything extra for it. No rewards! What was the point? I didn’t realize I was doing
what I should have been doing all along and didn’t deserve anything extra for
it. But when I saw other kids getting $20 for straight C’s and I’d bring home
straight A’s to no response whatsoever, I’d get jealous. I wanted to have as
much fun as the other kids, live under the same rules, or lack thereof.
Sometimes I’d hear sitcom dads on television say “You don’t understand why I’m
doing this now, but someday you will”. My dad never really told me that but I
did know he was disappointed and upset every time I gave him a reason to punish
me. I could almost feel the “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you”
in his eyes, despite the fact that in those moments, it hurt me a whole lot… more
on that later. The point is, sometimes I followed the crowd and did some very
dumb things… all part of an effort to fit in.
Once in a while I got away with it. I learned to get better
at hiding things from him, it wasn’t hard. My dad wasn’t what you’d call an
attentive guy. He generally gave off a “leave me alone” vibe. I don’t think he
was cold, but with him being a month short of 50 when I was born there were
several generations between us. We often had trouble communicating. We didn’t
understand each other. I don’t know if we ever could. On top of that he was a disciplined
military guy. He loved boxing, baseball and fishing. He was very manly, very
traditional. He didn’t talk about feelings, explore the philosophy behind
things or talk about dreams. I thought boxing was stupid, baseball was boring (sometimes)
and I was disgusted just trying to bait a hook. I cried routinely at beautiful
things, openly talked about how I felt and asked questions… just not around
him. He was tough and I was tender. We had some similarities but our
differences were vast. We were just from different times.
One thing any parents who cared in my neighborhood did was
whip their kids when needed. I saw some kids get beaten with a switch, a yard
stick and I even saw one kid get beaten with a broom. Whenever it was my turn my father would take off his leather belt.
When I saw him reaching for it I would sometimes start to cry preemptively. I
knew I was about to feel some pain. I don’t remember ever bleeding from a “whoopin”
but many times I would have red welts on my legs, my back or my behind.
Whenever I was on the verge of doing something stupid a thought would always
enter my mind; “is this worth a whoopin?” It certainly became a deterrent on
many occasions especially if I thought there was even a small chance of getting
caught. Did that fear keep me away from the drugs, the gangs and unplanned
pregnancies that swept through my neighborhood? It’s possible it was a contributing
factor but it wasn’t the only one, remember deep down I was a good kid. But was
their another way? When you’re little and you’re in trouble you aren’t exactly
thinking about suggesting alternate methods of punishment, especially if you
don’t know any. I just assumed every parental figure whooped their kids. Whenever
we encountered the rare kid whose parents utilized a “time out” or something we
considered “soft”, we thought their parents were hippies, new age weirdos or
maybe just super rich… because rich people didn’t beat their kids. It always
seemed to us that in poor and working class neighborhoods kids got their asses whipped
when needed. It built character. This was all I knew.
As I went through my teen years something happened. My relationship
with my father evolved. First my father was getting pretty old. I was also getting
pretty big. Sometimes in my rebellious mind I wondered if he tried to whoop me
for something, would I just instinctively, emotionally decide to fight back. It
wouldn’t have been hard to turn the tide on a 60-something year old guy with
emphysema, even if he was mean and tough. But thankfully it never reached that
point. I don’t know if the whooping stopped because he got old or I got right.
I still did stupid things during my high school years but nothing that deserved
major punishment. I was learning the basis for what would be my moral code and
I think I had also developed a respect for my father. Behind all the rebellion
and modern slang I think I started to respect what he tried to do for me. I was
still grounded every once in a while but thankfully the belt no longer came
off. Perhaps we both learned something.
When I hit my college years and he was reaching the end I
began to understand what those sitcom dads were talking about. I deserved to be
punished. It showed that my dad cared unlike many of the other parents in the
neighborhood who didn’t. The punishments and the fear of a whoopin’ caused me
to rethink some decisions and led me towards doing the right thing. Not every
time, but enough times. Fear in the absence of wisdom. It did the trick. So
with that said, I wouldn’t change anything about those days. It doesn’t mean I
agree though. I understood the end results but as I became a man I began to
question the methods. Grounding was fair, depriving me of things I liked would
have been fair as well. But whipping my behind until I was crying uncontrollably,
that’s something I cannot abide.
I deserved to be punished those times I lied, stole or cheated
and I wouldn’t change it but I have to tell you, that I would never strike my
child. Just because it worked for me, or I think that it did, it doesn’t mean I
wouldn’t have learned right and wrong through other means. It also doesn’t mean
I should do the same thing he did. Much like the generation gap I felt between
he and I, these are different times today. If that weren’t enough of a reason,
I also know I’m a different person than him. We’re both emotional and hot
tempered, but unlike him I am very sensitive and affectionate. I often consider
the meaning in my actions, the effect they may have on others. I don’t think he
did. Maybe he just did what he did because that’s all he knew. It’s not an
excuse but it is a reason. I still hear about people whipping their kids but it’s
definitely not as popular as it used to be. Why are less people doing it? We
aren’t getting softer, we’re getting smarter. Spanking, beating, whoopin kids,
no matter what you call it is a form of child abuse. We can talk matter of
degrees in terms how much is enough to qualify for that distinction but I feel
like one belt, one switch, one broom to a kid is one too many. It’s my personal
belief that if you feel you have no recourse but to beat your child, you are
not doing a good enough job as a parent. Of course, I’m not trying to tell you
how to raise/treat your kids, I’m just telling you my story… the story of a good
kid who was beaten with a belt when he was bad, but would never treat my child
the same way. This is the story of a man who understands tradition and why it’s
sometimes important to change it. This is the story of a man who has learned to
love without fear… who won’t back down from what he believes. In a strange way,
I think my dad wouldn’t want it any other way.
No comments:
Post a Comment