Anyone else get spanked in elementary school?
That’s right, I got spanked. With a wooden paddle with holes in it so it would move more quickly through the air 😬
Hi friends,
I’m writing this on a crisp morning in Savannah, where we chose to spend our spring break this year, partly to allow our high school senior to visit SCAD and partly because, well, it’s Savannah. Example:
I’m sitting on the little porch of our AirBNB, which has a water feature complete with a sculpture of three women holding up an ornate bowl above their heads while gurgling water ripples around their feet. Because I guess that’s what people did back in Ancient Greece or Rome?
Speaking of gurgling water and Ancient Greece and Rome, I’m reading two books that you might want to check out. The Pool is Closed: Segregation, Summertime, and the Search for a Place to Swim, by Hannah Palmer, is “a book about water: where it flows and where it floods, who owns it, and what it costs. It’s also a story about embracing parenthood in a time of environmental catastrophe and political anxiety, of dwindling public space and natural resources.” Hannah is one of my favorite local authors.
The other book is Caesar and Christ: The Story of Civilization, by Will Durant. I’m just at around 150 BC and Rome is starting to…let’s just say, overindulge a bit in their excesses. I feel like this is going to end badly for them (but please, no spoilers!)
And mostly so I have a record of it, here’s the little patio I’m writing on at the moment.
A Sense of Hope (and inspiration and motivation and…)
If you haven’t checked out my podcast episode with Kyle Pease, please put that on your listen/watch list. Kyle is one of the most amazing humans I’ve ever met, and I have a feeling you’ll be just as inspired after hearing his story as I am.
So…anyone else get spanked in elementary school?
I was no perfect angel in school, let’s start there. Being a little bit funny, but thinking you’re uproariously hilarious, is not a good attribute for a 12-year old boy.
My goal in school—from Kindergarten to senior-year—was to try to make my classmates laugh. While this story is about the time I was spanked for my jokes, I ironically ended up winning an award for my humor as a senior in high school, so, I suppose the lesson there is “never give up on your dreams?”
“One person’s spanking is another person’s Wittiest Award?”
“One small spanking for man, one giant leap(year) for mankind?”
“Never let a spanking get you down?”
I’ll keep workshopping it. The point is, I made a lot of jokes, and as you’ll learn in a minute, they weren’t even very good jokes. But they got laughs from elementary school kids, which is all that mattered at the time. (Know your audience, folks.)
Here’s the scene. I’m sitting in the back of science class—as a jokester, you have to sit in the back so that everyone can hear your witty comments, and so you have the best chance for the teacher not to hear them…it’s a whole strategy—when the teacher says, “Today, class, we’re going to be talking about natural gas.”
When I heard these words, my mind was overcome with, well…
Memory is a funny thing, but I swear when the teacher said this, every student in the class slowly turned around in their chairs, backs to the teacher, and looked right at me, as if to say, “Ok, Jeffrey (I still went by Jeffrey back then), what are you going to do with that?!”
I looked at the kids and then up at the teacher, who had paused at this point because she knew she made a terrible mistake. She gave me a look that said, please, just this once, show some control…
Only, I was a 12-year old boy. Control was not something I was aware of.
And so, with too many jokes running through my head, I slowly raised my hand. The teacher called on me, and I confidently said:
“I have natural gas.”
BOOM! It was like a bomb went off in the class. The other kids couldn’t believe I had just uttered such a witty retort. They were pushing each other over, high-fiving, falling on the floor laughing…at least that’s how I remember it. I gave them what they wanted—it was for them, not for me…I’m selfless like that—and I was about to pay the price.
My teacher looked at me, took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and said, “Ok, everyone, that’s enough, settle down.” Then, pointing to the door, she added, “Jeffrey, head to the principal’s office.”
I still blame her somewhat for what happened next. I mean, who says that we’re going to be talking about natural gas to a class full of 12-year olds and doesn’t expect a response?
I had been to the principal’s office many times, which coincided nicely with my straight N’s in conduct, so I knew the way. I sat down in the little three chair lobby, facing the check-in desk, avoiding eye-contact with the woman sitting there, waiting for what I was sure would be another lecture from Chuck. (I like to think that Principal Hutchinson and I were on a first name basis by this point.)
A few minutes later, he asked his admin who was next, she mentioned my name, and again I heard that long inhale and slow, labored exhale, and he said, “Jeffrey, come on in and shut the door behind you.”
I walked in and stood in front of his desk, and he asked me what happened. I played it straight and told him that I had yet again brought joy and happiness into an otherwise dreary and colorless science class, but he wasn’t buying it.
He said something about how he warned me last time, that he didn’t want to do this anymore than I wanted it to happen, yada yada, but I was too focused on what he was getting out of his storage cabinet to pay much attention to what he was saying. Maybe it was a form for my parents to sign? Paper for me to write an apology letter on?
To my surprise, he pulled out the largest wooden paddle that I’d ever seen. It looked like a small oar for a tiny canoe. It gleamed in the light—did he polish that thing?—and had, I kid you not, holes in the paddle part of it that, I now realize, was so that it would move more quickly through the air. You know, to cause the most pain.
Everything after that point was a blur. I remember going over and having to bend over his knee. I remember the whoosh of the paddle as he whacked my bottom with it. I remember the sting of the paddle connecting with my rear end.
Three swings: WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.
I did have tears in my eyes, I remember that, but I think they were mostly from embarrassment. As I walked back to my class, trying to force my gait back to normal as my butt was on fire, I paused in front of the door to our classroom and tried to get myself under control.
“I’ll never make jokes in class again,” I thought to myself. It just wasn’t worth it. I had learned my lesson, the hard way you might say. I was going to be Mr. Boring from that point on.
I sheepishly slipped through the door and took my seat, hoping no one would be able to tell what had just happened to me. I was pretty sure Mr. Hutchinson wouldn’t tell anyone—we were no longer on a first name basis—and I wouldn’t tell anyone until I had kids of my own (they eat up stories like this.)
I was fully committed to this new life of monk-like stoicism. I had turned a corner and there was no way I’d go back to my old ways.
“Ok, kids, let’s move on to geology,” my teacher said. “Today, we will be discussing Uranus.”
Oh, crap.
The point.
Honestly, I’m not sure if this one has a point. I kinda just wanted to tell that story 😁
I hope you’re happy.
