I was in Quitman this week, and had a conversation with a friend about some specific aspects of growing up in south GA. This may be something that is universal or possibly generic in the way of parental guidance. I don't know about that, but I can report on 'discipline theory' of my childhood and there was no hesitation at all with sparing the rod, so to speak. I can only relate what I know, from my own experience as well as what I have heard from others.
Some of you, dear readers (sounds like Miss Manners!), have heard the story before, but in the interest of preserving things for posterity, it bears repeating.The topic started with my hopeless ineptness with math, something I have readily admitted to all my adult life. It was such a relief to realize that my brain works differently and that the fact that I never learned to multiply is something that I can just accept, without feeling second class. I am to the point that I know I have 'gifts', things that I do well, enjoy, feel a sense of accomplishment with, and can take pride in - none of which include numbers.
I'd wager that most of the people my age, who did have great math skills have become so dependent on technology, post-slide-rule and hand held calculator era, that their times tables have got a great deal of rust build-up. My brother is the guy who loved his slide rule so much when they got swept away by computers, he built a frame for his with a little metal piece attached: that says 'in case of emergency, break glass'. I think there will be a time, when the grid goes down (some expect/anticipate zombie apocalypse), and it will be a good thing to have around.
I was out sick one day in the fifth grade (loved my fifth grade teacher!) and the class started to learn the multiplication tables without me. So I got behind, and somehow never caught up. No matter how long my dad sat with me at the dining room table, and went over those hideous facts, they would not stick in my head. (So - that's how I know it's wired differently.) I know he got very frustrated with our little homemade flash cards, and the tediousness of going over and over the same ground that he thought had been thoroughly plowed. But it just was not something that came easily to me. Now: words - that's a different matter altogether!
So I have a clear picture in my head of the last time my dad took his belt off and used it on me. I don't believe there were many occasions this happened - probably more with my brother- but he was obviously at his wits end with me and math. I brought home a report card when I was in the tenth grade. There was an F in geometry. I simply did not understand it, did not have the building blocks, or the knowledge to grasp something so abstract, to say nothing of confusing. And to this day, don't know why he thought he could whale that knowledge into me. I guess that is what parents did to kids when they did not know what else to do?
I also have a clear memory of my brother, knowing he was in serious hot water, over something or other - padding the back pockets of his blue jeans, in anticipation of the belting he knew he would get when our dad got home.
And... I remember being at the dinner/lunch table at my grandmother's house, at a time when anyone who showed up when she rang the little bell was welcome to sit down, squeeze in for the meal. She and her oldest daughter lived in adjacent houses. So there was always a crowd - especially in the summer, when my brother and I were occasionally farmed out for the day to amuse ourselves with cousins. This particular remembered incident was when one of the cousins, about my age, got so unruly, he was instructed to go outside, next door to their house, and pick a switch off the bush by the back door, (thin little deadly branches off the spirea shrub) and bring it to be used on bare legs. Horrifying to the uninitiated: the idea of having to 'pick your own switch'!
Funny/ironic to be remembering this now as I think my aunt was a proponent of the Dr. Spock school of child-rearing. And believe he was in favor of calmly sitting them down for a discussion of acceptable behavior rather than administering instanteous corporal punishment. Looking back, I propose to cousins: we need to come up with some sort of measurement/scale to evaluate childhood trauma and decide how/which would be rated as the absolute worst form of punishment - even though I suspect all my relatives and I suffered would be considered pretty mild by today's standards.
My friend, the guy I was having this conversation with about parental discipline- another story....
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