When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I “back home” to Texas during the summers. We were placed in the care of my great-grandmother and great-aunt, two strict disciplinarians who took the job of reining in wild, unruly children seriously. The summers I spent with these two sanctified, stalwart reformers of errant behavior were difficult for me because I was a stubborn and willful child.
My great-grandmother had an encyclopedia of rules for rearing “good chirrin”, one she memorized over a lifetime of caring for her brood as well as those of extended family members and neighbors. My sisters and I were her great- grandbabies, the sprouting seeds of yet another generation; so she proudly and lovingly shepherded over us.
To my great-grandmother and great-aunt, a healthy childhood consisted of equal parts work, church and playtime. Breakfast was always proceeded by a list of daily chores compiled by my great-aunt. Every member of the household was expected to contribute to its upkeep. We were allowed to play only after all chores had been completed to my great-aunt’s satisfaction.
The world we inhabited was a conservative one; people followed a strict social code. Things were good or bad, black or white. The “elasticity” of today’s relativist thinking about social mores would be rejected as evidence of the devil’s work by my great-grandmother and great-aunt whose church lady sensibilities formed the moral core of our daily life.
A bright red line separated the adult world from that of children. Theirs was a world shrouded in mystery; a place of secrets and whispers, of conservations carried on in hushed tones. To inoculate us from the corrosive “taint” of such forbidden knowledge, we children were required to leave the room whenever grown-ups wanted to talk about the more nitty-gritty aspects of life. Looking back, it is clear great effort was made by adult family members to shield us from the harsh realities of Black life in America; to allow us to be carefree and innocent for as long as possible.
The serious matter of preparing us for the time when we would assume roles as adults both in our family and community entailed a continual transfer of knowledge using a variety of methods during these formative years. Corporal punishment or “getting a whupping”, as I called it, was one of the ways important life lessons were taught.
Much has been written about the psycho-cultural association between the lashings African slaves suffered at the hands of plantation owners and the use of corporal punishment within Black families. I am loath to make such a connection. The brutal beatings inflicted by the lash and other weapons of terror used by overseers to subjugate African captives, are a far cry from the loving but stern discipline imposed by my great-grandmother and great-aunt.
The physical punishments they used included a hand-smack on the back of the head, a pinch on the arm, ruler strikes on open palms, and, for the most serious offenses a “whupping”-- usually administered with a switch the offender had to select from one of the many fruit trees growing in the backyard.
There was nothing arbitrary or capricious about these punishments. The types of misbehavior that led to a “whupping” were known to all of us children: “telling a fib”, being untruthful, “sassing adults”, being disrespectful to our elders, wasting food, “cutting up” or misbehaving in church and being lazy or trifling when it came to completing household chores, were breaches of conduct likely to result in a dreaded trip to the backyard to pick-out a switch for my great-grandmother or great-aunt.
None of the many “whuppings” I received were intended to instill fear in me. I understood there were rules we lived by as a family; “whuppings” were an immediate and certain consequence for breaking them. Yet, the choice to conform to these rules was always mine.
There was no desire on the part of my great-grandmother or great-aunt to “beat me into submission” or to break my spirit in order to force me to conform to their expectations. They loved me unconditionally and conveyed through their actions a willingness to “wrestle the devil” to free me from the defects of spirit they feared might stymie my potential. Even so, these two wise women knew whether I grew crooked or straight would be determined by the state of my heart. Therefore, every punishment was administered in a way that reinforced my value and worth.
The “whuppings” I received did not convey a message of worthlessness but were instead a forceful entreaty on the part of my great-grandmother and great-aunt “to do better” because much was expected of me.
Sometimes at night, when they thought we were asleep (I rarely was), I would hear them talking about each of us children. Discussing the joys, frustrations and challenges of rearing good “chirrin”.
One such conversation went like this:
“That Laney (my nickname) sho’ is a stubborn ol’ thang,” my great-grandmother said.
“Sho’ is,” my great-aunt replied, “I had to take a switch to her this morning. She wouldn’t eat what was on her plate. She folded dem arms and said, “I don’t like dem ol’ eggs!”
They burst into laughter.
“I spanked her legs but she wouldn’t eat dem eggs,” my great-aunt said, “Had to throw them away.”
“Yes, indeedy, that Laney sho’ is a stubborn ol’ thang,” my great-grandmother repeated.
The rebellious and stubborn child I was then is still very much a part of my adult personality. However, I have learned to manage my stubborn, rebellious streak—to not let it undermine me. I strive to be a better me. It is how I was reared.