Of leather belts and broken cutting boards: Why I don’t believe in spanking

***trigger warning***

(This started out as a comment on a Facebook post that shared this article about the difference between black and white styles of parenting. But then I found myself seven or eight paragraphs into it without being anywhere near done, so I decided that this might as well be a blog post…)

I am glad that the article points out the difference in the “why” here. Sooo intrigued by the idea of permissive parenting as white privilege…profound and absolutely true. I get “those looks” when I am out with my black godson in public…it seems that I might be a leeeeeeeettttttttttttllllllllllleeeeeeeeeee tiny bit overly permissive…but I get that children of color, and particularly black children, need to be raised differently. I “get it” enough that I never try to tell them that the police are their “friend”. I know that they can’t afford for me to teach them that lesson.

(My godson was in his second year of Head Start – so maybe four years old?-and he was telling me about a policeman who had visited his class (in what was likely a “policemen are your friends!” and/or teachable moment about safety type of thing) and the first words out of his mouth were, “He didn’t do nothing to us, though”.

Four. years. old. This is the world a black boy’s parents have to raise them in. And Mona ([Cecil] Elijah’s momma) and I disagree sharply about spanking, but I have to admit that he is a really good little boy and I struggle sometimes with how much the threat of physical punishment has shaped that (in a positive way).

BUT I also subbed in a classroom yesterday where a five-year-old, two weeks into her kindergarten career, punched another child in the nose. Children are taught in school that hitting is not okay, that we shouldn’t put our hands on each other in hurtful ways–but then purportedly go home to quite the opposite message. A neighbor of a friend has a girl of maybe 14 watching her younger cousins, third and fourth grade. She was walking around the street yesterday, in broad daylight, with a man’s leather belt, threatening (half in jest, but there was a seriousness underneath it) to handle them if they didn’t get it together.

I was mortified the other day to hear that 75% of Americans think spanking is okay. (This study from 2013 shows the numbers to be even higher.) This was presented as sort of a side note on NPR, and I don’t know if there was any differentiation between “open hand on bottom” and the myriad of other ways that children are disciplined. But it’s not okay to me, and it never will be. I know of a child who was punched in the eye, but because he was pre-verbal, there was no way of proving it. I feel the same way about physical punishment of children that I do about any other form of violence (war, guns, football itself): Those who live by the sword” (or the switch, or the leather belt) “will die by the sword”.

And here’s the thing: I KNOW that this all comes from my own scars. I clearly remember two spankings (white folks’ verbiage?!) I received as a child. I suppose there were more, but maybe not…who knows. One was my mother in a rage, cursing (which I never heard her do) and hitting my bare bottom (it was summer, and I was running around the neighborhood in a bathing suit) with one of my father’s leather belts. This was followed by her telling me to leave the house and not return.

I can’t remember if I was 7 or 8 at the time, but I was either going into or just out of second grade.

The other spanking I remember is from my father, only because it was done reluctantly (my mother had delegated it, since whatever I had done she deemed to have needed a heavier hand). I remember that one because he did it reluctantly. It might have been the only time he ever spanked me. And he did it without being in the rage I saw him in whenever he beat my brother.

I believe that I am scarred emotionally by my own limited memories of being the recipient of that belt, but much worse was what I witnessed in terms of my father’s behavior towards my brother. (My brother who, like me, was adopted. I never saw my oldest brother, their biological child, get hit, but granted, I was six years younger. Maybe he experienced it when he was smaller. I’ve never asked him.)

What I remember of my father, in contrast to his reluctant and almost gentle spanking in my case, was his rage when he beat (and I use the word “beat” because to me, it was more than spanking) my brother. I remember my brother being on the roof of the garage and my father dragging him down (his own parents were there, and I have a vague sense of feeling like he was more angry that my brother was acting up in front of them). I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing a wooden cutting board, broken in half and bloody. My brother, who has a “tough guy” exterior and has been in all kinds of situations in his life, told me not too long ago that he was never in his life as terrified of anything as when there was a bad snowstorm and he had to call our father for help with his paper route. He was maybe 12 at the time. He is 48 years old and he still remembers this as clearly as if it were yesterday.

Part of the difference in our case is that we were not having these experiences in the context of any knowledge or certainty that we were loved. We knew that we were what people in our community called “lucky” to have been adopted. My parents “got” my brother when he was about a year old, after another failed placement. No idea what happened there; I just knew that his bronzed baby shoe was much bigger than mine and my oldest brother’s. What I have learned from my brother, and only in the last dozen years or so, was that when he was younger and misbehaved, my mother would sit him down in the back porch and tell him that they were going to send him back. My father would come home from work, and apparently would join her in shaming him. “We’re going to send you back wearing only a diaper, the way that you were given to us”.

It’s safe to say that both my brother and I came into this family with attachment issues, something that wasn’t talked about in those days. With that said, I am still bewildered by the fact that my parents passed whatever constituted a home study in those days, and wonder often if they ever would have been approved in this day and age. But I digress…

In my early twenties, I would watch young black mothers (on the ferry or the train going into the city) interact with their children. What I saw was something I couldn’t fathom. They would be so harsh and strict with their children, but at the same time, I could tell that they loved them. Five minutes after a scolding, they would smile or laugh at something the child did. I could not reconcile this in my mind. Would I feel differently if I had been spanked as a child by people whose love I was certain of, by parents who didn’t have the threat of “sending me back” to hold over my head? I don’t know.

And I read these words as well, and they resonated with me:

The pernicious, toxic and inescapable lifelong effect of being disciplined physically – either to the point of abuse, or to the point that the distinction between acceptable and unacceptable blurs in your mind – is that you almost have to say you turned out fine, just to redeem the fact of being who you are. That you “turned out fine” is the only way to make sense of having once felt total terror or uncontrollable shaking rage at the sight of one (or both) of the two people expected to care most for you in the world. The thought that you might have ended up relatively OK or perhaps even better without all that fear is almost unbearable: the suffering only doubles if you admit that it truly had no purpose.

The thing I always say is that I (almost) can understand physical punishment if it is separated from rage. But I don’t believe it ever is. I think it’s a rare thing for parents to lash out at their children in a calm manner. with perhaps the exception of Michelle Duggaroh wait. And again, maybe it’s different for children who have some level of confidence that they are loved by their parents-but the above quote seems to prove otherwise (although I don’t know for certain that the author is actually a biological child of his parents).

AND I cannot say this often enough: I get that I don’t know what it is to be raising a black child in this society. But this doesn’t mean that I think that a belt, or a switch, or anything else used against a child (I respect, to some extent, a parent’s right to use an open hand on a bottom, but that’s as far as I can take it), is okay, no matter what color you are. (<—-the recovering racist in me shudders at the use of this phrase, as I know it’s not that simple…but then, in some ways, it really is. I could take this further and talk about the generational PTSD that people of color are dealing with, but like the author of the original article that started this rant, I still don’t think it’s okay.)

A thing people sometimes say to me when they don’t agree with my views on something is “You are just seeing this through your own scars”. Yes I am. That’s because those scars (in my case, more emotional than physical) are still there. I was spanked. And it wasn’t okay.

Apparently 75% of Americans disagree with me. But I’m okay with that. It doesn’t mean that I will ever stop speaking out against what I consider to be child abuse, pure and simple.

A football player’s actions have sparked a heated debate in this case…but lots of kids are living this on a daily basis, and that’s barely in the news. I am speaking out, not because I want this to be about me, but because I need to let it be known that some of us do NOT think it’s okay. Not for any parent, at any time, famous or not.

I don’t know what it’s like to be black in this society, but I certainly know what it’s like to carry the scars of childhood abuse. And I hope that this somehow gives me, white as I am, some credibility in speaking about the subject.

from the xanga archives . . . childhood baggage

baby lorraine

I wrote a version of this in an e-mail to my church . . . they have been asking for pictures of people with their adoptive families, and while I am not necessarily the poster child for “isn’t adoption great?”, I thought I would show an uncharacteristic level of gratitude for once and say something GOOD about my childhood. but I liked what I wrote in that e-mail about the baptism thing and decided to tweak it here for your reading pleasure . . .

steve and irenewith uncle steve and aunt irene

May 9, 1970. I was almost 4 months old and had been with my adoptive parents for just over two weeks. Because we were Roman Catholic, this was a dedication ceremony (I still have the book that the priest is reading out of in the picture) and not my “baptism”. THAT had happened in what I could only imagine as, and would later describe as “a room full of nuns”, as I was baptized when I was a few days old by the adoption agency, the Catholic Home Bureau. I had thought about the nuns a lot, but hadn’t realized until I wrote this earlier tonight that it was probably very much of a “mass production” type of operation, me along with who knows how many other little bastard children being given the Sacrament of baptism as quickly as possible, so as to save our nameless little heathen souls . . . what is it like to be ushered into God’s covenant in a room full of strangers? to be dedicated to God in a place where there is no human present who is dedicated to you? I feel sad for that tiny baby, surrounded by all those nuns . . . but this day was different, and there were people who loved me present–I have the pictures to prove it. My godparents, Steve & Irene, were/are great people–my Aunt Irene especially (can’t you tell that by her fabulous hair and dress?! LOL) . . . she was truly a godly woman (she had almost become a nun!) and was a beautiful example to me of unconditional love, something that I found to be in short supply when I was a kid . . .

baby lorraine with flash

and this is me, since you can’t see my face in the other picture, with our dog at the time, Flash. Over the next eighteen years, my mother and brothers never missed an opportunity to remind me that “we had to give Flash away because YOU cried”. do I already look appropriately guilty in this picture? I was trying to do it right . . . or maybe that look on my face is really saying, “I’m terrified of this ferocious dog and screw all of you if you want to spend the rest of your lives wishing you’d sent ME back instead!!!” only problem with that second theory is that he doesn’t LOOK all that ferocious . . . the rest of the theory is solid, however, since my mother pretty much TOLD me when I was 15 that she wished she could have sent me back . . .

(I am apparently in the “poor me” mood . . . I think I’d better go to bed now before someone thinks I’m bitter or something . . . )

Friday, September 22, 2006

maybe I am just way too much of a Freudian . . .

what does this tell you about our family

but is it just me, or does this picture speak volumes about our respective roles in my family of origin?

I love my brother Kevin (the King of Hearts)–even to this day, he is a great guy and he has been a great brother–but he was obviously the star . . . and my brother Michael? a bum, apparently (and yes, that’s what they told him, how they made him feel, and what they STILL think of him). and I’m just raggedy . . . cute as all get-out, but still raggedy . . .

the entry in my baby book reads, “you won two prizes for your costume” . . . really, it was my MOTHER who “won”. any creative thing I won as a child, I always felt like such a fraud because SHE was the one who had done all of the work.

the outfit I’m wearing is the actual clothing of a life-sized Raggedy Ann doll that my fabulous gay uncle had given me for Christmas the year before . . . of course, I didn’t know he was fabulously gay until about 15 years after this picture was taken . . .

thanks for joining me on memory lane. come back again soon!!!

“You look so familiar . . . “

Before I met my birthparents, it would freak me out from here to next Tuesday when people said this to me. And people said it often; in fact, people STILL say it quite often. It’s actually happened twice in the past twenty-four hours . . . yesterday it was our waitress at the fine gourmet establishment where we spent Easter . . . “You look so familiar . . . what high school did you go to?” I told her, and no, that wasn’t it . . .

Then today, I’m at my No Worker Left Behind workshop, and again the question: “Did you used to work at [place I did NOT used to work at]? Because you just look so familiar to me.” AACK. No me gusta!

Because I’ve worked retail, I often attribute people’s sense that I “look familiar” to their having seen me at the Hallmark shop, or at the Gap, or at Old Navy, or wherever else I’ve worked . . . there’s that sort of familiar anonymity that comes with being a part of the landscape for so long. But it still kind of freaks me out . . .

And I know that “they” say that everybody has a twin somewhere . . . but how come some of us have so MANY “twins”? Worse is when someone shows me a picture of a person that they think “looks just like you” and not saying I’m a beauty queen, but the “looks just like me” person is almost always hideous-looking . . . which only leads me to believe that these people who are telling me that I “look so familiar” are in reality grouping me in with some nameless, amorphous pool of fat brunettes, and that I really don’t look like ANYBODY at all . . .



In other news . . . I did have a guy at the unemployment office ask me for my phone number . . . hmm. he didn’t write it down but said he would remember it . . .

at first, I turned my nose up at the idea of dating someone I met at the unemployment office . . . but hey, at least he’s trying to go back to school, right? And it’s certainly a step up from the last guy who tried to pick me up . . .