I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I was strong enough that adults weren’t manhandling me as much. My grandparents agreed to watch me and my two younger siblings during a weekday when my father was at work, and I absolutely hated being babysat by my grandparents. I thought they were quite mean. Their old frame house stood next to a creek in a crowded neighborhood of working class millworkers. There were always people in their yards, children playing in the streets, and noises carried well down the block. Occasionally, if there were boys scuffling or fighting in the streets, you could see housewives stand at the front door looking on as if it were their afternoon soap operas.
My younger brother and I were playing in the back yard, near the creek and something (I can’t remember what) started us fighting. I ended up throwing him in the creek. He got up, crying, and said he was going to tell, and he ran off toward the house. I didn’t really think I would get in any trouble since, after all, we had just been playing. About five minutes later my brother was back grinning ear to ear. “Granddad is coming, and he says you’re getting a whipping.” From that old man, no way, I thought. And then I saw him headed across the yard toward us looking like he was about to bust some heads. Just as he came near I decided to sprint past him back toward the yard, but he was quick enough to grab my arm.
The conversation that happened next was a little surreal. See, after years of enduring punishment at the hands of his father, our father had decided never to hit his children in anger, and corporal punishment was what happened at our friends’ houses when they got in trouble or something that happened to the bad kids at school. My siblings and I were aware of physical punishment only in the sense that it’s something that happened to other people, not us. Granddad clearly disagreed with this philosophy, because he pulled me back towards him and declared that my butt was due for a good beating. Stunned, I looked at him and declared that I wasn’t - we don’t get spanked. “I know, and that’s why you don’t behave. That’s all changing right now.”
Defiant, I started to struggle trying to free my arm. Grandad held firm with one hand while he unbuckled his black leather belt with the other. Realizing what he intended to do, my sense of panic and alarm grew. He intended to hit me with his belt. My struggle became more desperate as I tried anything to get away. “Take down those trousers, boy, and hold still!” I wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. Suddenly I heard a crack followed immediately by a sharp sting in my calves as the belt lashed against the legs of my jeans. I let out a yelp and cried, “No, you’re not my dad, you can’t spank me!” Crack! And again the sharp pain bit my legs, this time I almost fell. Crack! This one landed squarely on my butt. I knew I had to get away from the pain and my grandfather’s anger.
The next blow landed across my back. “Take’em down and bend over or I’ll take you down,” he yelled. I paid no attention and just kept doing my best to break free. The belt next wrapped around my torso, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I hadn’t been able to break free and a horrible reality was sinking in that I might not get away after all. Still my grandfather, fueled by intense anger at my defiance, kept the belt coming. I felt my legs give way underneath me as the pain from the belt grew. I was openly sobbing now, and I heard myself begin to plead and bargain for a reprieve. But as I landed face down on the ground he was over me, driving his knee into my back. I screamed in pain, but he only said, “See, you should have followed directions.”
Pinned to the ground by my grandfather’s weight and the pain in my back, I was helpless as he proceeded to jerk down my jeans and underwear, exposing my buttocks to his coming barrage. He doubled up his belt, and I heard him pause and take a breath before starting his assault. For maybe just a split second, I thought he might stop and let me up having proven his point. Boy, was I wrong. He laid into my tender young buttocks, which until now had known no more of punishment than maybe an occasional slap. He was merciless, bringing stroke after stroke down on me as I screamed. I became exhausted and eventually gave up my resistance, my screams turning to uncontrollable sobbing. The pain just kept coming, but I had no more energy to fight.
I don’t know how long the beating went on. I wasn’t counting the number of strokes. It seemed to go on forever, but when he finally stopped I didn’t get up and I didn’t move to pull up my jeans. I just lie there crying and feeling broken. If I had looked up, I might have noticed my brother standing nearby, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had stood there watching the whole time, and it was more than he could bear to watch. There was a silence in the neighborhood that was usually full of the sound of people and pets going about their business. Somewhere down the street a screen door slammed.
Later that night, when our dad arrived back from work, me and my siblings ran to the car and jumped in without saying a word. My dad knew something was wrong. He asked, but we sat their silently. Eventually, my grandfather walked up to the driver’s side window of the car. “I taught your boy a lesson today, one he’s not soon to forget.” My father immediately became angry and demanded to know what he (his father) had done to me. “I left an explanation on the boy’s ass, you can read up on it there,” and he stepped away from the car. My father looked into the back seat, and our eyes met. I immediately saw in my father’s eyes an empathy and concern I had never seen before.
When we got home, my father followed me to my room. His voice was soft and full of compassion. “Can you show me what granddad did,” he said quietly. I nodded yes, and he gently unbuckled my jeans and with the care of someone who knows, he lowered my clothes to reveal my deeply bruised cheeks. The next day, my dad stayed home from work and spent the day looking for somewhere else for us to stay while he was at work. We never were babysat by our grandparents again.