I often hear people my age or older pining for the days of physical punishment for children and teens. They point out that young people don’t seem to behave as well as they did when parents and teachers used a paddle to punish infractions. They seem to believe that if we brought back a tiny bit of pain for childhood misbehavior, we might live in a much more peaceful world.
Before I comment on this idea, I have to give a full disclosure about my own childhood upbringing. I only got one spanking from my father for something that absolutely merited a wake up call. It was more like a swat with his hand on my backside that didn’t even leave a mark on my skin. He lost his temper with me because I had done a tap dance with tap shoes on his new Pontiac while singing The Eyes of Texas, a mortal sin for the children of die hard Aggies from Texas A&M like he was.
Daddy had provided me with an opportunity to simply comply with his request to get down from the hood of the car and stop singing the song that irritated him. If I had obeyed I don’t think he would have even yelled at me. Instead I giggled, gave him a daring look and kept dancing and singing. At that point he lifted me off of my stage, turned me upside down and popped his hand against the padding of my buttocks a couple of times. I was in complete control of my faculties and understood what I had done, so I did not hold it against him for responding in such and uncharacteristic way.
That was it, my one and only spanking and I grew up to be a rather considerate and law abiding citizen. The same goes for my brothers neither of whom ever got spanked. Both of my parents seemed to believe in the value of long talks and incredible role modeling to help us to become good citizens in this world.
I suppose that my own experience has led me to have extremely negative thoughts about corporal punishment. I have never wanted to redirect either the behavior of my children or my students by hitting them. Sadly in the early years of my teaching career the paddle was still alive and well in schools and I either had to witness the whack of a board on a child’s backside or sometimes do the deed myself.
I was terrible at hitting a student. I merely went through the motions as demanded by my superiors. I don’t know how the kids kept from laughing out loud because I barely touched them and sometimes even missed on purpose. My inability to beat kids did not seem to result in a classroom overrun by barbarians, but instead endeared me to my students who seemed to realize how much I despised physical classroom management. They tried hard not to put me into the unenviable position of being told to bring someone to the office for a trial and punishment all rolled up in one.
When it finally became illegal to use corporal punishment in schools I was ecstatic. I found that the students did not overrun the school once it was gone. Instead I learned that the most effective way to gain the respect and cooperation of my pupils was to first show them how much I respected and cared for them. I was honest with them about why I demanded certain things and we openly talked about the need to work together in a group with so many different personalities. It worked.
That is not say that there was never any mischief. I had to correct the chatty students who seemed unable to be quiet. I had a few spitballs and staples whiz past me. There were a precious few who refused to do homework. Once in a blue moon something was stolen from the classroom. When I got frustrated I referred a handful of students for detention, but mostly I saved that for the most serious infractions.
Many of my students were already being either physically or emotionally abused at home, so they were unfazed by meanness. They had already developed tough skin and lots of anger. They responded to my encouragement and belief in them. They often noted that I was strict in my demands but quite fair in consequences for breaking the rules. They seemed to all know that I loved them and they reacted in kind.
I find that there is already too much violence in the world. Too many people answer their frustrations with anger, guns and even war. I can’t imagine the value of returning to a time when teachers were allowed to strike their students on the knuckles with a ruler or lift them off of the ground with a paddle. My parents did not find the need to correct our behaviors with switches or belts or even blows with their hands. It probably took more time and effort to model integrity, kindness, compassion, truth but it was a powerful way of teaching me and my brothers.
I not only do not want to return to the days of adults hitting their children, I don’t even know how to do those things. We can’t allow our youngsters to grow up without rules and ethics, but we don’t have to hurt them to instill character. Meanness only begets more meanness. I’m so glad my parents knew this and most of all I am happy that nobody is allowed to physically hurt someone else’s child at school. We’ve moved forward and should not look back.
I grew up watching the Jetsons and imagining the world of the future. I often dreamed of having my own Rosie the Robot to do my chores. I remember how hilarious it was to watch Maxwell Smart talking on his shoe phone. I recall being astonished by a program with Arthur C. Clarke in which he predicted that one day we would all have the capacity to live anywhere on earth working from home if we wished. The predictions of life in the future seemed as impossible to me as the ideas of H.G. Wells must have been to people who read his books at the end of the nineteenth century, and yet I have lived to see the most amazing inventions becoming available to ordinary people like me.
Five days a week my Roomba, whom I have named Reggie, busies itself vacuuming the rooms in my home. My floors are dust free most of the time without my having to lug out my big Dyson. I listen with great joy to Reggie making my home immaculate and the only thing I have to do to keep the little machine happy is to regularly charge it with electricity and provide it with a new bag for trapping all of the dust now and again. I keep a few small spare parts on hand to do minor emergency repairs, but all in all Reggie quite independently and regularly completes the tasks without a fuss even when I am away on a trip.
As a youngster I took turns with my mother washing the dishes each day. Mama was quite fastidious and insisted that I perform my duties immediately after each meal on the days that were allotted to me. She insisted that I follow her strict guidelines in the art of washing and rinsing each item. It wasn’t the worst job I ever had, but I have to admit to enjoying simply placing my kitchenware inside a dishwasher, pushing a few buttons and walking away as I now do. The onerous task of handwashing is almost becoming a lost art.
I remember once having to walk for several miles to find a phone to call for help when my car broke down. I surely would have appreciated having my smart phone with me on that occasion. Like Maxwell Smart I might have called for help from the comfort of my car rather than searching for signs of civilization on a long hike across unsparing terrain. Who knew that I’d one day be able to carry such a powerful apparatus in my purse. How could I have guessed that it would become my map, my encyclopedia, my entertainment and my means of contacting people all in one tiny package?
My husband is determined to make ours a smart home that responds to our commands the way a highly professional assistant might do. We can turn things on and off without lifting a finger. Our assistant will fill our home with music if we request, or provide us with a recipe for dinner while keeping a timer going as well. We can wake up and ask about the weather and find out what has happened in the world while we were still sleeping without ever crawling out of the comfort of our bed.
Not long ago I had major surgery from a robot directed by my doctor. With only four small entry points that are hardly noticeable now I recovered much more quickly than I would have in an earlier time. I had no large abdominal scar that needed to heal, no major pain that prevented me from getting around. It was almost unbelievable.
Of course during the pandemic most of us learned how to work from our homes. I taught my small group of students from an upstairs bedroom for two years with my trusty laptop computer that is more powerful than the huge mainframes that guided humans to the moon. I realized that Arthur C. Clarke had been right when he predicted that we would one day be able to perform the duties of our jobs wherever we wanted to be.
Even though all of these things have become common place I still find myself being in awe of the advances that scientists and engineers have made in providing us with tools for taking care of tasks that once required our focused efforts. We have gone beyond the realm of George Jetson in so many ways. We have enjoyed the dreams of futurists of the past. Anyone born in the last two decades no doubt takes everything that I have described for granted. It is simply part of everyday life to have such conveniences in the modernized world, and yet there are still people who toil each day with old fashioned tools. They live in homes without the luxuries that I enjoy. I try to keep in mind how fortunate I am.
I look forward to watching the wheels of progress turn ever so much more quickly. I dream of the wonders that are still to come. Will I one day travel in a self driving car? (That’s a bit frightening to me.) What are the greatest minds in the world planning for us? Will people indeed live on the moon or Mars? Will someone find a way to eradicate mental illness with just a few adjustments to the brain? What lies ahead and how equitable will it be for all of the world, not just the parts that are wealthiest? I’m certain there is much more to come and I can’t wait to see it and to use it. The future beckons.
Way back when I was in my mid twenties I experienced what I call my “year from hell.” It began when I was diagnosed with hepatitis just before Christmas. I had been feeling lethargic and lightheaded, but I pushed on. With two little girls under the age of six and classes to teach at my church I had little time to pamper my symptoms. I kept pushing myself even as I silently worried that something was quite wrong. It was not until my next door neighbor, Carol, looked me in the eyes and saw their yellow tinge that I agreed to contact my doctor to find out what was wrong. By the time I actually knew that I had a legitimate reason to feel so bad, I was too weak to do the simplest of chores and both my husband and mother-in-law had contracted the same disease. To say that the Christmas holidays were a bust that year would be an understatement. It would not be until the end of February that I finally beat the illness and began working my way back to good health.
Just when things began to look sunny my husband, Mike, became feverish and weak with a strange illness unlike anything either of us had ever seen. After a disturbing rash appeared on different parts of his body, he consulted with a doctor who was as baffled as we were. He referred Mike to a specialist in infectious diseases who eventually determined that Mike had somehow contracted a fungal disease called blastomycosis. The treatment for the sometimes deadly illness was a long stretch of chemotherapy with a drug called Amphotericin B.
From May until well into the fall of that year Mike spent three days each week in the hospital while an IV slowly dripped the drug into his body. It took hours for the process and sometimes resulted in violent reactions like chills that made his entire body shake. Meanwhile I was at home caring for our two girls and wondering at night if I was going to become a young widow like my mother had been. There were no guarantees that that treatment would work and the doctor prepared us for the possibility that the fungus would overtake Mike’s body in spite of the aggressive drug and end his short life.
I remember being beside myself at the time. I had never really recovered from my father’s death when I was a child and I worried that my children might have to endure the kind of grief that had stalked me for so long. Additionally I had already become a part time caretaker for my mom whenever her bipolar disorder raged out of control. I felt a huge weight on my shoulders and all I wanted was for all of it to just go away.
I have incredible friends who stepped up to watch my children so that I might sit with Mike during his infusions of the drug. I’d go to visit and always found my mother-in-law already there taking charge of the situation. It was an uncomfortable time for me because it never seemed to occur to her that I should have been the person conferring with Mike’s doctors and discussing potential outcomes with them. It bothered me that she was treating both me and her son like children. The family dynamic felt totally out of whack.
I broke down one day and complained to my mother about the situation. She listened patiently and without voiding my feelings, she noted that since Mike was my mother-in-law’s only child it was quite natural for her to be invested in his care. She noted that our concern for Mike should not become a contest between two women who loved him. She suggested that for Mike’s comfort it was important that I understand how frightening the situation was for everyone and be willing to step back and allow his mother to handle it the way it made her feel best. She reminded me that I needed to be the adult in the room.
The dynamic between grown “children” and their parents can be difficult. Loving concerns have the potential of turning into battles for independence and even dominance. Letting go of the parenting role can be incredibly hard. Passing the baton of leadership to the next generation can be almost impossible for some parents. Knowing when to step in and when to simply watch in silence it tricky. I learned in that moment the importance of respecting the feelings of my mother-in-law. It did not diminish my role as Mike’s wife to allow her to focus her entire being on her son. I instead decided to spend more time with my children, reassuring them that we were all going to be okay in the end.
Since that time I have twice had to step into the role of caretaker for a parent. The first time around it was my mother who came to live with us in her final year and a half of life. I saw then how maddening it was for her to let go of being the parent while I administered her medications and created a new routine for her. The conflicts were many, but we always settled down once I remembered to deal with the situation with less demand and more finesse and understanding of how she was feeling.
Now I have spent almost eight months with Mike’s father living in our home. At times it is wonderfully comfortable, but the strangeness of the dynamic rears its head again and again. In his mind he is supposed to be the head of the household, the adult, the caretaker. In ours, we are responsible for him and this is our house. The push and pull is a delicate balance and once again I often find myself giving in to my father-in-law because I understand how horrible this must be for him. None of us want to be treated like children.
I read today that there are probably fifty two million households in which traditional roles are reversed. Adult children are caring for their parents and often their own children as well. There is a great deal of love involved, but also much tension. Finding the balance that works for everyone takes compromise and sometimes, as my mother taught me, one person has to be willing to lead the way. This is what we do out of love.
Recently I spoke with one of my former students. He’s accomplished quite a bit since graduating from high school thirteen years ago. He was an outspoken person even as a teen. He had definite opinions about justice, equality and other political issues. It did not surprise me that he would eventually enroll in law school, earn his degree in jurisprudence and become a lawyer working for many of the causes that excited him when he was in high school.
I was quite happy when he called me. He spoke of the teachers and other adults who had influenced him. The common thread that they all shared was an interest in helping students like him to not just obtain skills for living, but also to develop themselves as mature adults. Many of them kept in touch with this student over time as I had also done. They provided guidance and encouragement that helped him to ultimately achieve his goals. They let him know that they truly cared about his future.
I was contrasting this approach to helping young men and women to become the best versions of themselves with what has been happening with Kyle Rittenhouse, the young man who shot three people during a protest and then was found not guilty in a sensational trial. Kyle received a chance to proceed with his life with an verdict that might otherwise have landed him in jail for most of his life. Sadly, it does not appear that he has conscientious adults guiding him to the next phase of his life. Instead they appear to be using him to propegate their political views.
This is a time when Kyle should be preparing for the adult phase of his life. Instead he attends political rallies and is featured on television as a spokesperson for gun rights and other issues. While I believe that he is more than free to have a platform for his beliefs, I have to ask what he is going to do with his life once his fifteen minutes of fame are gone. Who is counseling him or even cares enough about him to guide him to the next step in his life? He seems to just be living from one day to the next without a plan and there is no adult who appears to care enough to help him find direction.
He first insisted that he wanted to be a nurse, but failed to apply to any educational institutions where that might happen. He spoke of going to various universities or junior colleges but never enrolled anywhere. He seems to be a person who is adrift, tantalized by attention and publicity but without anything to anchor him when he is no longer a fad. Why would the adults around him do this to him? Why would they use him for publicizing their own causes? They have to know that one day Kyle will be old news with nothing to offer and then he will have to find a job without the requisite skills that most work requires. Instead of making him a flash in the pan star at rallies a person who was concerned about his welfare would be encouraging him to determine what he really wants to do and then show him how to gain the knowledge and certifications that he will need for that work.
I am decidedly not a fan of Kyle Rittenhouse, but I am also a devoted educator and part of my work has always involved helping even the most lost souls who came to me. I am known for finding the best in my students regardless of how they have been in the past. For the life of me, I can’t understand why nobody is taking Kyle aside and being honest with him about the things he must do to insure that he will be able to take care of himself in the future, with or without fame,
I think of David Hogg, the student from Parkland High School who became a vocal advocate for gun control after an horrific shooting at his school. David has proclaimed his views on television, in essays and on Twitter, but at the same time he also enrolled in college and earned a degree. He seems to understand that ultimately he will have to make a living and that his crusade may or may not keep him in the limelight. He certainly continues to voice his views, but he also quietly prepares for his future which I suspect has been supported by adults who understand the realities of life.
It is heartbreaking to me when I see young people being misguided or left to their own resources. It is the duty of each generation to consider the needs of the young folk who follow behind them. Whether we mentor them or teach them or simply advise them we should be honest about the everyday trials that they will one day face. If we have done our jobs they will be prepared for the worst or the best that happens to them. Providing less than that is wrong.
I wish all young people well, but I sense that there may be difficult times ahead for Kyle. Political winds are as fickle as the weather. Stars today are ignored tomorrow. Everyone needs a backup plan and so far it does not seem that anyone has helped Kyle Rittenhouse find one. Once again adults are leaving him in a dangerous place where he is not yet ready to be. Shame on them.
I am among the the 1.4 million people who purchased Prince Harry’s memoir, Spare, on the first day that it became available. I was not so much interested in learning salacious details about the royal family in England as attempting to understand why Harry felt compelled to flee so dramatically from the duties and the life he had been trained to experience from the time he was born. I had already watched his interview with Oprah Winfrey as well as the multi-episode documentary on Netflix in which he and his wife Meghan attempted to explain their decision to leave Great Britain behind and begin a new life in the United States. I had my theories about Harry’s reasons for his public need for raw honesty about himself and his family, but I wanted to verify my thoughts by studying his words.
As an educator and through my own experiences with trauma I have learned that each of us bears wounds that affect how we approach life. Some people are willing to share the secrets and concerns that affect them and others believe that it is best to keep such things private. Many, like me, remain silent and stoic about our trials until they become so unbearable that we have to talk with someone or set down our thoughts in journals. If people are kind when we reveal our suffering we may learn to become more and more open to telling the darkest stories of our lives. It is indeed a freeing experience to be honest. Not having to hide behind a facade is healing, but it is also fraught with possibilities of being totally misunderstood and even spurned.
The key to Prince Harry’s motivation is sprinkled throughout his book, but it is in the first fifty or so pages that the heart of his thinking may be found. He begins with a dedication to his wife, his children and “of course” his mother. Then in a brief but moving introduction he speaks of a meeting with his “Pa” and his brother “Willy” after his “Grandpa’s” funeral. It is there that we learn of his love and admiration for Prince Phillip, a man who liked a good joke and needed to stay busy, the man who seemed to best appreciate Harry’s “mummy,” Diana. As Harry nervously waits for his father, Charles, and his brother, William, he thinks of all that his family and his country mean to him but he nervously hopes that the two men that he most loves will finally understand why he has decided to step down from his duties and relocate to another land. When they arrive and seem as clueless as ever about Harry’s feelings even after his explanations it becomes apparent that they are tied to the stoic traditions of their duties. It is then that Harry proclaims that the book is meant to help “Pa” and “Willy” see more clearly why he has chosen his new path in life. It is his ultimate cry for compassion from the family that he still very much loves.
The ultimate moment in Harry’s life centers on his mother’s death. He beautifully articulates how much he adored her and she loved him. He points out that there are no words that adequately describe what an exceptional person she was. His descriptions of his relationship with her and the shock and sorrow that he felt upon her death resonate quite personally with me. I would only have to change a few words and insert my father’s name to tell of how I felt as a child who was awakened to learn of her parent’s death in a car crash. Like Harry I softened the blow by imagining that Daddy would one day return. It was all too terrible to believe as truth. I created a fantasy in my mind even as I knew that he was really gone.
The central moment in Harry’s life is the death of his mother. Everything before and everything after has affected who he is as a person. He admits that much of his memory of her death is a blur and yet critics of his book are pointing out that some of his assertions are inaccurate. They do not seem to understand, as I do, that our memories in times of great sorrow may not be the same as those of others, but they often explain our states of mind. Harry is not writing an historical tract supported by research, but rather explaining the impact of his mother’s death. He was a little boy who was expected to be stoic and dutiful at a time when his entire world had crashed around him.
It was the end of summer vacation when Diana died. Harry was soon back at boarding school walking through a kind of fog. He seemed disinterested in his studies, mischievous in his behavior. All of it was a way of coping with the feelings that were most certainly haunting him. He became almost silly. I became withdrawn and serious when my father died. Each of us deals with death of a parent differently. All we know how to do is somehow cope or surely our loss will drive us mad. We put on a face simply to survive.
Harry speaks of a fall break when he returns home from school and his “Pa” suggests that they travel to South Africa together. He loves his “Pa” who calls him “his darling boy” and is excited that they will have time together, just the two of them. He longs for connections and time alone to process the devastating feelings that he has. Somehow there is never time for such a thing to happen. Adults around him don’t seem to understand that he is a child who is suffering and needs help. He pushes his feelings deeper and deeper inside.
Harry mentions that he saw sadness in his father and that he wanted his “Pa” to be happy. When Charles brought Camilla to visit with the boys Harry did his best to be nice to her even though he vaguely understood that she had been part of his parents’ breakup. Harry wanted to see his father smile and have joy in his life once again, so he understood that Camilla would become part of his family’s life. He admittedly did not want his father to marry Camilla, but he also accepted his father’s needs.
Harry is his mother’s son in every sense of that idea. He has charisma like she did. He spurns the stodgy traditions and prefers spending time interacting with people just as Diana did. He does not want a repeat of history with his family and so, like his mother, he is honest about his feelings, his struggles, his mental health. He believes that the forced lack of emotion associated with royal duties stunted his father and ultimately destroyed his mother. When he saw the same things beginning to happen with his wife he knew that someone had to finally draw a line in the sand and address the most toxic aspects of pretense. His book is his attempt to set things right. Sadly from the reactions I am seeing, it is clear that he has been totally misunderstood by far too many.
I admire Prince Harry for his dedication to his wife and children and his mother. I applaud his honesty and willingness to speak about difficult topics like mental health. I hope that one day his father and his brother will learn to understand and accept him and to embrace his family. I believe that he needs them and that his mother would want them to love him and protect him in ways that they denied to her. It would be wonderful if this book were to finally bring healing to the royal family. After all, at the end of the day they are just people like the rest of us and their emotions matter.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 