From the Mouths of Babes
By Stacey Patton
Creator of SpareTheKids.com
“I think we can all agree that the worst kind of whoopin’, is the kind when we don’t know
what we did,” says Zaire, an 8th grader at The Stadium School in East Baltimore, Maryland.
It’s a Friday afternoon and she and about a dozen of her classmates are participating in a
roundtable discussion on corporal punishment being held inside principal Ron Shelley’s
office.
Zaire continues to share. “Sometimes your parent just comes home and will be like, ‘you’re
‘bout to get a whoopin’.” Nervously rubbing the crook of her neck and scanning the ceiling
with fear in her eyes, she pretends to brace for the whooping, asking herself, “What did I—
What did I do now?”
Her animated expression of fear then morphs as her eyes narrow to mimic a familiar
threatening glare often given to her whenever she steps out of line. “They’ll give you that
look in public,” she says speaking of her parents. It’s a look that says, “When you get home
YOU’RE GONNA GET IT!”
With these words Zaire makes a powerful assumption that these are experiences and a fear
shared by all of her classmates sitting at a roundtable discussion on corporal punishment.
Not surprising to me the giggles, head nods, and mumblings around the table let me know
that Zaire’s assumption was correct.
That morning I came down from New York City via the Bolt Bus to solicit opinions, to watch,
and listen to these schoolchildren talk about the very controversial subject of hitting
children because I wanted to hear the conversation from a different angle. Zaire’s
comments resonated with me.
As a child abuse survivor I know all too well the sheer terror that comes with the
anticipation of a physical beating. Sometimes it came with “the look” while we were at
church, at a friend’s house, or at the store. Sometimes the promise of “a good butt
whoopin’” came through a phone call or on the drive home from school.
Other times the violence came out of nowhere, seemingly unprovoked by anything I had
done. My adoptive mother, who I often describe as a cross being Joan Crawford in the film
“Mommy Dearest” and Sybil Dorsett’s sadistic mother, would barge into the room armed
with some object and go to town on me. Sometimes she caught me coming out the bathtub
or while I was sleeping.
Like Zaire said, those are the worst kinds of whoopings.
Since 2007 I’ve been traveling around the country giving lectures, keynotes, and workshops
on corporal punishment in African‐American families and communities. I’ve also talked
with diverse audiences about adoption and foster care issues and cultural sensitivity in
social work practices. But The Stadium School roundtable discussion with Zaire and her
classmates, who ranged from age 11 to 13, left me in an emotional whirlwind.
I saw myself in these young students as they powerfully articulated things that I felt as a
child but was too afraid to say either because I didn’t feel like I had a right to, or because I
was scared of the repercussions I’d face in speaking out.
Before me sat a group of schoolchildren who are coming into their own as young people.
They are at a developmental stage in their lives when how they are touched and spoken to
can have a lifelong impact. I was deeply struck by their openness and willingness to talk
about the very serious issue of hitting, whether at home by parents or at school by teachers
and principals. Though the usual discussions and debates on hitting children happen with
adults, these students were anxious to speak their minds and it was clear that they wanted
to be heard even though they are never asked what they think or feel.
One by one, the students listened the objects used during beatings – hands, belts, flip‐flops,
shoes, a paintbrush, a wooden board, and a broomstick. Some said the beatings have gotten
worse as they’ve gotten older, while other said their parents instead punish by taking away
a cell phone or other privileges.
What troubled me most was hearing Celia, a 7th grader say, “Everywhere I go I’m in a state
of shock.”
Also troubling was to hear the beginnings of a rationale for the violence. Some students
believed they deserved to be hit. Defending their parents, a few students said their bad
behavior – lying, talking back, forging their parent’s signature, or acting out in school –
warranted a beating. One student highlighted the fact that her brother is in a gang and in
order for her to be saved from the streets she believes that she has to be kept in line
through physical discipline. But that same student wavered, saying that her brother’s
behavior might be attributed to the fact that her parents “went upside his head twenty‐four
seven” and it only made his behavior worse.
When asked if teachers and principles should be allowed to hit or paddle students in school,
everyone around the table vehemently agreed that this practice should be against the law.
But some stopped short of extending a ban on corporal punishment in the home. There is a
difference, one student rationalized, between a stranger and a parent hitting them. While it
is degrading and embarrassing for a teacher to hit children, it is not hold the same meaning
because a parent gave birth to them and a parent loves them.
I understand that these children cannot speak negatively about their parents or say that
their parents’ behavior is wrong. That wasn’t the point of the exercise. However, the
sophistication with which these young people articulated themselves (not the usual griping
and whining about parents), leads me to believe that they are not wholly convinced that
hitting works or is even necessary. As one student put it plainly, “They just need to talk to
us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the Mouths of Babes

By Stacey Patton

Creator of SpareTheKids.com

“I think we can all agree that the worst kind of whoopin’, is the kind when we don’t know

what we did,” says Zaire, an 8th grader at The Stadium School in East Baltimore, Maryland.

It’s a Friday afternoon and she and about a dozen of her classmates are participating in a

roundtable discussion on corporal punishment being held inside principal Ron Shelley’s

office.

Zaire continues to share. “Sometimes your parent just comes home and will be like, ‘you’re

‘bout to get a whoopin’.” Nervously rubbing the crook of her neck and scanning the ceiling

with fear in her eyes, she pretends to brace for the whooping, asking herself, “What did I—

What did I do now?”

Her animated expression of fear then morphs as her eyes narrow to mimic a familiar

threatening glare often given to her whenever she steps out of line. “They’ll give you that

look in public,” she says speaking of her parents. It’s a look that says, “When you get home

YOU’RE GONNA GET IT!”

With these words Zaire makes a powerful assumption that these are experiences and a fear

shared by all of her classmates sitting at a roundtable discussion on corporal punishment.

Not surprising to me the giggles, head nods, and mumblings around the table let me know

that Zaire’s assumption was correct.

That morning I came down from New York City via the Bolt Bus to solicit opinions, to watch,

and listen to these schoolchildren talk about the very controversial subject of hitting

children because I wanted to hear the conversation from a different angle. Zaire’s

comments resonated with me.

As a child abuse survivor I know all too well the sheer terror that comes with the

anticipation of a physical beating. Sometimes it came with “the look” while we were at

church, at a friend’s house, or at the store. Sometimes the promise of “a good butt

whoopin’” came through a phone call or on the drive home from school.

Other times the violence came out of nowhere, seemingly unprovoked by anything I had

done. My adoptive mother, who I often describe as a cross being Joan Crawford in the film

“Mommy Dearest” and Sybil Dorsett’s sadistic mother, would barge into the room armed

with some object and go to town on me. Sometimes she caught me coming out the bathtub

or while I was sleeping.

Like Zaire said, those are the worst kinds of whoopings.

Since 2007 I’ve been traveling around the country giving lectures, keynotes, and workshops

on corporal punishment in African‐American families and communities. I’ve also talked

with diverse audiences about adoption and foster care issues and cultural sensitivity in

social work practices. But The Stadium School roundtable discussion with Zaire and her

classmates, who ranged from age 11 to 13, left me in an emotional whirlwind.

I saw myself in these young students as they powerfully articulated things that I felt as a

child but was too afraid to say either because I didn’t feel like I had a right to, or because I

was scared of the repercussions I’d face in speaking out.

Before me sat a group of schoolchildren who are coming into their own as young people.

They are at a developmental stage in their lives when how they are touched and spoken to

can have a lifelong impact. I was deeply struck by their openness and willingness to talk

about the very serious issue of hitting, whether at home by parents or at school by teachers

and principals. Though the usual discussions and debates on hitting children happen with

adults, these students were anxious to speak their minds and it was clear that they wanted

to be heard even though they are never asked what they think or feel.

One by one, the students listened the objects used during beatings – hands, belts, flip‐flops,

shoes, a paintbrush, a wooden board, and a broomstick. Some said the beatings have gotten

worse as they’ve gotten older, while other said their parents instead punish by taking away

a cell phone or other privileges.

What troubled me most was hearing Celia, a 7th grader say, “Everywhere I go I’m in a state

of shock.”

Also troubling was to hear the beginnings of a rationale for the violence. Some students

believed they deserved to be hit. Defending their parents, a few students said their bad

behavior – lying, talking back, forging their parent’s signature, or acting out in school –

warranted a beating. One student highlighted the fact that her brother is in a gang and in

order for her to be saved from the streets she believes that she has to be kept in line

through physical discipline. But that same student wavered, saying that her brother’s

behavior might be attributed to the fact that her parents “went upside his head twenty‐four

seven” and it only made his behavior worse.

When asked if teachers and principles should be allowed to hit or paddle students in school,

everyone around the table vehemently agreed that this practice should be against the law.

But some stopped short of extending a ban on corporal punishment in the home. There is a

difference, one student rationalized, between a stranger and a parent hitting them. While it

is degrading and embarrassing for a teacher to hit children, it is not hold the same meaning

because a parent gave birth to them and a parent loves them.

I understand that these children cannot speak negatively about their parents or say that

their parents’ behavior is wrong. That wasn’t the point of the exercise. However, the

sophistication with which these young people articulated themselves (not the usual griping

and whining about parents), leads me to believe that they are not wholly convinced that

hitting works or is even necessary. As one student put it plainly, “They just need to talk to

us.”