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This recollection was originally posted on the Yahoo Group ‘Paddled at School’ and is published here with the express authority of the author, Megan Lowry.
In the spring of 1993 I was an eighteen year old high school senior in the Sandhills region of North Carolina. Our school district issued a parent/student handbook each fall containing some rather vague references to corporal punishment but with nothing clearly spelled out beyond its availability as ‘a disciplinary option’.
Some years before, the county school board had voted for some modifications in their paddling policies, largely in response to a 1981 incident in which three girls were severely paddled, some would say abusively, by a male staff member. That affair led to a lawsuit against the district which, though unsuccessful, focused a good deal of unwanted media attention on the ‘paddling in schools’ issue.
One significant change to come about was the implementation of a same gender rule, i.e. that girls were to receive licks only from a female administrator or teacher. It is interesting to note that our school district still authorises corporal punishment, but its current policy (as of 2007) no longer makes reference to any such same sex requirement.
Although I was aware that licks were authorized, the possibility of actually getting paddled myself was not something I had ever seriously contemplated, save once. In middle school I was an active combatant in what certain of my classmates humorously (and otherwise) named ‘The Great Food Fight of 1989’.

This messy affair was sparked by ill will between two opposing student cliques, and began with verbal taunts in the lunch line that rapidly escalated into all-out confrontation during which Yours Truly fired a cup of apple sauce. The gooey projectile failed to strike its intended target and sailed through the double doors into the hallway where it splattered against the lockers. While several belligerents were rounded up and marched away to face summary justice in the principal’s office, my role somehow remained undetected.
I passed three of the most anxious hours of my life until the bell mercifully rang at 3.20, fearing from moment to moment the intercom would buzz with the dreaded order to go report to the office. It didn’t, a fact for which I was sincerely grateful to whatever kindly providence had spared my backside.
Paddling was not a subject much discussed by anyone at school, maybe out of embarrassment, but some of the guys who had found themselves on the receiving end laughed it off as a joke. While paddlings were probably a comparatively frequent occurrence, at least a few per week, it appeared to me that many infractions resulted in detention or a simple reprimand.
I began smoking at age 16, a habit I acquired from my friend Amanda. While my mom never actually forbade me to smoke, she disliked it and missed no opportunity to say so. Mom was a lifelong non-smoker and was equally disapproving of my dad’s pipe. So, wearying of her maternal admonitions against the evils of tobacco, I let her believe I had quite when in truth I hadn’t, and continued to sneak the occasional puff in my room.
In May of my senior year we were enjoying some very warm spring days, and during the lunch hour everybody congregated outside on the lawn or in the parking lot. Amanda and I were sitting at a picnic table on the west side of the building when she made the gesture of pulling on a cigarette and exhaling. She nodded towards the building, and I understood her to mean we should go to an upstairs washroom for a quick smoke, something we’d done before without problems. I didn’t refuse, although a couple of weeks before I served a 120 minutes detention for smoking in the parking lot.
We went through the doors and up the staircase. The second floor washroom is just to the left as you come up, and we were glad to find the hallway entirely empty. Marlboros were my brand of choice, and I had a pack with three cigarettes rolled up in my pocket. We hung out for fifteen minutes before it was time to head back downstairs. But as luck would have it, just as we were going an old hag art teacher, Mrs Gilly, pushed open the door and confronted us: “Are you girls smoking in here?”
Busted! There was no way to deny what we were up to because, first, the smell made it obvious, second, a few blue wisps of smoke hung in the air catching the sunlight, and third – most damning of all – the red and white Marlboro pack was conspicuously in my right hand. She confiscated this contraband and hauled our sorry hind ends down to the assistant Principal’s office.
Entering the school’s main office, off the central corridor, to the far left there’s a door marked ‘Assistant Principal’. Through this door is a small waiting room with a window to your right and a few office chairs. Directly in front of you is the door to the AP’s real office, which we walked through.
Amanda and I sat on chairs in front of the Assistant Principal’s desk. She was a woman in her mid thirties named Jessica Dodd who was in her first year with the district and was someone I didn’t know well. She listened to what Mrs Gilly had to say and took the incriminating Marlboro pack from her, causing me to lose a perfectly good cigarette on top of all else!
Once Mrs Gilly left, Ms Dodd asked to hear our side, and with such favourite adolescent monosyllables as “um” and “yea” we effectively conceded our guilt.
Ms Dodd lectured us on smoking: “Don’t you realize it’s bad for your health?” and “Didn’t you know this campus is smoke free?” (We couldn’t plead ignorance on No. 2 – the student handbook clearly did say as much). Neither of us offered much in reply. Ms Dodd stood up from her desk and walked to the grey metal filing cabinets in the corner. Taking out two manila folders, our student files for her office, she returned to the desk and began paging through their contents. Finally laying them to one side, she looked at us and said she saw from our records that this was the third violation that quarter for each of us.
This was so. As mentioned before, I was caught smoking in the parking lot and also skipped a day in early March. Amanda had skipped with me and had another violation I don’t recall. Ms Dodd then said that under the policies adopted by the county school board she had the “option” (her word) of using corporal punishment in lieu of detention or OSS for a third violation.
It occurred to me that if this was, in fact, the official policy, it was not clearly spelled out in any information ever provided to me. What she said next gave me the feeling of an electric charge in the pit of my stomach: “I think you ladies could benefit from a paddling. I’m sorry, but I really do.”
Opening a desk drawer, she took out two orange slips of paper. These were Parental Consent Forms whose use was only recently mandated by the Board. She handed one to each of us, said to have mom or dad sign it and to bring it in to her at 7.30 the following morning.
The rule in 1993 was that parents had to indicate by checking the form and signing whether corporal punishment could be administered for a violation, and in-school suspension was automatically assigned if permission for licks was denied. (Today, a single form is returned at the beginning of each school year.)
Ms Dodd told us to get ready for our next class at 12.45 and we walked out into the hallway. Once out of the office, Amanda was nonchalant: “Don’t worry about it. I got it in the 9th and it wasn’t too bad.”
I assured her I was not worried in any way because “My mom will *never* let this happen!” I was 100% sure of that too.
Mom hit the ceiling when, at 4.00 that afternoon, I ‘fessed up about what happened. We engaged in verbal sparring for the better part of two hours, and she was really torqued off. First, she was upset at more trouble in school when I’d just pulled detention for skipping, plus the revelation of my having also served detention for a previous smoking incident, something she hadn’t known.
Mom also felt I’d lied to her, having led her to think I’d quit smoking when I hadn’t. To cut to the chase, she said she’d give her permission for licks because, quote: “You have to learn that sometimes when you break rules there are going to be consequences you don’t like!”
Duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, mom! Thanks for that lesson in logic. I guess I’d never have figured that out otherwise, now would I?
It made no difference how I tried to talk, plead or whine my way out of it. She wasn’t listening and I gave up arguing.
That evening I had some English homework on ‘The Merchant of Venice’ and I remember the movie I was trying to watch when my boyfriend, Jeff, stopped over at 7.30. The flick had Johnny Cash as a sheriff in the 1940s and Andy Griffith as a guy who’d killed somebody for stealing a cow. It was probably an okay movie, but my mind was distracted and I was growing more and more apprehensive over what would happen in the morning.
Jeff asked if something was wrong and I told him no. Out of sheer embarrassment, I intimated nothing about what had happened and nothing about my hiney’s impending doom. After he left I considered phoning Amanda with the idea if *her* parents had refused to give permission, then my mom might still be dissuaded. But I never called.
I went to bed around 10.00 and had no trouble falling asleep. Morning dawned all too soon, and I had to get up and get ready for school. I put on jeans and plain white cotton panties, with a pullover top and sneakers. I wore a gold chain on my left wrist, a gift the previous Christmas from Jeff, and had my hair tied back as I normally wore it then.
Mom had piled my books and stuff on the kitchen counter. Protruding from between the pages of one, where I couldn’t fail to see it, was the orange consent form, checked signed and folded. Looking back at it now, I’ll say that had I known she’d really give her permission for the paddling I’d have forged her signature and left her in the dark about what had happened. I have no memory of breakfast, only that I had no appetite.
With mounting anxiety I realized if I refused to be paddled after mom gave her okay, I would be automatically suspended with failing grades for the quarter, something that simply wasn’t in the picture. I was trying to maintain my GPA with graduation was only a few weeks away. I threw on a white windbreaker and left without the usual goodbyes, giving the door a slam – but not as hard as I’d have liked to!
My wheels took the form of a 1975 Monte Carlo my dad had found for me in Fayetteville, one of those with the radical long hoods, light blue with white vinyl roof. With eight blocks to drive to school, I drove through the Stop-and-Go lights down the block and switched on the radio to WDKS-FM. They were playing Alan Parsons Project ‘Eye in the Sky’ as I turned into the parking lot and pulled up in my usual spot. Needless to say, hearing that song today always sends me right back to that time and place.
I walked into the building and went to my locker to deposit my windbreaker. Probably almost blushing with self-consciousness, I went through the main office where, thankfully, no-one paid any attention. I was happy to see only a few school secretaries and no other kids hanging around.
On entering the waiting area, I saw two desks had been brought in since yesterday. Amanda was seated at one, writing on some lined paper. I said hi, and she mumbled “hi” back, nothing more. Undoubtedly her emotions were exactly in sync with mine; fear, anger and embarrassment.
Amanda was wearing white Levis and a red sweatshirt with the school logo in white. She was a member of The Rubies, the school’s danceline troupe that performed at games, Homecoming and so on.
Ms Dodd stepped out of the office and asked for the consent form which I had folded up small in my hand – very small, that is – not wanting anyone I might encounter to suspect what was happening. She scanned it, then handed me some lined paper. “Megan, I want you to write these sentences fifty times: ‘I was paddled for smoking on school property. I will not commit this offense again.’ Then, when you’re done, just sign it at the bottom. Understand?” I understood, and plopped down to begin scribbling these words of wisdom.
Amanda had been there a while and was halfway through her sentences. I made an effort to stimulate conversation but she had little to say and remained intently focused on her writing. For just a moment she put her head down on her arms and I thought she would start crying, but she didn’t. I desperately wanted to say something that might help, but could think of nothing at all.
Amanda put down her pen and ran her finger down one side of the paper then the other, making certain she’d completed all fifty sentences. She stood up quickly and walked into the office, her whole demeanor seeming to say: “OKAY, FINE, LET’S GET THIS OVER WITH NOW.”
I overheard Jessica Dodd click the intercom and say something about “come down now…” She was summoning another teacher to act as witness, a precaution required by North Carolina law in the event Amanda or I would claim our punishments were excessive or abusive.
The witness evidently knew what she was coming for, but hadn’t been told who was involved. The door from the main office opened a minute later and she walked in. Her name was Andrea Kelly, somewhere in her mid-20s, an English teacher who was also in charge of the drama club. I knew Ms Kelly but never had one of her classes.
“Oh, hi Megan,” she chirped, just like she’d run into me at the mall or somewhere. “What are you doing in here?”
I told her quickly what had happened, thinking maybe she would or could do something to get us out of the mess we were in. No such luck. She arched her eyebrows in a somewhat reproachful look, said: “Hmmmmmmmmmm, well…” and went into the office shutting the door behind her.
Sitting alone at the desk, cheery spring sunshine beaming in the windows, my stomach doing flip flops and feelings of anxiety heightening by the second, I emphatically did not find the notion of being paddled to be a joke casually laughed off. The situation was truly intimidating. I was worried I’d cry when getting spanked and hoped I’d be able to hold it back and not show any emotions.
I feared if Amanda cried, I’d be more likely to when feeling the sting of the paddle a few minutes later. I reasoned if I could survive the licks without tears, Ms Dodd would think it hadn’t much hurt and I could ‘save face’. I was not a happy camper, as they used to say, but I was acutely aware we were being punished for wilful infractions of the school rules and that punishment wasn’t meant for fun.
From inside the office I could hear voices, but the words were unintelligible. Then, sudden and startling, “CRACK!!!” Silence. I was thankful Amanda hadn’t screamed. Nervous as the proverbial long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, if Amanda had screamed so would I!
Ten to fifteen seconds later… “CRACK!!!!!” Silence again. Amanda was doing okay with it until, that is, she got her fourth lick, greeted with a sharp yelp of: “OUCH GOLLY!!!” Maybe ten seconds later was her fifth and final lick, at which she seemed to gasp and sob in the same breath. Apart from this I heard nothing, and felt a certain relief that Amanda’s paddling hadn’t seemed quite as severe an ordeal as I’d feared.
A couple of minutes later Amanda came out, her face flushed and eyes moist, appearing angry and sullen. Looking at her I stammered: “Did it hurt?”
Amanda shot back: “My God, Megan! Do you HAVE to be such a baby about everything?” She grabbed her jacket and books and stormed out.
Jessica Dodds came to the door, telling me to “hurry up and finish writing”.
Done at last, I forced myself away from the desk and entered her office. For the sake of drama I wish it were possible for me to write that I was replaying in my mind the ‘Last Mile’ scene from some corny Jimmy Cagney movie, but I wasn’t. All I was thinking is that I wanted this over and done with, and right now.
Ms Dodd took the paper from me, and I was tol
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