A Mild Oppression

"Go to the beating area - now!", his mother commanded. Shit. Fuck. Damn, he thought. He did it again. He hated the beating area, a small, semi-soundproof room between the garage and the kitchen. Most kids knew this as a breezeway or a mud room. Not him. In a good week, he could merely pass through the beating area as if it were either of the things other kids knew it to be, not once having been ordered to go and wait for his father, or his mother and give thought to what he did wrong.

How was he supposed to think about what he did wrong when he could hear an angry parent stomping around looking for some household item that would serve as an instrument of discipline and justice, muttering phrases like, "you're in trouble now mister - just you wait until I get in there."

Jeezus. He was waiting, and at 11 years of age, being addressed as mister was more than he could handle. Mister was never a favorable title it seemed. What could there possibly be to look forward to adulthood for if every time someone referred to him as mister, it meant that he'd done something wrong? Sometimes whatever it was he did wrong was intentional and he was merely rolling the dice figuring that the risk of being caught was minimal - or even worth it. Sometimes those gambles paid off, other times he paid the price. He wasn't old enough to fully understand the whole no risk, no reward concept. He merely knew that he didn't always get caught for these childhood offenses.

Did he want to get caught? Nope. So there he was, waiting in the beating area, having had the misfortune to grow up in a time when parents were allowed to whoop a kid's ass if they deserved it. In his mind, he did not deserve it this time. He was playing baseball on the street with other kids in the neighborhood. It's not like he thought he could actually hit the ball far enough that it would go straight through the middle of the picture window of the one man on the street who didn't like kids at all. All of the players agreed that a ball hit even as far as the kid hater's front yard would be a home run - but this, this was a home run with authority.

He was halfway to second base when he heard the crash of the ball going through the window. He'd ignored the yells of the other kids in his unbridled enthusiasm for a ball hit well. Now instead of running leisurely around the bases to home, he wanted to run anywhere but home...say to the next state over, maybe China. At the very least, it'd be nice to make it to his grandparent's house and get the chance to explain that he hadn't broken the neighbor's window intentionally. No. Such. Luck.

As much as he hated the beating area, which was so named by his older sister, he also hated the ridiculous questions that often came with discipline and punishment for his wrong doings. He always thought of the teacher who once said that there were no stupid questions - because the moment she said that, he knew better. There were stupid questions, and they were often asked by either of his parents when he was in some kind of trouble:

Mother: What the hell were you thinking hitting a ball like that, straight at the neighbor's window? What are you going to tell your father when he gets home??

Father: Do you want a beating?

Why on earth did his mother ask him questions that he couldn't answer honestly, and without appearing like he was every bit the smart ass that he wasn't allowed to be around adults?

Him, to his mother: What was I thinking? Well Mom, I sure as hell didn't think I'd hit the ball that far - or at all. It was a pick up game - so stats are kept loosely at best, if at all...but I was chosen for my team last, if that says anything at all about my batting average. I mean, I fouled out in all my previous at bats, and everyone thought I was going to do the same this time - and they said as much. When dad gets home, I expect to be up to my ears in homework - which is what he told me I'd better be doing when he got home and he didn't want any back talk about it...so I was thinking I could bypass the whole talk-to-dad thing...

Him, to his father (as IF): Actually dad, what with all the chores I have to do for my allowance, and the homework I'm a bit behind on - a beating, tempting as that is, is gonna put me behind on things - can we do it next week?

Parents aren't looking for honesty when they ask such questions, even if they say they are. Why then, did they ask such questions? Why wasn't it enough to be told that it was an accident? That you didn't know? That you were sorry? Why did it seem like honesty wasn't rewarded when it was insisted upon?

This was the early 70's - anti-spanking laws had yet to be written and voted into a way of life. Kids couldn't call some child abuse hotline and get something done about what they had coming back then. They could only dream of a day when a belt, maybe a hairbrush or a piece of Hot Wheel track would all be illegal to use upon any child, regardless of age, race, the neighborhood they lived in and the kids they hung around with. Nor could they be used with phrases like, "You're lucky I'm not really mad this time..."