Unlock the door! ...I just want to ..talk.

To this day I can't remember what my transgression was, but my grandma beat me across the upper body with a 2x4 when I was 12.

I was 6 feet tall and full of myself. She was 5 foot nothing, but still full of piss and vinegar.

I have a feeling she may have been chastising me for some of my antics and I smarted off to her. That did it. Grandma reached for the nearest object to flail me with. The nearest object just happened to be a 2x4 from the woodpile on the porch.

She started hitting me with the 2x4 all the while proclaiming that I was, in her words, an "Evil,evil child."

I was laughing myself silly, which made grandma even madder so she doubled her attack. And I laughed even harder.I feel horrible about it now...I actually pushed this gentle old woman to hit me with a board and then laughed while she did her best to imagine me as a pinjata.

Other then that, I got beat on a pretty regular basis growing up. Apparently I was a rotten kid. The worst was when I'd use my hands to cover my poor hurting ass and the belt (Or Hot Wheels track) would then become focused on my legs. Damn that sucked.

And it always started out with the cliche "This is going to hurt me more then it hurts you."

 

I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian household. I had a single parent mother who was an authoritarian. All of the children in my church revered and respected her. The men speaking in groups would part like the Red Sea when she approached. When this bitch walked a wake would follow her. Needless to say I am still afraid of her to this day. My mother believed in the belt, whichever end happened to be handiest. I was telling my absentee father about this and he said, 'Why do you just lay there?' This line of questioning seemed brilliant to a 9 year old. So for the next beating I moved and got up to run. There was some head fakes and juking going on but I evaded her, ran down the stairs and to the only room with a lock on it, the 1/2 bath at the bottom of the stairs. She beat on the door like the big bad wolf. For sure this door was going to break down. "COME OUT OF THERE YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE". Never had I heard my mother curse. I think she realized how pissed she was.

Black people with Motown. On come the Eisley's. I look under the door and she's still standing there. I'm not coming out. I look every 10 minutes for hours. Still there, waiting. Night comes. Record goes off. Still there. I get hungry and the idea of a beating doesn't sound as bad as starvation. Out I come, slowly. She left her shoes there and had long since gone to sleep. Woken up to beating the next morning.

 

My parents definitely believed in "spankings". To this day I can't own a wooden spoon (my mothers weapon of choice). My dad is a mean son of a bitch and preferred the belt (much like chater's). Much more effective than time out

 

We had a paddle at home. It was a novelty thing my mom picked up at a craft store, but they actually used it. I always saw my brothers get it after doing something sinister. I had only gotten it once and I can't quite remember what I did. That's all it took though.

Other forms of punishment included nose on the wall or dresser knob and if we were unfortunate enough to misbehave in the van, they would make us put our nose on the dash while my dad looked for potholes and had to suddenly hit the brakes. I think he got laughs out of those forms of punishment.

Kids now days don't get beat like they need to. People are being ran by the kids now. In my town, all a kid has to say is that they will tell the cops that they get abused and the parents leave them be. Instead of kids misbehaving they are expressing their individuality. Bullshit.

 

When I was a kid I hated church, and did everything in my power to disrupt the process. In the middle of the services, I'd go to the bathroom and then just roam around the building, which happened to be huge. I'd eat the communion bread cubes and drink a bunch of the grape juice as they sat on a tray outside of one of those secret doors the minister opens up. I'd go to a different chapel and fall asleep in a warm, quiet pew. I'd play basketball in the basement gym.

One sunny spring Sunday morning when I was about 9 years old, we were driving to church and I was giving my mother all kinds of shit. Talking back the whole way down the Merritt, yelling at my sister just to make her cry, just being an asshole. When we pulled into the parking lot and my mother turned off the car, she turned around and said, "Shut your mouth and get out of the car, we're going inside." Clearly, she hadn't been listening to me the whole ride there, because I had defiantly stated that I was sleeping in the car. I responded, "I'm not going anywhere, I'm sleeping here, church sucks."

My mother always jokes that, after pushing out two kids, she can't really run without peeing herself. Well she must've been covered with piss that morning, because she flew around the outside of that green Ford Aerostar and damn-near tore the sliding door off before I even realized that the driver's seat was empty. She flung it open so hard that it bounced back about halfway on the track. She grabbed me on the shoulders and I thought for sure that she was going to headbutt my face into a pile of goo, not unlike the homemade cranberry sauce that no one touches because the circular one with the can lines is better. Instead of billy-goating my face with her forehead, she balled up both her fists and sunk them into my non-existent 9-year-old pectorals with vicious hammer punches. I felt as if my heart was being extruded through my ribcage and any remaining air evacuated so quickly it was as if someone had pulled a tab and deflated me. These double fists of fury dropped twice more in quick succession and she left me whooping for air in a heap on the back seat. She calmly lifted herself out of the belly of the van, straightened her dress, and got my sister out of the front seat. My sister was scared shitless and was incapable of laughter, lest she get a taste of any leftover rage that I had instilled in my normally-calm mother.

Bruised and with broken pride, I went into church.

 

I tried that once, just before my dad was about to lay a beatdown on me for stealing his pocket knife, and my dad's response was that I could, and would, just disappear.

To this day, I still believe him. I'm bigger than him these days, but he's still a tough motherfucker.

 

I never got hit. I also never fucked up in school, never received a single detention, never got in trouble with the police, learned manners, and have a fairly well-developed ethical sense. Same goes for my siblings. Same goes for a dozen of my friends, many of whom are working toward their PhD and are polite, well adjusted members of society. Crazy as it sounds, our parents found alternate means of punishment beyond "I'm bigger than you, you little shit, so do what I say."

So there goes the argument that kids "need" to be hit. But, by all means, continue with that fantastic line of logic.

 

I was a little smart-ass (as I imagine most of this board was) as a kid, and my parents would have me in "time out" a couple times a week. One incident that stands out in my mind which led to an attempted beat-down and then an actual beat-down was during a nice weekend afternoon playing outside with my dad.

I was on my roller skates doing minor jumps and tricks. My dad was shooting the basketball on the driveway and my little sister came out to try to play with us. Naturally, for no other reason than to see the disappointment on her face, I didn't want her to play with us. It wasn't even really a group thing. We were just outside on a nice day. When my dad went to pass her the ball, I skated as fast as I could and intercepted it, then passed it to her even harder and it nailed her right in her little 5 year old chest. She landed on her ass crying. I'm such a bastard.

As you could imagine, my dad was furious. He was chasing me around the driveway and I was just skating around him laughing and he was getting more and more enraged. He then had the brilliant idea to grab the basketball and throw it at me(dodgeball style) as hard as he could. He got me right in the legs and I fucking went down like a cripple right on the driveway. While I was laying there, he hit me in the ass and then walked back in the house. Left me laying there.

I never did that kind of shit ever again.

 

Good for you then. I'm glad you and your friends turned out so well. Gives me hope that today's youth, myself included, aren't completely fucked.

That being said, I firmly believe that I would've turned into a worthless fuckin' thug if my parents hadn't stepped in and set me right. Not all kids learn from just being told, and sure, my dad always told me in words once, but when I did the same thing again, he told me with the buckle end of his belt. I really did need to be told twice.

 

I learned this little trick from my father. Up until I was 15, I was raised by my mother and her parents. Screaming and yelling at one another was just part of the daily routine.

Then I went to live with dad. When he got mad at me (Which was often) he'd become quiet. I'd yell. He'd get quieter and more reasonable while I brayed like a donkey giving birth to a tractor. It really fucked with my head why I was getting more and more upset and he'd just get calmer. I later learned that he was more pissed off then me and wanting to send my front teeth to be implanted in the back of my thick head forever.

But he didn't. Thank God. Apparently dad was a bit smarter then I gave him credit for. Corporal punishment at that age would've involved a fist fight between the two of us, and while I'll readily admit I needed a serious ass kicking at that age, it would've caused a rift that might never be repaired.

So dad kept calm and infuriated me with reasonable arguments while my brain was doing flip flops trying hard to figure out how to turn the tide in my favor. I had to refocus my energy from being mad to having a reasonable discourse with him.

I've used that technique many times in disagreements and it seems to work. I don't know if it's something he learned in the military or figured out on his own, but it sure is effective. A good head fucking is much more effective then an ass beating.

 

My mom used to fuck me up. Both my parents got the shit kicked out of them growing up, but for some reason my old man was never especially violent with me. Worst he would ever do was a wooden spoon across my bare ass, which still hurt like hell. The mom dukes on the other hand, was violent. It was all pretty standard ass whooping, but there were a couple that stood out. Those were the two or three times she would pull my pants down and "spank" (this was a spank on steroids) my bare ass in public places such as grocery stores. Oh the humanity. It doesn't get much more emberassing than that.

My grandfather was a hard ass though. My mom had five other siblings, and her old man almost killed one of her brothers with a 2x4 one time. So that's where she got it from. My old man and his four other siblings would just get the shit whipped out of them with a belt, which I guess was pretty standard back then.

If I can't at least spank my kids a bit because of PC reasons, I'll sure as hell shake the shit out of them to hide the bruises.

Oh yea, forgot: One time my mom hurled a wooden chair from the kitchen table at me. I literally dove out of the way like I was in an action movie. The fucking chair exploded into a dozen pieces against the wall that I was standing in front of just seconds earlier. I remember I was in the first grade, and she sent me in with a note for the teacher explaining why I was late. I don't know what the hell my mom said in that note, but my teacher looked at me like I was the fucking devil after she read it. My 1st grade teacher was such a cunt.

I should probably say that my mom is awesome, and our family (3 other sisters and old man) is extremely close and we get along great. Despite those few stories from my childhood.

 

I only caught one really bad beating as a child, it happened when I was 9 or 10. We had a fuck stick of a neighbor that was around my age. He loved bullying other kids. One day he decided to steal my bike. I decided I wanted it back. The guy was a little bit bigger than me, so I did the logical thing- I grabbed my bb gun, and threatened him with it.

Another neighbor saw me, and decided to tell Dad. Dad is a pretty nice guy, until he learns his ten year old son was threatening someone with a gun earlier that day. He beat me so hard I cried. The beating was so bad I went to the doctor for a checkup a few days later, and the doctor asked what those bruises on my ass were from. My parents didn't get reported because mom was director of Children's Services (local state run agency that takes kids away from their parents when they beat them). Because of this, the doctor knew I deserved what I got.

I got my bike back from the bully, but that didn't really matter. My ass hurt so much I couldn't really sit on it. On top of that I was grounded for a few months, so I couldn't have road it even if I was able to.

In my parents defense, I had gun safety harped at me from a very early age. What I did was wrong on so many levels. And I should have known it. After that I learned to obey, and have only brandished my gun at animals since.

 

There's a reason I refuse to live within a 500 mile radius of my father and stepmother. While they beg for me to return to their little orbit, the more inclined I am to stay as far away as possible. Hence why I'm 3,000 miles away and would be further if there wasn't an ocean blocking my way.

My father is a really violent person. He never forgave my birth mother for cheating on him and divorcing him...and then leaving him a child to raise while she sowed her wild oats. Because she was off somewhere, he could not give her what he thought was a justifiable beatdown. The next best target? The little girl that resembled the object of his hatred. He never laid a hand on my stepmother or my brother. The belt, hand, whatever was available always found its way toward me.

I'll admit, sometimes it was justified, like when I told my stepmother she couldn't tell me what to do because she wasn't my mother. Since she raised me from the age of four, she was, in fact, my mother. But when a twelve year old kid says it because she's angry she can't go to the pool...it becomes personal. My father retrieved me and I got a hell of a lashing from him. Let me tell you, I never spoke that disrespectfully to her after that beating.

The one time that sticks out in my mind happened when I was ten. I had left a message on our answering machine about my having dinner with a friend and going to the playground afterward. When I walked in at 8:30, my stomach dropped. My father was home at least two hours early from work. And he was none too pleased with not knowing where I was. Despite my pleas for him to check the machine and prove that I had left word, he came at me with a wiffle ball bat and beat my ass. I just remember my throat being hoarse after all the screaming...fucking wiffle bats sting like a bastard.

I went screaming to my stepmother for help...who in turn did nothing. I found out much later that he had a bad day at work and was, in his words, "looking for trouble."

And that, my friends, is why I live far, far away.

 

I got most of my drug use out of my system by 11th grade. I did it all - even shooting up while living in the hell that was Conroe, TX. My dad is a 25 year officer in the 173rd Airborne Brigade. He never put a hand on me; nor did he ever come to football, baseball, track, or tennis. But, I love and worship him.

One night I came home messed up on whatever drug I was doing at the time. My hair was down to the middle of my back and I thought I was the coolest out there since the Fonz. My mom told me I need to eat something. I told her no. She then demanded I eat. I, like a total asshole, told her to fuck off as I was walking to the stairs. My dad was watching TV. The next thing I remember was me two steps up, getting choked out. That man remembers his hand-to-hand training.

Ft. Benning is dedicating the 173rd museum in June and he's flying up for it. He's 85 and only has a few Army buddies still alive, but I cross none of them and drive down there often to see them. I am sure they could all whip my ass, but their humor assures me of laughing too hard to fight anyway.

I got what I deserved that day from my dad, and I love my parents more than anything else.

 

You think you might have gotten the message if he'd made you do push ups instead? Or run laps? Or dig holes? Or a number of other physical punishments that didn't involve you getting whipped by a leather strap with a metal tip?

I'll ask you this, too: do you think you'll hit your kids?

 

I don't even remember how many times my parents beat me. It probably happened 3 or 4 times a month until I was 16. Who the fuck spanks someone until they can drive? What is that?

My mom carried her hairbrush as her weapon of choice. That hurt a ton, but it was nothing compared to my dad. If my brother and I were misbehaving during the day my mom would call my dad at work and tell him what little shits we were. This was the worst thing that could happen. We would spend the rest of the day in fear, anxiously anticipating his return. Sometimes the anticipation was worse than the punishment. He'd eventually come home, eat, drink a beer or two, drawing it out like part of the punishment, and then it was Go Time. Spankings would fly. The shitty part is that most of the time his aim missed. Instead of hitting pure glute, he'd leave a giant bruise from ass to knee. Bastard.

And that's how I ended up a stripper in clear platforms.

 

"Who's a disgrace now? WHO LISTENS TO GAY MUSIC NOW? That's what I thought. Wipe the snot off your face and go watch fucking Blue's Clues."

 

And to think, people work out for fun now. If more parents did this it would cure the obesity problem in America.

Come on guys, don't turn this into a moral debate. You are going to ruin an awesome thread.

 

I have the hole digging thing all worked out. Chant and all.

"I AM MY SHOVEL. MY SHOVEL IS ME. WITHOUT MY SHOVEL, I WOULD HAVE TO DIG WITH MY HANDS. WITHOUT ME, MY SHOVEL WOULD STILL BE A SHOVEL. I WILL DIG, DIG, DIG UNTIL DAD SAYS STOP. I WILL LEARN NOT TO PUNCH MY BROTHER WHEN HE TAKES MY BASEBALL. I WILL DIG, DIG, DIG UNTIL DAD SAYS STOP."

Best. kids. ever.