My History of Violence

I took no consolation in my handiwork as I approached the paddle -- the paddle I’d made in woodshop – that would momentarily be used for my whippin’. Coach Tigner slapped it against his calf as I drew nearer to him at the front of my 7th grade PE class. I did not ruefully reminisce at that moment that I’d been the one who carefully sawed, sanded and stained that paddle to Coach's specifications: He liked a longish paddling area, maybe 16 inches by 5, about 3/4ths of an inch thick, and rounded at the end. A tapered handle, maybe 2 inches wide, descending about 8 inches from the paddling area to a rounded knob through which a hole had been drilled to allow for a leather strap to wrap around the wrist. Three 1/2 inch holes bored at the end of the paddling area for ornamentation or, more likely, to allow for greater paddle speed. It would have been unseemly to ask “Why the holes, Coach?” upon receiving the specs. (Legend had it that Coach liked to leave three little spots on your butt, but in reality no one using these paddles ever hit anyone that high up on the paddle. No, we always got good wood right in the thick of the middle.) The best feature, the piece de resistance of which I was most proud, was the rich, beefy gravy-meets-bourbon stain lovingly applied with long brush strokes for the same seamlessness that graced the little bookshelf I'd made and which I still have on my piano. Yes, fine artisanal paddle crafting.

My bookshelf:


My 7th grade PE class featured a bunch of boys doing exercises in maybe 5 columns 6 boys deep, when I decided that my jumping jacks (Coach preferred "side straddle hops" in the jargon of his profession) would jump arms and legs out on the count instead of the missile-like up and down. I did it twice maybe, oh, and I’d also moved off the line some, happy with my little stunt, when Coach suddenly took up his whistle quick and blew a short staccato burst like he meant to puncture the sound of thumping, shuffling tennis shoes in that gym.

We all stopped. I don’t remember my initial reaction, but knowing myself at the time, I suspect I might have been looking around discreetly and smiling a bit. I do remember, and I remember this distinctly, that I expected a “Get in line, son, and stop your foolin’!”

But no. Coach pointed that paddle right at me, its leather strap straining at the wrist.

“’M’ere boy!” he commanded.

Well, that meant only one thing: He was going to test the aerodynamics of my design on my ass.

“That’s right, boy, YOU!” I must’ve displayed the international gesture of disingenuous uncertainty – eyes wide open, head thrust forward, my finger turned and pointed to my own torso – as if to get some clarity which no other being needed in that gym. All eyes were on me.

“There's nobody else clownin’ around so get on up here like I tol’ you, boy!”

He knew my name – sonofabitch lived down the street from me – but at the time it wasn’t his “boy” which disturbed me. What pained me was that he must’ve had no idea I’d made his paddle. Lovingly.

I considered, for a moment, telling him I’d made that very paddle. But the only thing worse than one’s fate in these moments would be a public effort to forestall it with some weak offering. What could’ve been weaker than, “You know, uh, I made that paddle myself in shop”? Any boy within earshot of that would have laughed derisively and with cause. “Supposed to just take your whippin’” . . . and be a minor hero for the balance of the day. Lame efforts to humanize the situation for purposes of a commutation of sentence or even just for a shorter backswing would result in obloquy and worse in the schoolyard.

I seem to remember looking balefully at my handiwork as I approached Coach who bid me bend over in preparation for what I knew would be 1 or 3 swats. You never knew in advance, there not being some sort of spreadsheet of offenses with the requisite swats drawn up somewhere. Still, you try to assess the situation because if there’s one thing for sure it’s this: if you get 3, your heart will jump and lodge in your throat and you will cry and that crying will be humiliating and that humiliation will be far worse than the pain which, let there be no doubt, would be considerable.

I spread my legs shoulder width apart and reluctantly grabbed my ankles. Or maybe I just put my hands on my knees. Whatever it took to give him a target. By this time I'm past quietly praying for only one swat and instead I'm trying to, as I said, assess the situation amidst panic.

So, here, made more coherent, is what was initially the furiously rushed and tumbled assessment I made as I grabbed my ankles: On the one hand, this just had to be a one-swat whippin’ because I hadn’t done anything all that godawful! What’s more, my whippin’ was going to be a public affair – in front of the gym class! Three-swat whippins always occur outside of class! On the other hand, the fact that I was up there at all for an offense that was surely de minimis portended darkly: Obviously, Coach must be maniac! Can’t know what to expect.

Thwack! Then . . . Coach stepped away.



One swat. And it stung. Heart bounced up into my throat, but settled back down without my humiliating myself.

“You’re gonna do this right from now on, isn't that right, boy?”

“Yessir.”

“Back in line, then, and be sure you do.”


No boy was ever paddled again that year in PE. My example scared maybe 40 boys into Marine-like unison in our calisthenics for the better part of a year. The event took on legendary proportions, but not because of anything I did – that wasn’t memorable or even worth a mention as we boys recalled the swing and thwack of that paddle. It wasn’t even Coach’s psychosis that haunted us.

No, it was the paddle. The paddle served its purpose. No one ever wanted to get hit by that paddle. My paddle. Did its job.

Over time, I became prouder and prouder of my handiwork and thrilled to the reports of its subsequent use.