Whuppin' is the application of a hand, belt, switch (a thin, flexible branch freshly plucked from a tree) or other handheld object to the behind and/or thighs, with the intention of hurting the person being struck. Whuppin' happens when Mom or Dad refuses to take any more of your lip and wants to pop your britches. Whuppin' happens when words fail an adult, anger rises up swift, and the only thing left to do is to hit a child.
These days, many people consider whuppins child abuse, although the practice is still well-used among lower-income people, especially when of a Southern background. My relatives still think the "Time Out" is the most ridiculous thing. I was born in Saint Louis, Missouri. It's a Midwestern town, albeit one quite a bit lower down than others. I was whupped occasionally until I was about 12 or 13 years old, as punishment. No adult ever pleaded or reasoned with a kid. NEVER EVER.
When I was a child, no one really called anything abuse. It was bad--more like unlucky--to be born into a family that hit you, but not horrible. Things could be far worse. For a lot of kids in the neighborhood, it was. My parents were still together, even married, and we always had food on the table. My brother and I got to go to a parochial school nearby, instead of having to take the bus at 6:30 in the morning. Worse than that was going to the public school. A girl's beautiful hair was set on fire and the girls that did it stood by and laughed as she screamed and writhed on the floor.
What was a whuppin' compared to that?
My parents are Southern (Mom's from Arkansas and Dad's from Mississippi), so my brother and I have really sick senses of humor regarding corporal punishment. We had to turn it into something funny because it was pretty degrading. After being whupped, I went to my room and sat on the bed and cried. A few minutes later, my brother came in and sat next to me. We said nothing for a while and never touched each other. We weren't that kind of family, even though M. is a very tactile person. After the crying stopped, the promises to run away from home were recklessly made, along with the pledges of hate against Mom. After we observed the rituals properly, we'd talk about how fast Mom was that time. It was always hard to predict what she'd get to hit me. A lot of whuppin' comes from not knowing what to do, so I got whupped with leather belts, a rubber dustpan, or Mom's hand, which hurt far more than you'd think. She has large, callused hands and a lot of strength. The oddest object I was hit with was one of her shoes. She simply plucked it off her foot and wailed on me. Usually she ran to her closet and grabbed a belt, either one of hers or one of Dad's. The most painful were the belts. Mom's white one was wide and worn, but she wielded it like a Medieval battle weapon.
M. and I wove dueling scenarios and made Mom into a ninja or a samurai, turned ourselves into Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin, running down the street at high and jerky speed. We'd start laughing and slid the whuppin' aftermath off as best we could, then we'd quietly play until Mom was done being angry. I think we got whupped at the same time once and we just sat near each other and cried for a long time. We couldn't stop sniffling and started laughing like maniacs over the sounds we made. Mom came in and yelled at us.
I never got over being hurt over being whupped. I think 95% of the time, I was whupped for things I didn't know I was supposed to do or not do. I still think back to incidents and wonder what I could have done differently. Fairly often, I mentally re-draw all the wrong things I did. I think that most of the things I've done wrong in my life have come from not knowing what the rules are.
My favorite sad example is the time I refused to hit someone back after being struck at school. I really took my Lutheran school education to heart. I wanted to be like Jesus and forgive seventy times seven, to always forgive, to be a peaceful person. I was single digits in age, probably about 8 or so and said, "I forgive you" to another kid after being hit. She hit me again and it hurt, but I was determined to forgive and endure. I'm sure it looked really bizarre to any observers. I went home with a note and Mom asked me what happened. When I told her, she went ballistic. In a flash she had her hands on me, grabbing my arms, shaking me and yelling that I should defend myself and never allow anyone to hit me without returning a blow.
Needless to say, I didn't use my Jesus-inspired philosophy on her. I didn't shake or hit her, either. I couldn't hit my mother. She could hit me, shake me, but I could do nothing. "Hey," I realized, "she gets to hit me!" I ran the ten commandments through my mind and realized that there's one on honoring fathers and mothers, but nothing on how to honor kids. Worse, there was that "Spare the rod and spoil the child" rule in The Bible! God said she could hit me! Eek!
One of the scariest parts of the school year happened before school started at all: Each year, parents received an information packet from the principal of Saint Matthew. Included was a sheet to approve the school to punish children in loco parentis (in place of parents). This meant a parent could have a child whupped at school! They didn't use a belt or switch, either. They used a cricket bat wrapped with black electrical tape!
I was never whupped at school and begged Mom each year NOT to sign the whuppin' permission sheet. She never did, but she'd pretend to consider it anew each year, while I begged and pleaded.
