during another public correction. Armi had been found with a note under her pillow that she had written as a prank, forging someone else's name to the letter. It was supposed to be for a laugh, but jokes like this were taken seriously. All of us children were called into the living room for a correction. Paul told us to close our eyes while he prayed and to keep them closed as he read a Mo Letter. When he said "Amen" at end of the prayer, I immediately opened my eyes.
"Celeste, how dare you disobey! You're rebellious, and disobedient," he shouted. I did not know what I had done wrong at first, but then I remembered he had said to keep our eyes closed not just for the prayer but for the entire length of the letter. I tried to explain.
"Stop talking back! Now go outside and stand against the wall NOW!" Paul shouted.
Shaking like a leaf I went out of the room and stood next to Renee, who had been sent out earlier for not sitting still.
After half an hour, he called us back and told me to stand and listen, or else.
Trying my best to obey, I stood upright, but, as the time wore on, my legs became uncomfortable and tired. I leaned the back of my leg on the couch that was behind me.
"There you go again! Disobeying orders!" The man had eyes in the back of his head. "You asked for it, Celeste. Let this be a lesson to all of you." He told me to hold out my hand and rained down blow after blow on it. The pain was so excruciating I could barely move my wrist for a week. That night I sobbed quietly as I fell asleep exhausted, hurting and angry at my unjust punishment and humiliation in front of my peers.
I hated unfairness and injustice, and like Paul, my teacher Patience had a terrible temper; she had very little of the virtue she named herself after. She would cuss and swear at us when we made mistakes or slap us across the face if we tried to explain ourselves. "Stop talking back," she would snap.
One time when she was teaching us to write in cursive, I struggled to follow her instructions. She slammed my book closed and shouted, "Are you bloody stupid or something? Stand in the corner now if you won't obey and do it right."
My mother would never treat me like this, I fumed as I stood against the wall for the next half hour. I often thought about my Mum...
I knew Sri Lanka was an island south of India, and I hoped that we could go to visit her and Kristina and David, or maybe they could come and visit us. Somehow it made me feel closer to them, living in a similar culture. I always imagined Mum would be just like my dad. He was never unpredictable, bad tempered or violent. This made me love him all the more. I never wanted to hurt or disappoint him and would do my best to obey him. On the rare occasions he did spank me, it was usually because he was expected to by another parent because of something I had done—like when I raised a tent peg in anger at another girl during an argument, or when I snuck my friend Koa some marbles when his mother had forbidden him to play with them. Dad never gave more than six swats with his bare hand or a slipper.
"Sweetheart, it hurts me more than it hurts you to have to spank you," he'd say and he'd sigh. The way he said it, his face and tone of voice made me believe him.
"Honey, you know Jesus died for your sins on the cross," he said. "He saved you, now you don't want to disappoint him, do you?"
I shook my head as I imagined Jesus hanging from the wooden cross, nails making his hands bleed. I had watched Jesus of Nazareth, and the death scene was frightening. But the fact that I had disappointed my dad hurt more. After the talk he put me over his knee and counted out the swats. "One ... two ... three .. ,four ... five ... six."
I tried not to cry. Usually, I just braced myself and closed my eyes because I had my pride and did not want him to see me in tears. Dad never nursed a grudge. As soon as it was over, it would be as if it never happened. If only all adults could be like him, I
"Celeste, how dare you disobey! You're rebellious, and disobedient," he shouted. I did not know what I had done wrong at first, but then I remembered he had said to keep our eyes closed not just for the prayer but for the entire length of the letter. I tried to explain.
"Stop talking back! Now go outside and stand against the wall NOW!" Paul shouted.
Shaking like a leaf I went out of the room and stood next to Renee, who had been sent out earlier for not sitting still.
After half an hour, he called us back and told me to stand and listen, or else.
Trying my best to obey, I stood upright, but, as the time wore on, my legs became uncomfortable and tired. I leaned the back of my leg on the couch that was behind me.
"There you go again! Disobeying orders!" The man had eyes in the back of his head. "You asked for it, Celeste. Let this be a lesson to all of you." He told me to hold out my hand and rained down blow after blow on it. The pain was so excruciating I could barely move my wrist for a week. That night I sobbed quietly as I fell asleep exhausted, hurting and angry at my unjust punishment and humiliation in front of my peers.
I hated unfairness and injustice, and like Paul, my teacher Patience had a terrible temper; she had very little of the virtue she named herself after. She would cuss and swear at us when we made mistakes or slap us across the face if we tried to explain ourselves. "Stop talking back," she would snap.
One time when she was teaching us to write in cursive, I struggled to follow her instructions. She slammed my book closed and shouted, "Are you bloody stupid or something? Stand in the corner now if you won't obey and do it right."
My mother would never treat me like this, I fumed as I stood against the wall for the next half hour. I often thought about my Mum...
I knew Sri Lanka was an island south of India, and I hoped that we could go to visit her and Kristina and David, or maybe they could come and visit us. Somehow it made me feel closer to them, living in a similar culture. I always imagined Mum would be just like my dad. He was never unpredictable, bad tempered or violent. This made me love him all the more. I never wanted to hurt or disappoint him and would do my best to obey him. On the rare occasions he did spank me, it was usually because he was expected to by another parent because of something I had done—like when I raised a tent peg in anger at another girl during an argument, or when I snuck my friend Koa some marbles when his mother had forbidden him to play with them. Dad never gave more than six swats with his bare hand or a slipper.
"Sweetheart, it hurts me more than it hurts you to have to spank you," he'd say and he'd sigh. The way he said it, his face and tone of voice made me believe him.
"Honey, you know Jesus died for your sins on the cross," he said. "He saved you, now you don't want to disappoint him, do you?"
I shook my head as I imagined Jesus hanging from the wooden cross, nails making his hands bleed. I had watched Jesus of Nazareth, and the death scene was frightening. But the fact that I had disappointed my dad hurt more. After the talk he put me over his knee and counted out the swats. "One ... two ... three .. ,four ... five ... six."
I tried not to cry. Usually, I just braced myself and closed my eyes because I had my pride and did not want him to see me in tears. Dad never nursed a grudge. As soon as it was over, it would be as if it never happened. If only all adults could be like him, I
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