Getting Strapped at School by Teacher
This Happened To Me (True Short Story)
Sometimes I still think about him.
It has been nearly 50 years but I have told the story many times over the years of the day the teacher caned him and he had not done what he was accused of doing.
I wonder if he still thinks about me sometimes. I wonder where he is and what he ended up doing.
I wonder why he liked me so much and pursued me?
I feel so so bad now, for being too shy to talk to him. Too scared to acknowledge his young attempts at being friends, and I wonder how much I hurt him?
Or is it all forgotten in his mind?
Am I the only one still thinking about the incident.
I have a feeling but no specific memories, that Craig had gotten the strap or cane many times previously. This particular day the teacher was angry, and there was tension in the classroom. The sunlight fell so brightly through the windows on my left my eyes squinted half shut. I remember the way the chalk dust seemed to float in the light coming from the windows and be everywhere, but wherever it landed, you could not see it anymore.
A boy sitting behind my desk leaned forward and threw something to land on the desk in front of Craig. It landed on the floor in front of Craig instead. The teacher turned just as the object landed. He yelled. He had enough. His anger was frightening.
He yelled Craig’s name to come forward. He shouted that he was sick of him, he always was causing problems, and he was tired of telling everyone to behave. Craig was yelling it was not him. He was telling him to shut up. I stood up and said, “But, it wasn’t him.” I spoke so quietly I am not sure the teacher even heard the words I said, but he had seen me stand, and he saw me sit down again quickly frightened to catch his eye.
The room suddenly went deadly quiet. The teacher asked Craig to hold out his hand. He hit him three times. Craig pulled back his hand after the first time and gasped. The teacher yelled at him to put it back and keep it there, or he would get extra for taking it away. The sound of the strap whacking onto the palm of his hand filled the room. Craig pulled away from his hand after being hit with the full force of the teacher on the third stroke. He burst into tears and was crying and begging him no saying it was not him. The teacher was saying he was a liar.
The teacher hit him another three times hard on the hand. Craig collapsed to the ground on all fours. He barely made it back to his chair holding his arm and hand close into his body, and his sobs filled the room.
It was still deadly quiet.
I felt sick to my stomach. Everyone knew Craig had not been at fault. The reaction of the teacher had frightened everybody. It seemed so over the top and violent for the supposed infraction.
I wondered why the teacher hated Craig so much. I don’t remember Craig before this day.
Craig took to following me around. I was a loner. I longed to play with the other girls but as my parents wouldn’t let me have lunch at school, eat lunch at school, socialize with the other children after school or go to school camps due to our religious upbringing, I was a perpetual outsider. The other girls noticed the first time Craig came up to talk to me. They started to wolf whistle and called out to us. I was so embarrassed I moved away as being noticed was the last thing I wanted.
The next time Craig came and spoke to me I didn’t want to be rude to him, but I had been taught from a young age I was not allowed to talk to boys.
I felt fearful.
It had never happened previously in my 11 years. But, I also didn’t want to be rude or hurt his feelings. I remember feeling so torn, and unsure what to do.
I was caught between the conflicting emotions, like a fish in a net.
We talked enough for me to ascertain he was going away on holiday. He asked for my address, and he wrote it down. He asked permission to send me a postcard. He thanked me for standing up for him in the classroom on the day he got the strap.
I blushed red and put my head down.
He sent me the postcard. It was of 90-mile beach in New Zealand. He had written on the back that he was having a lovely time with his family, and had walked on the beach, and had fish and chips. He was looking forward to seeing me when he got back.
When he got back and ran up to talk to me in the break, I tried to get away from him. My parents had seen the postcard and had warned me off talking to him. I was frightened. I asked him not to speak to me. I didn’t look up to see his reaction.
I walked away.
It has haunted me since I have been an adult and left the religion of my childhood.
How much did I hurt him? Is he okay now? Does he still think of these days in the schoolyard and classroom as I do? Has he had a good life?
I don’t remember his last name. I would not even recognize him today.
In my mind, over the years he has been in prison or else he has died. Sometimes I wish with my whole heart that he married, had children and been happy and had a good life.
I will not ever know.
But Craig, if you are out there — I am so sorry if I hurt you.
I didn’t mean to.
It meant so much you coming to talk to me. I wanted to talk to you so badly but was too frightened, embarrassed, ashamed. I didn’t have the courage then to break free. I have done so now. I am glad you were happy I stood up for you that day with the teacher even if my voice was too quiet. I am sorry I walked away from you in the school ground. I was scared.
Please forgive me.
I hope you have been happy.
Love, Deb
