A little while
back, while volunteering at our small local museum, a young family from abroad were
intrigued by an exhibit, the likes of which they had never seen before.
It was a strip of
leather, with a shaped grip at one end and two prongs at the other. We know it as the ‘tawse’.
I’d also not
long finished Nanzie McLeod’s book, ‘Tales from the East Neuk’, where, in one
chapter, she describes the over-use of the ‘tawse’ and one teacher’s over-enthusiastic
application of it. It was actually a disturbing passage from a time where if a
child asked to go to the toilet, he or she would be permitted, but would be ‘belted’
on return. The option was to wet yourself and be spared the leather but then
endure the humiliation of your classmates watching you mop up your own puddle.
So a few days later there I was explaining to visitors, from a different country and generation, how this
‘tawse’ was used to punish children and was a common teaching accessory across
Scotland, only finally being banned in 1987.
Like most boys,
and some girls, I was belted at school. I wasn’t a frequent victim of the
punishment and, in my era, there were some who competed for the highest tally
as a masochistic badge of honour.
My mother had
been belted at school for ‘talking’ when it actually had not been her. The pupil
code of honour meant you could not incriminate a classmate, not that it
probably would have done any good, so she took her punishment and, while the
pain would have quickly subsided, the injustice endured for the rest of her
days.
I could sympathise
with that. Even though I could accept that most of the times I was belted I
had, according to the rules of the day, deserved it, my lingering personal memory
is the one unjust belting I received
Sitting quietly
in class, the lad behind me, who I believe had watched an episode of the Man
from UNCLE the evening before, decided to practise a Napoleon Solo karate chop
on me. My bare, unprepared neck suddenly took the full force of the side of my
classmate’s hand. I still remember the pins and needles that went through my
head and spine, all the way down to my toes, and the black mist that blurred my
eyes. The unexpected blow pushed me forward and I squealed in pain.
What was equally
unexpected was the lesson that came with this unprovoked attack. Apparently
uttering any sound when subjected to a full-force martial arts blow qualifies
as academic insolence. So with shaky knees, blurred vision, and tingling from
teeth to toe, I was yanked out in front of the class, the tawse was removed
from its tin box home, and I was given ‘two of the best’, screamed at, and
shoved back into my seat.
It was an unfair
punishment, but I saw many of these. Some linger as disturbing memories and while
many of my age will have similar tales to tell, even as a young child there
seemed something seriously wrong with a grown adult attacking as child with a
strip of thick leather.
At my primary
school you were spared the tawse until primary three, after that you were fair
game for a good leathering. So, by my reckoning, that would have been ages seven
and upwards. Without judging the overall
rights and wrongs of corporal punishment, in that era there was a case to be
made for the belt being used to curb bad or dangerous behaviour, but then there
were areas where you just have to ask, “What sort of adult could justify
inflicting pain on a child for THAT?”
Needing to go to
the toilet as described in Nanzie McLeod’s book, certainly falls into that
category, as does, ‘in my book’ failing to salute your teacher if you saw them
outwith school.
These two
example are just bizarre acts of cruelty and self-importance, but there was one
more instance, commonly accepted, where the belt was widely wielded and seen as
completely justified, and that was in academic performance.
In my school
days, it was humiliating enough for children to be seated according to their
abilities, there was the zone of terror associated with being ‘bottom of the
class’ and the teacher’s pets who occupied the lofty heights of being ‘top of
the class’.
I endured
neither of these pressures, being safely ensconced in the middle rankings, but
even as children we all felt there was something just not right about that ‘bottom
of the class’ ranking. It wasn’t a revolving role, those that occupied those
handful of seats rarely moved, and the tenant of that lowliest of desks was usually
a permanent resident.
As we moved into
primary seven, around 40 of us, our teacher saw the belt not just as a means of
punishment but as a vital teaching aid, one that could improve every aspect of
your academic ability. It was a cure for dyslexia; it improved your
understanding of arithmetic; it could help you spell; it could help you write
quickly in dictation tests...
Where teaching failed and ability was restricted,
the solution was to inflict as much physical pain as you legally could on a
child, then it would all be good.
To this day, I
firmly believe that ‘Miss’ who stood in front of us should have been thrown out
the profession, charged with assault, and a restraining order imposed so she
was never allowed near a child again.
Harsh? I don’t think so. And I rest my case on the Friday
when all but one of us sat in silence and realised that what was unfolding in
front of our impressionable eyes was not just wrong, but cruel and demented.
Friday mornings became
our academic judgement day. We had a string of tests that began with mental
arithmetic, followed by spelling, then dictation (rapid long hand with correct
punctuation and spelling), then ‘problems’.
A certain number
of mistakes saw you being given extra class work as punishment. More sums to
do, correcting each spelling mistake by writing it correctly ten times, being
given extra dictation and extra homework etc.
Somewhere in her
warped perception of the world, Miss decided it would be an inspiring spectacle
for the rest of us if the worst performer in the class in each of these
subjects was belted – given a damn good thrashing.
Now, let’s call
him ‘Mossy’. He was a gentle wee soul, polite, always spotlessly turned out,
friendly, and a hard worker who always did as he was told. But try as he might,
and he did try, academically he needed help and support. He needed one-to-one teaching,
an adult whipping him with leather was not going to help. We all knew that,
except Miss.
So this one
Friday, Mossy flunked his metal arithmetic test badly, as he always did but
instead of being given extra sums, he was pulled out from behind his bottom-of-the-class
desk, and with his wee hand outstretched received four, or possibly six, of the
best, along with a good screaming from Miss about how stupid he was.
Sobbing, he was
shoved back into his seat, told to stop his snivelling, and the rest of us were
given a lecture on what would happen to us if we performed as badly as Mossy.
It was a
horrible sight to witness and created an atmosphere, not of fear because those
at the top end of the classroom knew they were never going to face that level
of punishment, ever. I remember it more of an unsettling mood; without speaking
we had witnessed something that was very wrong.
Then we moved on
to the spelling test.
I remember I got
a few wrong but Mossy failed miserably. And with tear stains on his face and
his hand bright red from the last belting, he was again positioned in front of
us and, crying with so much pain, he took another thrashing as the tawse repeatedly
came thundering down on him.
This just didn’t
make sense, and I don’t know if Miss, having made her threats at the start of
this Friday morning felt she had no option but to continue this bizarre
academic lesson.
Dictation was up next, and that was a subject
us middle-rankers had previously been screamed at over our performance. I still
don’t really understand its merit in a primary curriculum. In a shorthand
course, yes, but to have a teacher read out a passage and you try and take it
down in long hand, with no spelling or punctuation mistakes is a challenge. If
you struggled with a word, you would drop behind and forget what had been said.
There was always a chance you could submit a nearly blank page for marking.
That had happened in the past to Mossy, and it happened again.
So for a third
time, this wee lad, shouted at, insulted and pulled in front of the class, was expected
to take another belting.
By now he was
sobbing uncontrollably and, refusing to hold out his hand, he stuttered, “No Miss,
no, I’m no’ taking the belt again. I’m going home and tellin’ my mum and dad...”
At that he made
for the classroom door and had just got his hand on the handle when Miss
grabbed him. She started slapping him around the head so hard that he ended up
on the floor. By now she was apoplectic and dragged him out the classroom. In
the corridor outside we could hear her screeches and his sobs while the whacks
continued. Then he was apparently hauled up to the headmaster and, I believe on
account of his insolence, he was sent home.
Miss returned to
an unusually silent class. I have no recollection of anyone speaking at all,
certainly an unusual phenomenon when a teacher wasn’t present. It was as if we
all knew we had been witness to something unnatural.
I’m not sure but
I think because of the beltings and Mossy’s departure from school, we weren’t
given our problems’ test that Friday. That was a relief to all of us.
Did that mark
the end of the beltings, or the Friday nightmares? No, of course not, though I
don’t recall them ever being so uncontrolled again. Mossy was back at school
that Monday and life went on much as before with Miss sitting at her desk
sucking on a boiling while her belt lay coiled in that tin before her.
I don’t know the
long-term effect all these thrashings had on Mossy but they had a profound
effect on me.
When the next
visitor to the museum asks about the ‘tawse’ I won’t share this tale, but it
shouldn’t be forgotten. Lessons were certainly learned with all those beltings
from the tawse but the most important ones concern those hands that gripped it,
not those who waited to feel it.
