I am not a modern-day parent. I am Old School. Or some bizarre kind of PC time-tempered version of said Old School. I grew up believing that my parents' word was
Law. I may have questioned--mentally--but I would never,
ever verbalize those questions. Hell, growing up, I was raised to not even
look like I was questioning that Law. Or else there would have been hell to pay.
I can even remember the first time I went to a white friend's house and being shocked and horrified when I saw that white friend not only
question his parents but his actually yelling
back at his parents and even
cursing at them. And then I think my eight-year-old heart actually went into cardiac arrest when the parents not only didn't whup the boy unconscious but just ... just ... they just
ignored the little brat. I was so shocked and disgusted, I briefly contemplated taking off my own belt and whipping the little snot
for them.
It wasn't like I was abused, or anything. I don't even remember being hit all that often. Now, as a parent, I realize that I wasn't hit nearly as often as any parent--no matter how pacifistic--wants to actually hit their child. I guess I was lucky. But you couldn't tell me that. The belief that my folks would hit me was always there. The threat always loomed. It pretty much always kept me in line.
I've talked to many white folks about these things who have literally blanched in horror at my affectionate tales of childhood fright. Who want to bring parents like mine up on charges at the Hague. Many have felt that the physical punishment and/or the incredibly severe groundings (one summer I spent the entire month of June in-doors because I dissed one friend in order to hang out with some other "cooler" friends--and
girls!) should be listed as crimes against humanity. After all, kids will be kids.
