You’ve slayed me with this story. Oh my!!

I need to check your blog to see if you’ve explored that artistic side of yours because the idea of breaking the mason jars was brilliant…. (you were a very smart child weren’t you?!!)

In my neighborhood it was almost all black folks, my family (Tibetan), and few hippies. The hippies remodeled an old dirt floor garage into a pottery studio. They locked the studio up with a Master lock that was latched onto the door handle and an eye bolt.

I was a curious (this lead to many beatings) and small child. I squeezed through the space between the door and the frame. When I came in I saw that the walls were covered in small shelves, from the floor to the cieling, and they were filled with mason jars. I don’t know why, most were empty, but there they were. The light streamed in from the windows and hit them just right-rainbows scattered about. I had a sublime moment. This moment lead me to get the bright idea to break all the mason jars. I broke them all. I threw rocks, knocked down shelves, and when the ground was littered with broken glass-the light hit it and made rainbows light up everywhere-like colorful moths dancing about. Then, after a moment, I realized what I did.

I ran away.

Then I knew I would get blamed (I was the bad kid of neighborhood. Not the mean one, just the one that got into trouble all the time) and so I went home in a huff, “You know what Dad? I saw ____ and he was coming out of Patties pottery studio. I heard lots of crashes.”

Now mind you, this kid was, well, retarded in the scientific version of that word.

I can only say I didn’t know what I was doing, I just didn’t want to get whupped.

I heard that boys howls all the way across the alley. I even had the audacity to nod my head like it was ‘just’ punishment.

Then the found out. I don’t know how. The neighbor spanked me, the retarded boys parents spanked me, and then my mom hit me with a wooden spoon, and my dad spanked me with a belt.

This beating went on, mostly on, and off for at least a few days.

Man. That was tough.

I was a lot like your sister. Very strong willed and opinionated and just a rebel in general. My younger sisters didn’t even get (many)whuppings , they just lived off the legends of my whuppings. Lol!

If I have a kid like me (which I know I will), it’s going to be real interesting.

The story I wrote below is the only time, my dad hit me out of emotional and/or something. And I think that’s the theory I will be implementing too. One parent is the disciplinarian… or at least the parent who is the least aggravated should be…

If my mom was allowed to hit us? We would have been injured or something, that woman could grab anything and throw it at you… Lol!

Now that’s funny!

The whuppings that hurt the most are the ones you don’t deserve and/or you get because someone is in a bad mood.

But those who humiliate you when you a “rep” to worry about are thee worst. When I was 8, I thought I was all that and a bag of chips… I told my folks that I was hanging out at a friend’s house down the block (they knew her and her parents)… Little did they know, there was a “secret santa” party going on that afternoon. And rumor had it that my “secret santa” was my lovely neighborhood crush… There was no way I was going to miss that party. Thank God for lax parents because my friend’s folks had some very lackadaisical parenting rules and didn’t even care about our whereabouts (at 8!! *smh*)… Anyways, we got our behinds to the party organized by my crush older brothers… The party fell prey to CPT and instead of starting at 3pm like it was supposed to, it started at 5pm!!! In my little head, I was rationalizing that I was there already and I should just stay for the course… deal with the consequences later…

Long story short, my 8-year old behind got home at 8pm… My parents had been looking all over the place for me. My snicthin’ neighbors who were not cool enough to be invited to the party told my dad there was a party and that I was probably there. Snitchin’ arseholes!!!

My dad usually admnisters punishment with no anger or emotion (reason why he’s the only one allowed to punish us and not my mother )… but this day?? This day, that man hit me across the face real hard!!! Everybody in the neighborhood knew I received a whupping… so much for my gangsta!

The next day at church, when my “cool” friends with whom I was at the party asked me about my swollen eye? Why did I tell them that I fell of the bunk bed? Sh!t, I had a rep to keep!!!

Now that I think about it, that day was bananas. It was the first time I saw my parents disagree about something in front of us. When my mom got home and saw my swollen eye, she went into a fit about how my dad should be more careful ( I have a cousin whose mom destroyed her eye in a beatdown)….

Whoa! I had forgotten all about this story… Thanks for bringing up *interesting* memories!