Twat

Sometimes I wish my father had beaten me more when I was a child.
Then perhaps I would have grown up to be less of a twat.

Probably because of his pacifist views,
he only ever spanked me twice that I can remember,
although one of the times he did it in front of most of my 8-year-old classmates at school,
and the humiliation hurt at least as much as the spanking.

[[ Unlike my history teacher when I was 12
who grabbed my head by my hair
and slammed my head down against my desk.

The ratio of physical to emotional damage on that occasion was
way up on the physical.
Quite probably why I have had regular headaches
for the rest of my life.
These days, of course, he would lose his job,
maybe even a short term in prison,
but in those days physical violence against children
by school teachers (and other children) was taken for granted. ]]

Mostly at home my mum would exhort my father to spank me
and he would refuse,
except for one notable occasion,
when he dragged me out into the hall,
and all the joy in my heart was gone forever.

Probably, in any case,
whether he had spanked me more or less or not at all,
whether he had spanked me harder or softer,
whether he had used implements or his bare hands,
whether he had tied me up or not tied me before and after each beating,
regardless of any level or absence of physical abuse,
I would still have grown up to be a twat,

just a different kind of twat.




Poetry by Andrew Bindon
Read 159 times
Written on 2015-03-22 at 20:04

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