The Spanking Machine

I was four years old, when the Spanking Machine was first introduced to me.

…in first grade at St. Mary’s Catholic School in New England.

    I am sure it was purely a precautionary tactic. My first grade teacher had such an infectious smile!  She called it her “insurance policy” and reassured all 50 of her first grade class --all girls—that only the boys in the OTHER first grade class would ever have a need to be subjected to the “Spanking Machine”!  Sister didn’t bring up the spanking machine again until after lunch on that first fateful day of school!

    “There is no need to worry,” she said. Sister reassured us just before she lowered the boom, directly on a full stomach, after lunch!  I scanned the large, cold, drafty room for my possible escape route, should this explanation fail. 

    As a shy, obedient child, I was frozen in place, just like the game we all used to play in the backyard, only this time it was for real! 

    Sister was perched on her platform, in the front of the class. She looked like a mountain lion ready to prey on innocent little girls for lunch!  All our chairs and desks were nailed to the floor, all in straight lines, eight rows wide!  I, of course, was caught somewhere in the middle of the row; I was smack dab in the middle of my first grade class.

    What about all the fun my mother promised I would have?

    Standing beside her large wooden desk, perched two feet above floor level on a solid wooden platform, Sister was in complete control.  Her large frame cast a shadow a mile wide. She was clad all in black and white; encircling her “waist” was the largest pair of brown Rosary beads I had ever seen, with the crucifixion cross of Jesus daring us to defy Sister, or so it seemed at the time.
    I waited to see just what would happen to me should I misbehave.  It was an eternity, it seemed.  Longer than the countdown through December, waiting for Christmas.
    “Now, let’s talk about your conduct in first grade” she bellowed. Her smile had faded, and I  could tell by her tone that we, maybe I, would be in some serious trouble.
    I was perplexed. Conduct???  I was sure it had something to do with the Spanking Machine, but I had never heard that word in all my four years!  It was quickly approaching the end of the school day by now.  Maybe she would forget about the Spanking Machine talk. No such luck!
    Just after that thought, Sister lined us up like her “good little ducklings” outside our classroom door, and led us directly into the path of the monster. We stopped in the massive hallway, the size of my entire house. It had creaky wooden floors and a 20 foot ceiling which added to the drama unfolding before this somber group. Still reassuring us that “Sister probably wouldn’t ever need to call on the Spanking Machine to discipline bad little girls”, we stopped abruptly five feet from an enormous varnished wooden door.  Thankfully, it was shut tight.
     “The boys”, she informed us, had gone to see the spanking machine just before us and “would probably need to use this awful discipline tool long before we ever would.”
    “Boys will be boys” was all she said.
    I listened for what seemed an eternity to hear the sounds of God’s fury—The Spanking Machine.  As if on command, but slowly at first and then gradually increasing in intensity, the Spanking Machine roared to life, growling, rumbling, hissing, and reverberating against the walls!
     “Mom, where are you?” I mouthed to an unknown presence.
    “Don’t be afraid”, said Sister.  “If you are good girls, you will never meet the Spanking Machine.” And she pointed her gnarled finger at the closed varnished, brown door.  I gasped and slowly began to feel a warm trickle streaming down my leg.  I knew what that meant!
     “Mom, I need to go home,” I mouthed wordlessly.
    Sister gave us a smug, yet heartfelt smile of reassurance.  I couldn’t believe what came next!
    One by one, and with 49 other little girls and me smack dab in the middle, each one took sister’s hand and walked straight up to that monster door.  We were to place our tiny hand on the door, to feel the vibrations of the beast.  Sister reassuringly placed her hand over ours in a gesture of sympathy.
    “My turn. Oh my God!..”
    Nowhere to run, I placed my limp, shaking hand into Sisters and step by dreaded step headed for “that” door.
    I stood face to door, aghast and knowing my fate, should  I disobey in Sister’s class.  “What exactly did that mean?”  I wondered just how big a sin I needed to commit  before I was to be subjected to coming face to face with my punisher?
     Fortunately for me, all had been quiet for the 29 girls who gingerly placed their small hands on the door.  It had become routine:  place your hand on the door, feel a little vibration, go to the end of the line in one piece.  Up until now that was.  

    Everyone relaxed, just a bit. It was my turn.  And then it happened with no warning.  Just as I placed my hand on the door, the Spanking Machine roared to life!  I know it did! I felt it; I heard it! I felt its wrath, and all I had been doing was following directions!

    “Mom, come now! I want to go home where it’s safe!”
    It growled like the lions in the zoo! It hissed relentlessly, like the biggest snake you have ever seen! It shook the walls, reverberating its command to obey –loud and clear!
    I trembled! I turned and without thought to the consequences, ran as fast as I could. There was no looking back at this point!
--to the safety of the classroom, out of harm’s way.
     I hid under my desk, weeping and sobbing.  Well, more like a torturous cry. Only then did I realize the big mistake I had probably made. I held on, a death grip, to the wrought iron desk which was fortunately nailed to the floor. I prayed. My prayers were limited; after all,  I was only four, but I said them over and over.  I remained there, under my desk, motionless, unable to control my sobbing and wailing, drenched in my own urine.
    It was only when my Mother rescued me did I retreat to her waiting arms, and even then she needed to coax me, pry me from my safe place.
   Sister spoke to my Mom and in her best Sister voice explained compassionately the ritual that seemed to occur each year.  I never let go of my Mother’s hand all the way home and for the rest of the night; even as I fell asleep, she  held my hand. “I’m never,” emphasizing never, “going back!” I blurted out. I meant it.

    The next day I was back at school. And you guessed it!  I never said a word in class, ever, nor did I misbehave throughout my 12 years of Catholic  school!

     Well, almost never.

…and there you have it!
--Cross my heart!

--because, Catholic Girls Don’t Lie!

Post Script:

In second grade, I found out, for sure, that there was no such thing as a “Spanking Machine”. It was a sixth grader who told me! Although he never saw it either. Come to think of it, no one had seen this terrible punisher!  Rumor had it, that creepy door, where students give a wide swath when descending the stairs to the cafeteria, was really the school’s tired and worn out Boiler Room!  I dared open the door myself, about sixth grade to see with my own eyes this Monster of St. Mary’s Grammar School. It was, indeed a spooky old boiler room.  End of Story!