128 On Punishment: The Underground
History of American Education by John Taylor Gatto from archive.org
On Punishment
There was a time when hamburger
pretty much described Alpha and Omega in my
limited food sensibility. My
grandparents didn't much care, and in the realm of
the new girl on Second Street, Bud's
wife, brought home from Cincinnati
after WWII. Well, I remember the evening Helen
prepared Chinese food, hardly a
daring thing anywhere now, but in those long gone days
around Pittsburgh, radical cuisine.
I shut my nine-year-old mouth and flatly refused to eat
it.
"You will eat it," said
Helen, "if you have to sit there all night." She was right. At
midnight I did eat it. By then it
tasted awful. But soon after the indignity, I discovered
that miraculously I had developed a
universal palate. I could eat and enjoy anything.
When I was ten and eleven years old,
I still made occasional assaults on my sister's
sexual dignity. She was older, bigger,
and stronger than me so there was little chance my
vague tropisms could have caused any
harm, but even that slight chance ended one
afternoon, when on hearing one of
these overtures, Pappy grabbed me abruptly behind
the neck and back of a shoulder and
proceeded to kick me like a football, painful step by
painful step, up the staircase to
our apartment.
On theft: having discovered where
the printing office stock of petty cash was kept, I
acquired a dollar without asking.
How Pap knew it was me I never found out, but when
he burst through the apartment
calling my name in an angry bellow, I knew I had been
nailed and fled to the bathroom, the
only door inside the apartment with a lock. Ignoring
his demands to come out, with the
greatest relief I heard his footsteps grow faint and the
front door slam. But no sooner had I
relaxed than he was back, this time with a house-
wrecking bar. He pried the bathroom
door off, hinge by hinge. I still remember the
ripping sound it made. But nothing
else.
Almost every classroom in my junior
high school and my high school had a wooden
paddle hung prominently over the
classroom door, nor were these merely decorative. I
was personally struck about a dozen
times in my school career; it always hurt. But it's
also fair to say that unlike the
assaults on my spirit I endured from time to time for
bearing an Italian name at Cornell,
none of these physical assaults caused any resentment
to linger — in each instance, I
deserved some sort of retribution for one malicious
barbarism or another. I forgot the
blows soon after they were administered. On the other
hand, I harbor a significant amount
of ill feeling for those teachers who humiliated me
verbally; those I have no difficulty
recalling.
It might seem from examples I've
given that I believe some simple relation between pain
and self-improvement exists. But it
isn't simple — with the single exception of a teenage
boy whose pleasure came from
terrifying girls, I never struck a single kid in three
decades in the classroom. What I'm
really trying to call your attention to is that simplistic
codebook of rules passed down to us
from academic psychology and enshrined as sacred
text. Punishment played an important
and positive role in shaping me. It has in the
shaping of everyone I've known as a
friend. Punishment has also ruined its share of
victims, I know. The difference may
reside in whether it arises from legitimate human
grievances or from the bloodless
discipline of a bureaucracy. It's a question nobody
should regard as closed.
Separations
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