Category: writing

Submitted by Inez de Vries

Saturday, 11 June, 1955

   In response to the prompt requiring me to explain the events leading to my detention, I offer the following account. Let me say from the outset: the situation is largely one of my own making—an unfortunate sequence of poor decisions on my part. Still, I must also note that Mr. Green’s reaction to my admittedly regrettable choices was wildly disproportionate. In what follows, I will outline the situation clearly, owning my role in it while also pointing out the unnecessary escalation that turned a simple misunderstanding into a school-wide spectacle.

   It began Thursday morning during Geography. Mr. Green arrived and, without any sort of warning, began collecting our essays. This was a surprise to me, as I had mistakenly noted the due date as next Friday, the 16th of June, rather than Thursday the 9th. As a result, I was quite without an essay to submit.

   When Mr. Green reached my desk and noticed my conspicuous lack of essay, he inquired sharply where my work was. In a moment of panic—yes, I panicked—without thinking of the possible consequences I told him I’d left the paper on the desk in my dormitory. I asked if I might bring it to him on Monday, assuming that a weekend’s delay would be of little to no consequence. After all, though we had no classes Friday, it’s not likely he will grade them all in two days! I believed, wrongly, that he might be understanding.

   Instead, he ordered me to go fetch it at once.

   At this, several girls tittered most unkindly, and were not reprimanded by Mr. Green who only stared fixedly at me. Mortified, and not knowing how to extricate myself, I left the classroom as instructed. However, since there was no essay to fetch, I did not return. I did hear Matron call my name at one point, but as I was in the lavatory I did not respond. Upon returning to the main building, I went straight to my next class—Modern History with Miss Clark—where I was expected to be.

   It did not occur to me that anyone was actively searching for me. I wasn’t hiding; I was precisely where I ought to have been, in my scheduled class attending to my lessons.

   That is, until Mr. Green interrupted Miss Clark’s lesson not even a quarter hour before the lunch bell, asked for me by name, and ordered me into the hallway. There, in front of several startled girls and an entirely uninterested broom cupboard, he demanded to know why I hadn’t returned to his classroom. When I admitted, trembling slightly, that the essay did not yet exist, he looked far too triumphant for a man of his age, telling me he suspected as much.

   He then assigned me Saturday supervised gation and informed me that my completed essay was still due Monday—but  I would now receive a failing mark. I pointed out (with, I thought, great logic) that if I was going to fail anyway, there seemed little reason to bother writing the paper at all. He replied that were I to turn it in I might yet scrape my way up to the bottom position in the form, and that was reason enough.

  I protested again, politely but firmly, suggesting that if  I was going to both be punished and do the work, I ought to be allowed the possibility of receiving credit. Instead of engaging in a reasoned discussion, Mr. Green turned scarlet, seized me rather brusquely by the arm, and dragged me back to his classroom. There, opening his desk drawer, he commanded me to hold out my hands and proceeded to deliver six strokes of the tawse—three on each palm!

   This was deeply shocking. Does the school know its Geography Master keeps a personal leather strap in his desk and employs it to beat his students?

   Yes, I am aware that Saint Clare’s employs corporal punishment, but I had understood it to be reserved for severe offences. I struggle to see how a late essay merits what can only be described as a public flogging. My hands, I must add, are rather delicate—and my mother, were she to learn of this, would most certainly object, especially given her wish I practice my violin daily. I was not able to even hold the instrument or its bow yesterday and likely will not be able to for at least a week.

   Struggling with my still stinging palms, I yet again politely voiced my concern about his refusal to give me credit for work he was still requiring I do. Mr. Green responded curtly that any further comment from me would earn twice that number of strokes on my bottom, then and there. He then dismissed me.

   Yesterday, as I prepared for the Saturday gation I was presented with what he referred to as a “contract”—a document offering a return of one tenth credit on my essay for every six cane strokes administered. Even my limited mathematical prowess reveals the cruelty of this arrangement: thirty strokes would be required to regain full credit. Thirty! This aside, I believe a “contract” is negotiable by both sides. This was not.

   No girl should or even could possibly endure such a thing—not without medical attention and, quite frankly, a barrister. I can only assume that such a punishment would necessitate a full weekend spent in the infirmary, lying face-down, unable to sit or sleep or do anything other than whimper and plot revenge.

   I found myself wondering whether Matron keeps a specific ledger for girls caned beyond reason and where in the infirmary it might be kept. Were I were required to endure such a caning I fear I would have warranted my own page. Though I acknowledge that I ought to have kept better track of the deadline and certainly ought not to have lied, my actions were born not of malice but of a moment’s fear. I eventually admitted my error. I have resolved, going forward to double-check dates and tell the truth, even when it’s awkward. That said, I do believe Mr. Green should likewise reflect on the excessive nature of his response and the transactional nature of his assigned corporal punishment.

    When Miss Kelley reviewed my essay, she said it was persuasive except for my “utter failure to take responsibility.” I found this rather unfair—as I clearly do accept responsibility. I asked her to read it again. She declined, and simply told me to rewrite it, making my regret more “apparent.”

   Miss Kelley, although seemingly kind and intelligent, is—like so many others here—part of the grand machinery of unthinkingly severe discipline. She ordered me to report to Mr. Johnson to fulfill the terms of Mr. Green’s ghastly “contract,” in addition to my original punishment AND this detention and essay. Recall, the term of this contract, as noted, would amount to more than thirty cane strokes.

   Reporting for punishment, I feared for my life.

   Thankfully, Mr. Johnson—who, in addition to possessing disarmingly beautiful brown eyes, also possesses a rare and precious quality among St. Clare staff: common sense—listened patiently. He reminded me that I had been punished previously for a similar incident last autumn, but even so he believed that thirty strokes was beyond excessive. After hearing my side and giving me a chance to reflect on how I might improve my forward planning, he ruled that twelve strokes would suffice.

   I agreed.

   These were delivered in sets of three, over my regulation white school knickers. The cane was (fortunately) not the thickest, though the strokes landed close together and stung dreadfully. Even now, hours later, they throb most uncomfortably.

   When Mr. Johnson dismissed me, I voiced my concern that this punishment might not meet the terms of the so-called contract. Mr. Johnson assured me he would speak to both Mr. Green and Miss Kelley and explain his decision with which he expected they’d agree.

   I returned to Miss Kelley just as detention was being dismissed. She looked at my punishment form, handed it back without comment, and instructed me to deliver it—along with this essay—to the Headmaster’s office on Monday morning.

   And so I shall.

   In conclusion: I regret my mistakes, and I promise to plan more carefully in future. As Mr. Johnson wisely noted, preparation is the best prevention. I also hope that this incident encourages some reflection—not just from students like myself, but from our teachers  and housemistresses as well—on the role of compassion in discipline. After all, one does not become obedient by being beaten, but by being believed in.

  With great respect and most heartfelt and deep regret for my actions, I remain,

Inez de Vries