By John Hargraves.

Both my parents preferred using the strap. They each had their own thick leather belt. Ma’s was a two-inch wide red beater that she kept handy. The old man’s inch-wide black whip was kept around his 44-inch waist to hold up his pants. He’d whisk it through his trouser loops and hold it under my nose. “Smell it!” he’d demand.

Both were bound to ritual. They also avoided each other’s witness. Ma was volatile and her beatings were more frequent. She strapped with benchmarks in mind. After learning what she strived for, the belt incited anticipatory dread. Afterwards she became guilty and baked repentance cookies for me. My old man’s temper crescendoed in a sinister fashion. Once he was hot, he could not strike until I complied by smelling the leather. I was always reluctant to sniff. His punishment methodologies were otherwise less predictable, and he was always without remorse. 

Never knowing what would trigger ma’s anger, I learned secondary and tertiary prevention measures. Not responding to command and not knowing I was deaf in one ear; my disobedience often initiated the ritual. Without words, ma would hasten for the red leather. It had a deep burnished hue and she would fold it in half and make it snap. She liked the sound and did it several times, filling me with terror. A large mahogany dining room chair with a cream-colored cushion was pulled out and she ordered me to lie across. Arms stretched forward with my torso balanced across the cushion, I was required to stay still and quiet. The number of lashes was announced with add-ons given for every flinch or yelp that broke forth. As the blows varied it was hard to brace. The number always rose and it ended without completion when sympathy intervened. I heard her “Sorry” between my choked recovering breaths; followed by her rustling to the kitchen for redemption.

Being resourceful I conjured a remedy to stay still and quiet during a beating. I learned to love books and chose them well. Ones that would fit well in the seat of my pants. This provided absolute resolution for several beating cycles before I self-sabotaged. Hearing the less than fleshy impact of her painless strikes, I began to chortle. Her startled awareness begat a fury and provided me with a taste of the buckle. At that point I enacted Plan B. This was adhered to thereafter whenever possible. Realizing I could move faster and that she did not swing at moving targets, I dashed for the bathroom and locked the door. The red rage pounding the other side completed its combustion without fail within 30 minutes. Safe passage was assessed by my singing a silly rhyme and listening for her laugh.

One day Ma had to accompany my older sister to the doctor’s office. This was a rare abandonment of the house. Around seven years of age and starting to get chubby, I enjoyed sweet treats. The old man knew this and guarded his Fig Newtons in the kitchen pantry. He warned me to keep away from them. Given the strength of my cravings, I was not deterred. Anticipating my weakness in the pantry of Eden, he discovered my consumption of the forbidden cookies. He bellowed and accused me of transgression. My denial was firm. He unclasped his belt buckle with both hands and unleashed the leather with a swooshing sound. “Smell it!” he roared. “Your mother’s not here to protect you.” Running the strap under my nose, he was satisfied even though I held my breath. His left hand grasped my shirt collar as I ran in orbit around his waist. Unable to dodge the strikes, I began to cry and let the blows sear my memory for a future reckoning.