A Class Clown is Caught with his Pants Down

I think it was late January. I remember it was a cold, windy, and overcast day.

As I stepped out of my car, the wind grabbed my trench coat and flared it around me. Because of the time of day, I’d parked a few hundred feet from the doors, so I stopped and turned my back to the wind long enough to secure the coat around me.

A long moment later, I gratefully stepped into the building, then quickly wished I hadn’t, as it seemed over-heated and stuffy. Loosening my coat again, so it hung open, I made my way to the office.

"That’s all right, Mr. Wells," the receptionist told me after I’d explained my reason for being here. "You only need a hall pass during the day. Do you know where that class is?"

I did, though I double-checked with her before leaving. She smiled at me as I got it right, so I thanked her and departed.



The Bransom Christian Academy is now housed in what was Linda Dunn Elementary when I attended there. Though I’d only been there for fourth and fifth grades, which were housed in the ‘open area’, which was now the library and learning center, I still knew the basic layout of the buildings. More importantly, they had the numbers at the end of each hall and outside each door.

The door to Mr. Poole’s room was open, so I tapped, then stepped in.

The man sitting at the head of the class looked up at me, then smiled and stood. He had light brown skin that wasn’t quite the same tone as you saw with most Latinos. His hair was just as black and his eyes just as brown (so dark brown the overhead lights seemed to reflect in them), but I knew he wasn’t Chicano.

"Hello, Mr. Wells," the man greeted me.

"Darius Poole. Can I still call you Dare," I inquired as we shook, "or is it Mr. Poole now that you have your own classroom?"

"I actually go by Darius now, but if anyone has the right to call me Dare, it’d be you."

After we shook, I stepped back, removed my coat, and draped it over one of the desks. Then I turned back and blatantly looked him over. He was about my height—maybe just a bit shorter than me, so call it 5’10". He was wearing the basic school uniform, though his pleated and cuffed slacks were in charcoal gray, and he was wearing a pale yellow shirt and maroon tie. His black hair was parted in the middle, with just a bit hanging over his forehead. It was fairly short, just starting to feather over his ears, and barely touching the collar of his shirt. His nose was just a bit broad for his long face, but it didn’t look bad on him at all—it was just him.

"I see the braces worked," I commented, noticing his even, white smile.

It was hard to say if he blushed or not, but the body language said he was slightly embarrassed.

"Yes. I hated them at the time, but they were certainly worth it."

"I’m sorry," I said after a second. "I know I’m not here for old home week."

"It’s all right. I wasn’t even sure you’d remember me."

"You would be a hard student to forget, Darius."

"You mean because you didn’t have that many half-Persian students?"

"No. Well, maybe a bit. I really meant because, in the five years I taught, I didn’t have many students who got into as much trouble as you did, and probably none that had as good a sense of humor as you."

This time, there was no question that the man blushed, though it was hard to tell.

"And speaking of trouble…" I turned to face my own problem child.

Steven was sitting about the mid-point of the room, looking at a textbook, but I had no trouble imagining the eye rolling that had occurred when he realized his guardian knew the teacher with whom he was in trouble.

Mr. Poole nodded towards where Steven sat, and I followed him back there. He gestured to a chair, and I sat beside him. We both turned our chairs a bit, so Steven wasn’t having to face both of us together, but also wasn’t surrounded by us. I’m not sure if it was deliberate on Mr. Poole’s part, but I’ve found that the positioning in this kind of thing can make a huge difference to how a child reacts to it.

"Steven, would you like to tell your father about what’s been happening, or should I?"

Steven shrugged, but after a second, he began to speak.

"I’ve been acting up in class…"

"He hasn’t been doing anything wrong, per se," Mr. Poole interrupted to assure me. "He’s just been clowning around… more than he should."

"Ummm…" Steven said, obviously gathering his thoughts after the interruption. "I’ve been clowning around and disrupting class, and Mr. Poole’s talked to me about it, and he had to paddle me, and he said he’d call you if I didn’t settle down, and he warned me today, but Jeff Berger called him Mr. Toole, and I joked around some more, and couldn’t stop laughing, and I guess I made another joke…"

"You guess?" I asked, taking my own turn to interrupt him.

"I mean, I made another joke, even though he’d told me to settle down, so he called you."

Steven’s entire monologue had been in the droning monotone of a boy who knew that confessing wasn’t going to make anything better in the long run, but was just hoping to get the lecture over with as quickly as possible.

"Mr. Wells, Steven and I have already talked about why his behavior is inappropriate. I understand why you’ve put him back in his freshman year. I think it’s a good idea, and I hope it works. However, if this is going to work, he’s going to have to take it more seriously."

I gave Steven a glance at that point, which he obviously saw, since he winced and looked away from me.

"Steven, you’re a smart young man," Mr. Poole continued, "so I don’t think I need to remind you of the things I’ve already said. You know the rules for corporal correction in this school, and that we have much more latitude than in public schools. I warned you of what to expect if you didn’t settle down, didn’t I?"

"Yes," Steven answered, a sob barely hidden in his voice.

"Well, you know what’s coming, but I do want to tell you something that might put it in perspective for you and might also let you know that I’m not just an old jerk who’s trying to ruin your fun."

Darius took a deep breath, glanced at me, then looked back at Steven.

"This is something I’d prefer not to get around too much, but given your circumstances, it might help you to know."

"You might have already guessed from what we said when he came in," Mr. Poole continued, "that your father was one of my teachers when I was in school. I actually liked his classes a lot, but I also clowned around a lot." He paused for a deep breath. "And your Dad had to paddle me several times. And eventually, he had to have a talk with my father. That didn’t happen quite as quickly as it had with you, but then I was only… eleven or twelve, and your father was a pretty impressive paddler."

"The point is that I’ve been in trouble for the same thing you are. I understand some of the things that can make you act like this. However, I also know some of the problems that it can lead to. You’re doing this because you want to go to college, right?"

Steven nodded, then added, "Yes, sir."

"Well, I’ll tell you right now that college professors won’t tolerate this kind of stuff, Steven. There are a lot of them who’ll just kick you out of their class, and some of them will have you withdrawn. College isn’t like high school. I know all this can’t be easy for you, and I don’t want you to be serious all the time or try to be someone you’re not, but you are going to HAVE to learn when it’s okay and when to settle down. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Steven mumbled, refusing to look anywhere other than the top of his desk.

"Then I guess we should get this over with," Darius said, then looked at me. "Do you have anything to add, Mr. Wells?"

"Not really." I paused for a second. "Steven, we do need to talk this evening, but I’ll tell you right now, I’m going to let Mr. Poole do whatever he thinks he needs to do to get your attention; but I’m not going to punish you more at home. Okay?"

He glanced up at me, not happy about what was about to happen, but grateful for that bit of reassurance. He managed a nod before looking away again.

"All right, Steven," Mr. Poole said in a firm, but supportive voice, "let’s go to the front of the room. Mr. Wells, would you mind shutting and locking the door?"

Mr. Poole stood and moved to the front of the room. Steven wasn’t feeling quite so efficient. I waited until he pushed himself to his feet and had started that direction, before I went to the door.

With the door shut and latched, I turned and saw Steven standing, staring at the desk. I couldn’t really blame him. Mr. Poole was moving an old-fashioned, straight-backed, armless, wooden chair to a clear space in the front of the room, but that wasn’t what was holding Steven’s attention.

On Mr. Poole’s desk lay a plain old Jokari paddle that hadn’t been there when I came into the room. It was obviously well used. Though the leather cord was still in place, the sticker with the logo was worn and faded.

"Steven," Mr. Poole said, then repeated himself a bit louder.

Steven jumped the second time, then looked at his teacher, who was standing by the chair.

"I want you to come over here, undo your pants, and drop them down to about mid-thigh," he instructed, as he indicated a point on his own leg. "Then you need to bend over this chair and grab the front legs."

Steven stood there, staring at him. He’d known this was allowed at this school, and he and I had discussed the possibility before I’d enrolled him here. Still, now that it was happening, it was obviously a shock to him.

Mr. Poole was standing patiently, and Steven was staring at him. After a moment, I cleared my throat, making Steven jump again. He looked at me for a second, then back at that paddle, but finally moved towards the chair.

Steven was wearing a thin, black leather dress belt that matched his sneakers, along with the basic uniform of navy blue Dockers and a white polo-style shirt. As he stepped up to the chair, his hands were fumbling nervously with his belt. He managed to get it undone, then opened his pants. He stood there for a long second; then, staring straight ahead and pointedly ignoring Mr. Poole and myself, he shoved his trousers down. He stopped almost exactly where Mr. Poole had instructed, but they were loose enough that they quickly slid to the top of his knees.

His shirt was long enough that you could barely see the lower part of his white briefs, and the longer tail completely covered his rear.

After a second, Steven looked at me. I met his eyes for a moment, then nodded. He took a deep breath, nodded back at me, and bent across the chair.

Mr. Poole obviously knew this wasn’t easy on the boy and had been waiting patiently. Now he picked the paddle up from his desk, sliding the thong around his wrist, and stepped over to where Steven awaited.

"Take a good grip on the legs, Steven. If you keep hold and don’t move around, this’ll be over in less than a minute."

Steven tensed up and shifted a bit, but then settled into place. Mr. Poole reached forward and flipped the back of the shirt up revealing his full-cut, boys’ Hanes, with their white seat and gray waistband. The motion made Steven flinch, but if I’d not been watching for it, I would never have noticed.

Mr. Poole took a firm grip on the paddle and lined up his first swat. He centered it exactly where he wanted it, right over the upper part of Steven’s left cheek, then moved back so the paddle was maybe six inches away from the target. Then, with a sudden motion of wrist and forearm, the paddle cracked down.

Steven made a small yipping sound, but stayed in place. Almost as soon as the first swat had landed, Mr. Poole was lining up again—same place, right cheek. A bit louder reaction from Steven this time, but not much so.

Mr. Poole hadn’t mentioned how many swats Steven was going to receive, but I knew there weren’t the same limits as in public schools, which I thought was a good thing. I’d seen principals paddle others of my children, and they often swung like driving a railroad spike. Mr. Poole was giving the paddle enough action to make sure each swat counted, but he was using the smaller (compared to most school paddles I’ve seen, at least) paddle methodically, covering the entire surface, but not swinging hard enough to bruise most boys.

The paddle cracked down again and again, covering the entire surface of his briefs. The fifth and six swats left small arcs of red just below the leg bands of his Hanes and left Steven squirming around, shifting his rear and flexing his legs.

"We’re almost finished Steven; just hold still as you can."

It was quiet, but in the pause after his instruction, I could hear Steven breathing hard, almost sobbing. I watched Mr. Poole line up the next swat, back at the upper area of the target.

The Jokari paddle was large enough to cover a good portion of the boy’s rear with each swat, so I’m sure Steven’s bottom must have been on fire by now. As the next swat popped down, this time centered to cover the center of both cheeks, Steven’s reaction was a jerk and a wet yelp. Without hesitation, Mr. Poole lined up one more time, then brought the paddle snapping down again, centered, but on the lower slopes of the boy’s bottom. Steven jerked and a sob escaped. The chair shook with his reaction this time.

"All right, Steven," Darius informed him, stepping away and laying the paddle on his desk, "you can get up and dress whenever you’re ready."

Steven stayed quietly in position, but his body was shaking with silent sobs, so I assumed he’d heard, but wanted as much privacy as he could manage for a moment or two.

As a slow grower, Steven never hit those lean, almost bony times a lot of adolescent boys do. He does have a lean build, but for as long as I’ve known him, he’s had at least a hint of waist and hips. Now, watching him bent over like that, with trousers around his knees, and the thin cotton of his briefs not quite disguising his reddened cheeks, I couldn’t help but think what a perfect picture he made of a naughty schoolboy. I didn’t turn away from it as the teacher stepped over to me.

"You know," Darius said quietly as he reached my side, "I can’t help thinking how much easier things would have been for me if you’d given me one session like this."

Now I did turn from watching Steven, one eyebrow creeping up as I looked at the other man.

"You wanted me to paddle you like this?"

"Hardly. I said it would have been easier on me. In the long run, I mean."

He paused and looked at me. I wasn’t disagreeing with him, but was definitely inviting him to go on.

"Think about it," he explained. "I don’t even remember how many times you paddled me that year, but it must have been…six or seven?"

He hesitated, so I nodded. I was sure that I’d paddled him at least every six weeks in the first semester, and then the first six weeks of the second semester had been several times.

"Then you finally called my parents for a meeting… My parents both spanked me. My dad spanked my bare butt, but had never used anything but his hand. My mom used this plastic hairbrush that burned like the devil, but she never made me take my pants off."

"Well," Darius continued, "when Dad got me home that day, he still made me get my pants and shorts off, but he used that plastic brush. It was the worst spanking I’d ever had." That sounds bad.

"For cutting up in class?"

Suddenly Darius fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Well, that and because he’d never seen the notes you sent home to him."

"So I guess e-mail would have been a good thing for you, too."

"Or at least phone calls. Anyway, Dad really tore me up. I think it was a lot worse than what Steven just got."

I’d been watching Steven. He’d been slowly calming down and had just pushed himself upright, and even as Darius mentioned his name, he carefully bent down and tugged his pants over his blazing bottom.

"I don’t really think it’s a good idea to give most teachers the power to do something like this, and I like that we can only do it here with either the parents or principal as a witness, but I do think that if you’d been able to paddle me like this the first or second time, it would have straightened my butt up fast."

I couldn’t help think about the charming, slightly different looking, but definitely cute boy that Darius had been those twenty or so years before. That had been before boys in our area started wearing boxers, and I dredged up a memory of him bent over a chair to grab the legs, like he’d just had Steven. It didn’t take much for me to picture a pair of white briefs stretched tightly across his pre-adolescent cheeks. Was that him I remembered yelping each time the paddle came down? What would it have sounded like if he’d had nothing but a thin layer of cotton to protect him from, not two or three, but eight or ten swats?

Then I thought of all the other boys I’d had out in the hall for behavior modification in the years I’d taught.

Steven was buckling his belt now, and had turned so I could see his slightly damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

"Are you ready to go now, Steven?"

He opened his mouth, but then shut it and nodded.

"Get your stuff," I told him gently and waited while he went back to his desk, where his coat and backpack awaited him.

"You know, Darius," I said, turning to face him again and looking him straight in the eye, "I think you’re right. Things would have been a lot better if I could have paddled boys like this."

I managed to keep the smirk off my face when I said it, too.





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