In Miss Kimball’s class, since I was good

in arithmetic, spelling and comportment,

I was send to get the strap

for Billy, Frank or Tommy.

We all knew the strap was for boys,

since we girls winced when Miss Kimball raised

her voice, then did anything she said.

Most times, Miss Kimball preferred to strap

that big dumb kid she called “Johnny come lately”.

Late for school two or three times a week,

Johnny would slouch in,

hair in strings, shirt tail hanging,

a button always missing.

All we knew was he had a fat mom,

four or five brothers, a dumpy house,

and hands like big wedges of cheese.

Thin, prim Miss Kimball was known for her expertise

in having that thick leather tongue “do all her talking”.

She could hit the tips of fingers so they would burn

for hours, make even the toughest boys cry.

Johnny never blinked an eye,

just stood there and took it,

ten whacks, five on each hand.

Walking the long, empty hall to take the strap back,

I mostly felt relief, and a kind of stain,

having been close enough to see Miss Kimball’s

smirk and that strange glitter in her eyes.

All that year, I never once looked into Johnny’s face,

or said one word to him. The next year,

he was gone.

Almost six decades later, as I walk down my long hallway,

I think about how I have lived my “good girl” life:

Did I say, “Please, Miss Kimballs of the world, strap me instead of Johnny”?

Or did I say, “Fuck you, Miss balled-up Kimball, go get your own strap”?

Or did I drop the strap down the garbage shute.

Or did I say, “To the Johnnys of the world, let’s just run those burning fingers under cold water to take the pain away”?

Or did I say, “What strap. I don’t see any strap”?

Or did I just pick up the strap, hand it to some executive smirker to display his expertise?

Or did I say, “Okay, here’s the strap, sir, but how about only one light whack on each hand”?

Or did I say, “What about strapping that one over there, sir?”

Or was I the one wielding the strap?

Or was I the strap itself?

Ten questions. Each one reeking of “Yes, that too. I did that too.”

Ten whacks

and my mind burns for hours.