From the September/October 2009 issue of The Horn Book Magazine

Trouble Spots
The Last Time I Was in Trouble

By Rita Williams-Garcia

y my sister’s account, I was our mother’s favorite and never suffered half of what she and my brother did at our mother’s hands. Still, I wasn’t spared the belt, the “board of education,” or whatever Miss Essie had handy when I broke her expressed rules. My mother was clear about do’s and don’ts, so you couldn’t plead ignorance or miscommunication. Miss Essie was quite the communicator.

As draconian as all of that sounds, my siblings and I revel in the school of hard knocks. It’s not too presumptuous to say that if you gather a few middle-aged African Americans to wax nostalgic over childhood hijinks, sooner or later the whipping stories are told.

I usually tell about the time I said “no” to one of my mother’s commands, which was unheard of. I packed up my knapsack and said I was leaving home. I was nine. It was dark outside. She opened the door and let me go. I remember my defiant march beyond our wooden fence . . . and making it as far as the end of the block, when I heard a howl from (I was sure) a rabid dog or a coyote. I ran home, banged on the door, and cried for my mother to let me in. She did. Then she told me to go into her room and get a belt. Any belt would do. I did exactly as she said, and she gave me the beating of my nine-year-old life. That night I cried to my doll that I would never be a bad mom like my mother.

Years later, I’d gather with my college sorority sisters, and we’d talk about parenting and the effectiveness of “time out.” We swore off our own upbringing, proclaiming we’d never resort to parenting “sixties style.” But before long one of my sisters had a “get real” moment and suggested, as Aunt Cass had (No Laughter Here), that we’d have to “crack that whip on that little tail.”

Not I. When my daughters were young, I ruled with a firm voice and a raised eyebrow. There was a hand-spank or two and the Ross-Perot-song-parody/bathtub-water-splashing incident that earned them a spanking. For the most part, we didn’t resort to corporal punishment. Truthfully, my daughters were well behaved. Why worry about punishment? Until . . .

One day at work, I received a call from my daughter Michelle’s school. The possibilities — injury, tragedy — racked up in my mind between seeing the caller ID and picking up the phone. It was the vice principal, informing me that the police had broken up a hooky party, netting Michelle and a band of fellow seventh graders. I assured him I would handle it when I got home. He read the intent in my voice and said, “Now, now, Mrs. Garcia. Let’s remain calm.” I told him I didn’t send my daughter out that morning to play hooky. I sent her to school. I thanked him for doing his job and told him I now had a job to do. I called my husband, relayed the situation, and added, “Leave her to me.”

I remember coming home and telling my daughter to go to her room, then following behind her. I knew I was in trouble — because I had finally become my mother.

Rita Williams-Garcia’s latest book is Jumped (Amistad/ HarperTeen).

From the September/October 2009 issue of The Horn Book Magazine