A Joke about Spanking
OCTOBER 13, 2007 Listen to this Story
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In Stacey Patton's memoir, "That Mean Old Yesterday," she writes critically about spanking in the African-American community. According to Patton, spanking kids is an accepted practice, and black comedians have helped make it okay. Weekend America host Desiree Cooper talks with Patton about the relationship between spanking and comedy.
An Excerpt from "That Mean Old Yesterday," by Stacey Patton
Late November in 1999, on a cold night, I was walking down the street without a jacket and without shoes. I hadn't been robbed. Wasn't homeless. Wasn't schizophrenic. Wasn't high. I just didn't care anymore.
At any second the rain was going to sheet down, and hard because I could hear the fat splats tapping soft and slow at first, and then a little harder and more frequent on the leaves above my head. For a split second, I thought about my socks getting wet. I hated that like I hated wet towels on my bed. So I had to hurry up and do what I intended to do before nature soaked my cotton socks and my anger slipped away. Before my impulse got cold. Before I changed my mind.
I took the heavy black nine-millimeter out of my pocket. Some pusher man named Country sold it to me by the water fountain in the center of Washington Square Park just outside my NYU dorm. Country was originally from N'awth C'alina. He started hustling when he moved to Baltimore. I knew him from "The Cage," the legendary basketball court on West Fourth Street where I was one of three females who consistently played with some of the best male ballers in New York City. Country came up north from time to time to play ball, move packages, and sell weed and guns.
When I told him what I needed, all he said was, "Aight shorty. I gotchu. But if shit go down, you 'on't know a nigga. Understand?" Less than a week later, Country brought me what I asked for. When he put the piece in my hand wrapped in a brown lunch bag, I almost dropped it.
"Shorty, you can't be scared of it," he said as he took a mint-flavored chew stick out of his mouth and pointed it at me. "How you g'on shoot sumpin' if you cain't even hol' on to it? You gots to let yo' anga' help you grip 'dat shit!" He gripped the gun and quickly jerked it three times at an invisible man in front of him just before rushing it back into the bag.
Country gave me detailed instructions on how to use the weapon. He said, "Do the damn thing," then put the chew stick back in his mouth and walked away.
Country didn't know what "the damn thing" was and he didn't seem to care. Maybe making that green paper was his only concern. But the fact that he armed me let me know that he understood that life could push a man, a woman, or a child to kill. Almost a month later, I found myself lying naked on my cold bathroom floor with the lights out. I needed the darkness and the silence. I needed to feel that coolness against my sweaty hot face. I was crying. Shaking. Angry. I had the gun next to my head. I wanted to do it so bad. I wanted to pull the trigger. End the flashbacks. Deaden the voices. Kill the pain. But I couldn't do it. I was afraid of the loud bang. I was afraid of doing it the wrong way. Most of all, I did not want to wreak pain on all those people who loved me. I had to find some way to end my torment without hurting myself and those I loved. There was only one other way I could do that.
Three hours later, I dried my tears off the bathroom floor and my face, got to my feet, and turned on the bathroom light. I put my clothes back on and decided that there was another way, besides killing myself, to find redemption. So there I wasa€"a twenty-one-year-old black female university honor student walking down a suburban street in New Jersey with no jacket and no shoes, with murder on my mind.
I was going to kill my past. I didn't know what else to do with it. Time and time again, I had looked back in search of healing. What I found was pain. Anger. Hatred. Helplessness. Vengeful thoughts and impulses. Now I wanted to do to my past all the wrong it had done to me. But my common sense did not tell me that if I got even, my past would always remain, unchanged.
For a few moments, I sat on the curb in front of that big house on Hilltop Drive listening to the distant roar of traffic from Route 1 and gripping the gun like Country said. And then I told myself what to do.
Take a deep breath.
Get on your feet.
Cross the street.
Walk across the lawn, quick.
Ring the bell.
Wait.
Breathe easy.
Don't let the gun get heavy.
Don't let your palms get sweaty.
Stand up strong.
Tighten your grip on the gun.
Stay angry.
Wait for the big, heavy brown door to open. And while you wait, think about all those years you spent in a child's placea€"seen and not heard, speaking only when spoken to, answering when called.
Promise not to change your mind.
Promise!
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