Realistically Speaking . . .
Would You Trust These Two Men?
Would You Trust These Two Men?
A to the . . .
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood. Show all posts
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Yeah I'm Gonna Beat My Kids
It might yet be a while till I’m a father but this discussion still interests me. When it comes to the debate on whether or not to beat your children (and by beat I mean spank) I’ve heard long and drawn out arguments from each side.
- Child abuse
- Discipline
- Lazy parenting
- Necessary parenting
The list goes on and on, and strong arguments are made in this verbal tug-of-war. Occasionally an opinion falls into the flammable cipher and everyone gasps in horror at its simplicity. A point of view so straightforward it surely cannot hold any weight. Can it?
“I’m going to beat my kids because my parents told me to.”
*GASP*
Yes, my parents have both directly and indirectly given me a truck load of reasons to beat my future kids if they step out of line. To suggest that I’ll beat my kids because they told me to sounds more or less spineless and cowardly; I won’t dispute that. So maybe if I break it down for you you’ll let me keep my testicles.
First and foremost, this debate doesn’t hold much weight where I’m from; the capital of Africa, home of the brave 419’ers . . . Beyonce sang our national anthem, that makes her one of us. Jay-Z drew water from our wells . . . but I’m not too keen on him so he can stick to the projects.
In Nigeria its common to beat your children when they step out of line, I’d go as far as saying it’s the number one disciplinary option. I got beats, my bro and sister got beats . . . I went to my cousins’ homes and they got beats . . . I’m certain that if I was raised in Nigeria I would have gone to school and got beats.
This was pretty much the norm in my upbringing. I never liked getting whooped, what kid would? Don’t dislike and discipline go hand in hand?
Would it be fair to say that they beat it into my nature? My culture and environment have imposed several other traits on me after all; I believe that this is another one of them.
I’m not eager to beat my kids; surely that’s when the issue slips into child abuse. But now I appreciate the line that was drawn between me and my parents . . . even though I spent the first half of my life loving but not liking them that much. In that sense I’d say they went too far with the discipline. I never looked at my parents as friends, as buddies, as pals. It was always mum and dad; approach with caution.
Beatings at my expense allowed my parents to maintain the parent child relationship. You could of course argue that other disciplinary forms would have been just as effective at instilling fear and respect. Did my parents know at the time that their disciplinary authority over me was dependant on whether the beatings hurt me or not? Surely they were aware that I’d grow older, that one day they’d dish out a beating and I wouldn’t even flinch, much less cry. They knew right?
Of course they did!
I never got a beating that was unjustified, not one I can remember anyway. And unless caught in the act, I was given the opportunity to plead my case (or think up a good lie). Every beating came with a lecture that usually lasted at least one hour; they sat while I stood. My days, the lectures were honestly more painful than the beatings. The older and smarter I grew, the less beats I received and the longer the lectures lasted. Notice the shift?
To further justify my decision to beat my future children I’ll draw attention to another significant ingredient of my upbringing. That ingredient is religion. Raised as a Christian, I went to church on Sundays, read my Bible, and prayed before I went to bed. I often listened in church with tentative ears, hoping (almost praying) to hear loopholes that would benefit my budding mind. None arose, but several suggested that a Christian lifestyle might better fit the parents.
- Honour thy father and mother
- No sex until you’re married
- Spare the rod, spoil the child
God was on my parents’ side. Another reason to begrudge them . . . and He also had several reasons to be angry with me. Three on one . . . you might even say it was five on one (if your brain has warmed up). Not the kind of odds for a kid to get excited about.
Some relief comes in knowing that when I take the parent role God will be on my side if I have to beat my kids. They won’t like it, but hopefully one day, after I've beaten stupidity and rebelliousness out of them, they’ll see me as more of a friend . . . sort of how I see my parents now.
A to the. . .
- Child abuse
- Discipline
- Lazy parenting
- Necessary parenting
The list goes on and on, and strong arguments are made in this verbal tug-of-war. Occasionally an opinion falls into the flammable cipher and everyone gasps in horror at its simplicity. A point of view so straightforward it surely cannot hold any weight. Can it?
“I’m going to beat my kids because my parents told me to.”
*GASP*
Yes, my parents have both directly and indirectly given me a truck load of reasons to beat my future kids if they step out of line. To suggest that I’ll beat my kids because they told me to sounds more or less spineless and cowardly; I won’t dispute that. So maybe if I break it down for you you’ll let me keep my testicles.
First and foremost, this debate doesn’t hold much weight where I’m from; the capital of Africa, home of the brave 419’ers . . . Beyonce sang our national anthem, that makes her one of us. Jay-Z drew water from our wells . . . but I’m not too keen on him so he can stick to the projects.
In Nigeria its common to beat your children when they step out of line, I’d go as far as saying it’s the number one disciplinary option. I got beats, my bro and sister got beats . . . I went to my cousins’ homes and they got beats . . . I’m certain that if I was raised in Nigeria I would have gone to school and got beats.
This was pretty much the norm in my upbringing. I never liked getting whooped, what kid would? Don’t dislike and discipline go hand in hand?
Would it be fair to say that they beat it into my nature? My culture and environment have imposed several other traits on me after all; I believe that this is another one of them.
I’m not eager to beat my kids; surely that’s when the issue slips into child abuse. But now I appreciate the line that was drawn between me and my parents . . . even though I spent the first half of my life loving but not liking them that much. In that sense I’d say they went too far with the discipline. I never looked at my parents as friends, as buddies, as pals. It was always mum and dad; approach with caution.
Beatings at my expense allowed my parents to maintain the parent child relationship. You could of course argue that other disciplinary forms would have been just as effective at instilling fear and respect. Did my parents know at the time that their disciplinary authority over me was dependant on whether the beatings hurt me or not? Surely they were aware that I’d grow older, that one day they’d dish out a beating and I wouldn’t even flinch, much less cry. They knew right?
Of course they did!
I never got a beating that was unjustified, not one I can remember anyway. And unless caught in the act, I was given the opportunity to plead my case (or think up a good lie). Every beating came with a lecture that usually lasted at least one hour; they sat while I stood. My days, the lectures were honestly more painful than the beatings. The older and smarter I grew, the less beats I received and the longer the lectures lasted. Notice the shift?
To further justify my decision to beat my future children I’ll draw attention to another significant ingredient of my upbringing. That ingredient is religion. Raised as a Christian, I went to church on Sundays, read my Bible, and prayed before I went to bed. I often listened in church with tentative ears, hoping (almost praying) to hear loopholes that would benefit my budding mind. None arose, but several suggested that a Christian lifestyle might better fit the parents.
- Honour thy father and mother
- No sex until you’re married
- Spare the rod, spoil the child
God was on my parents’ side. Another reason to begrudge them . . . and He also had several reasons to be angry with me. Three on one . . . you might even say it was five on one (if your brain has warmed up). Not the kind of odds for a kid to get excited about.
Some relief comes in knowing that when I take the parent role God will be on my side if I have to beat my kids. They won’t like it, but hopefully one day, after I've beaten stupidity and rebelliousness out of them, they’ll see me as more of a friend . . . sort of how I see my parents now.
A to the. . .
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Nothing But Pure Laziness
Laziness . . . nothing but pure laziness. That’s why I haven’t posted up on for a while. Yeah, I went to Texas, but I’ve been back for over a week now. I won’t make any excuses about it . . . BUT I have realised that blogging is hard work! Seriously, it takes a lot of effort to consistent update a blog site with fresh, original material. Who has the time for it?
Me apparently.
And don’t look at me with those disappointed eyes please . . . I just needed a few weeks off. To be honest I would have been quite happy to take another week off of blogging but I’m forcing myself to return to this seedy business.
Thanks for sticking around people. I’m guessing that some of you checked here a few times expecting updates and fresh posts . . . my bad. And I’m guessing that some of you are a little pissed that I haven’t posted up ‘The Autobiography Of A Non-Smoker Who Kind Of Smoked . . . Part Three’. Yeah, I let you down . . . my bad.
Well I’m back now . . . prepare for the darkest shade of black.
To keep you all entertained while I touch up on Part 3 (which I actually finished long before I even went on holiday) here is a list of things I got in trouble for before I turned into a teenager.
Me apparently.
And don’t look at me with those disappointed eyes please . . . I just needed a few weeks off. To be honest I would have been quite happy to take another week off of blogging but I’m forcing myself to return to this seedy business.
Thanks for sticking around people. I’m guessing that some of you checked here a few times expecting updates and fresh posts . . . my bad. And I’m guessing that some of you are a little pissed that I haven’t posted up ‘The Autobiography Of A Non-Smoker Who Kind Of Smoked . . . Part Three’. Yeah, I let you down . . . my bad.
Well I’m back now . . . prepare for the darkest shade of black.
To keep you all entertained while I touch up on Part 3 (which I actually finished long before I even went on holiday) here is a list of things I got in trouble for before I turned into a teenager.
- Smoking
Those of you who read ‘The Autobiography Of A Non-Smoker Who Kind Of Smoked . . . Part One’ will know that I caught a beating for this foolish act when I was about seven years old.
- Sugar Sandwiches
This happened before the smoking incident. My cousin saw me making a sugar sandwich and snitched on me . . . when my mum caught me the obvious punishment was a beating.
Ingredients for a sugar sandwich – Bread, butter and sugar. Distribute accordingly.
- Breaking Crockery
I started washing dishes when I was about six years old . . . this is normal in a Nigerian home. Most people wouldn’t be surprised if a six year old dropped a plate or two . . . but I got a beating each time I was caught.
- Laughing At My Aunt
This was inevitable. When your aunt is watching a Nigerian movie and shouting at the TV, the story is only going to end one way. I laughed at her . . . she gave me a beating.
- Getting Lost
Yes, I managed to get lost in a crowded market. I was looking a toy car . . . turned around and my mum was gone. Naturally I started crying . . . I was only five years old don’t laugh at me. A stanger put me on his shoulders so I could look through the crowd to try and find my mum. She came and got me . . . and brought a beating with her as if it was my fault.
- Coming Home Late
Coming home late from school or staying out past my curfew (which was 6pm) resulted in a beating. This happened frequently . . . I never even used to own a watch. “I didn’t know what the time was” that was an excuse that rarely flew.
- Drawing Boobies ( . )( . )
People were always snitching on me when I was younger . . . so much for friendship. In primary school I drew a few pictures of boobs in my text book. I thought this was hilarious of course . . . my friend did too. So why did he snitch? He told the teacher, the teacher called my mum in for a meeting; I got home and got beats.
- Moving My Hand
OK, I didn’t get beats every time I moved my hand . . . that would be extreme. When my dad used to dish out a beating he’d ask for my hand and whack it with a belt or slipper. For each time he swung and I moved my hand to evade he’d say ‘That’s two more!’ Five whacks usually turned into a drawn out ten.
As you can imagine, it was pretty hard for me not to get beats. I wasn’t a troublesome kid . . . and I usually learned my lesson each time. But as a child I regularly found new things that I wasn’t allowed to do.
A to the . . .
Those of you who read ‘The Autobiography Of A Non-Smoker Who Kind Of Smoked . . . Part One’ will know that I caught a beating for this foolish act when I was about seven years old.
- Sugar Sandwiches
This happened before the smoking incident. My cousin saw me making a sugar sandwich and snitched on me . . . when my mum caught me the obvious punishment was a beating.
Ingredients for a sugar sandwich – Bread, butter and sugar. Distribute accordingly.
- Breaking Crockery
I started washing dishes when I was about six years old . . . this is normal in a Nigerian home. Most people wouldn’t be surprised if a six year old dropped a plate or two . . . but I got a beating each time I was caught.
- Laughing At My Aunt
This was inevitable. When your aunt is watching a Nigerian movie and shouting at the TV, the story is only going to end one way. I laughed at her . . . she gave me a beating.
- Getting Lost
Yes, I managed to get lost in a crowded market. I was looking a toy car . . . turned around and my mum was gone. Naturally I started crying . . . I was only five years old don’t laugh at me. A stanger put me on his shoulders so I could look through the crowd to try and find my mum. She came and got me . . . and brought a beating with her as if it was my fault.
- Coming Home Late
Coming home late from school or staying out past my curfew (which was 6pm) resulted in a beating. This happened frequently . . . I never even used to own a watch. “I didn’t know what the time was” that was an excuse that rarely flew.
- Drawing Boobies ( . )( . )
People were always snitching on me when I was younger . . . so much for friendship. In primary school I drew a few pictures of boobs in my text book. I thought this was hilarious of course . . . my friend did too. So why did he snitch? He told the teacher, the teacher called my mum in for a meeting; I got home and got beats.
- Moving My Hand
OK, I didn’t get beats every time I moved my hand . . . that would be extreme. When my dad used to dish out a beating he’d ask for my hand and whack it with a belt or slipper. For each time he swung and I moved my hand to evade he’d say ‘That’s two more!’ Five whacks usually turned into a drawn out ten.
As you can imagine, it was pretty hard for me not to get beats. I wasn’t a troublesome kid . . . and I usually learned my lesson each time. But as a child I regularly found new things that I wasn’t allowed to do.
A to the . . .
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