Trouble in America I

Roses are yellow,
Violets are lavender.
If it wasn’t for the FRENCH (naval blockade of Yorktown in 1781),
You’d all live in Canada.

Professor Clay could not believe what he was reading, had she really written such a thing? And in Thanksgiving Week?

Kirsten Louisa, (sobbing quietly under the name Kirsty-Lou), was in her final few weeks of school exchange at Essendon High School in Hartford, Connecticut, and looking forward to getting on the road. She was going home to Antrim for Christmas, and then would be back in the USA for a few months of travelling with various friends before heading for Australia for the second of her two “gap years”.

Since the resumption of the school term Kirsten had been somewhat of a novelty, the “English girl”, (she was actually Irish), who was on a two-year world tour between secondary and tertiary education, and had chosen to return to High School in America for the first part of it. What a strange thing to do. Still, she rather enjoyed the stateliness of Essendon, a college in the English tradition, for girls and boys. She had chosen it both for its assonant name, (similar in sound to her own surname), and for the fact that upon her return to studies she’d be living in England in Essendon, and studying in nearby Hatfield at the University of Hertfordshire, of which Hertford was the county town. The correctly spelled county town she insisted upon telling the good people of Connecticut; if this was New England, why could these people not spell in plain written English? And much as she hated being called Kirsty-Lou, it was way better than being called Kristin.

Professor Clay flipped to the front of the book and read the name from the white sticker. “Ah, I should have thought she would know better.” Clay leaned back in his chair and smiled.

Joseph Clay was also visiting Essendon, from Melbourne, Australia. He was quite fond of the young girl from Britain and was in two minds about what to do with her blatant disregard for the station of “guest in our country.” On the one hand he couldn’t fault her grasp of history, or poetry for that matter. On the other it was rather cheeky of her, rude even. Perhaps as a visitor for just the one term, and a high school graduate already, she thought herself too old even for the senior girls’ paddle. Even if her well meaning hosts were constant in mispronouncing her name, and her nationality, (it’s spelled I-R-I-S-H but it’s pronounced “English”), she must have known this ditty would cause a ruckus. It was a dilemma.

Kirsten loved History, it had always been her favourite subject at school, and she had been delighted to have been accepted into Professor Clay’s special reading class on Thursday nights. It was he who had encouraged his students to enter the English Composition competition, this year the theme had been “America The Brave”, with a 1500 word limit and a $500 prize. She worked very hard on her assignment, careful not to engage in the politics she knew several of the girls in “The Clay Mine” (as they called their little gathering) were intending to do in regard to the presence of troops in Afghanistan, but neither was she going to write a “sucky piece” like some of the boys had spoken of.

Kirsten’s essay then was a discussion of America’s bravery as a nation which welcomed visitors from all across the globe; a nation which had done so for over four hundred years. America’s bravery lays not in the weapons of her soldiers in Kabul, but in her shopkeepers and publicans right here in Essendon. Patrick, fourth generation barkeeper of Cobh ancestry, his wife Meabh born herself in Baile Atha an Ri, both decedents of victims of the Great Famine in different ways. Rivkeh and Aryeh, known to all in Essendon, the horrors of their story beyond retelling, and “Old Lady Aldwych” who may or may not be Swedish, but who lost her husband on 9/1/1973 and came suddenly to our small village soon after, penniless and afraid, but bold and determined all at once. America is only America because of the other nations which built it: Great Britain, France, Spain at the outset, and the citizens of almost every tribe, tongue, and religion since then. She felt proud of it, Clay would have justified her in that pride, (although it was by no means the best essay in the competition, not even in the group); but the witty beginning was not as clever as perhaps Kirsten thought. With a heavy heart the Australian teacher turned his Irish student over to the American judges.

Sylvester Marks chuckled. It was a rather mediocre essay, all the more ordinary considering the girl who wrote it had already achieved a “B” in her final History exam in Antrim; but the poem did make him smile. A somewhat clever beginning to a disappointing account: the girl had a point, but she didn’t have the writing skills as an essayist to drive it home. Sadly he knew the outcome: it had been required of him by the association. The young “calin” was to be paddled, and as Principal it was his job to administer the board of education to the seat of learning as and when required. The girl was sent for.

As soon as the call came, Kirsten knew what it was for. Quietly she’d been hopeful of such an outcome, putting herself at the receiving end of an American paddle was something she’d always dreamed of, (all those lovely Sorority Hazings...do they really happen?), but would probably not experience at an English university. She hadn’t been spanked much as a child, and even that had stopped when she was about eleven, so this would be special. Kirsten smoothed her skirt, wiping her sweaty palms dry, before knocking at the door.

- Ah Kirsty, thank you for coming. I think you know why you are here: it’s about this essay you wrote for “America The Brave”.

- You don’t like my essay?

- It’s not a question of like, although as a matter of fact I had been lead to believe you were capable of much more. You seem to have invested a lot of your thinking in the showy rhetoric of your introduction, and you have left the essay itself undeveloped. You made some excellent points, but then did nothing with them. But that is all beside the point. The point is that your little “poem”, might cause offence. In fact it did cause offence. I have been asked to remove your essay from the competition entries.

- I’m sorry to hear that Sir, both that you are disappointed in my writing, and that I have so offended my hosts. So I am. I accept your decision.

Kirsten turned to go, disappointed that she’d not been spanked, but more so that her writing had fallen short of the mark. It did matter to her, after all, that her work be respected.

- I’m afraid that isn’t all Kirsty. You see, we have set standards of behaviour here; and with all respect to free speech and the freedom of expression, you were still rude. Or some may think so. I am one of the some. As punishment for your rudeness I am going to give you the paddle. However, we do not allow girls to be paddled on their skirts here, so I must ask you to return to this office tomorrow, wearing trousers, that the punishment may take place.

-But Sir, I don’t like trousers. And please don’t make me wait a whole night, that’s not fair.

Kirsten wanted the paddle, she’d built herself up for it, but wearing a skirt during the spanking was part of the deal. What’s the point of being a girl if you are going to be paddled dressed like a boy?

- We do not paddle girls on their skirts.

- What if I lift my skirt up, then?

Sylvester Marks decided he liked this girl, she was feisty. He knew the standard expected the girl to take four swats on the seat of her trousers, but this one was clever.

- It will be four spanks with the girls’ paddle, you bending over my desk to receive them.

- I accept that Sir.

- Bend over the desk; you may leave the skirt in place.

Kirsten obeyed immediately: and was rewarded with the fulfilment of her dream.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

- One paddle for each line of your poem.

- Thank you sir.

Kirsten felt tears in her eyes, but wasn’t entirely certain of their meaning: it certainly had little to do with the throbbing in her buttocks, throbbing that they were.

- I must say Kirsty, I found your poem clever. Certainly it was unwise, but it took some thought to write it...just not as much thought as to where to write it.

Kirsty smiled, gave her bottom a good rub, and went out to the bathroom to show her friends her prize.