When I was a little girl, the discipline I dreaded most was a beating with the cane. My mother used a rattan cane and it never failed to leave a nasty sting. I would have red lines and raised welts decorating my bare bottom for the next two to three days, and the entire ordeal was very painful.
When Mum told me that I was going to have the cane, my buttocks would clench up, and I became nervous and afraid. Previous memories of the cane’s lasting sting would fill my thoughts and begin to haunt me, even before I had been beaten this time.
To receive my punishment, I had to bend over a wooden chair, keep my legs together and stick my bottom out nicely. With every stroke, I would flinch and squirm. Mum would take her time and pace the canings so that the sting of each stroke settled before the next was administered, and I could really appreciate the searing pain from each whack.
Mum had three distinct caning styles. In the most common method, she first held the cane firmly against my buttocks and stalled for a couple seconds. She would then pull the cane back and flick her wrist forcibly. The cane would travel parallel to the floor and end its journey across the width of my bottom.