Reports regarding student mistreatment in our educational establishments by Mary O’Toole have brought to light tales about the extensive use of physical discipline used in our schools until 1982. It’s chilling to expose them, with each new story more terrifying than the last. What seems incomprehensible today is that this behaviour was once accepted.
It wasn’t just permitted by the law, rather it was considered an ingrained part of daily life, as traditional as fish Fridays or a Saturday serving of cabbage. Nobody dared to challenge this practised norm, a child’s cries of pain didn’t trigger a notion of malpractice amongst the masses.
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Physical punishment was inflicted for regular minor infractions such as incomplete homework, tardiness, misbehaviour or incorrect answers, with a swift hand strike causing pain to the student. It was the prevalent belief that knowledge, alongside manners and appropriate conduct, could literally be beaten into a child. This concept is hard to digest today, given that a teacher offering firm support on a child’s shoulder can now find themselves hastily brought before legal authorities.
In my time as a primary school teacher, I struggle to recall a single instance where physical discipline was addressed during numerous hours of training and learning. Similarly, amongst my contemporaries, discussions about the education profession rarely touched on the topic. It wasn’t that the issue was deliberately swept aside; it simply wasn’t relevant.
Thus, it was unsurprising when a colleague of mine began his first teaching role in a primary school, and the head teacher introduced him to a stashed leather strap, stating that it was his “most effective teaching tool”.
In a regular primary school in Cork city, before the advent of free high school education, the sentiment led numerous individuals to change their approach. I must admit this never was part of my personal routine as a student (excluding the occasional incident), yet within our academic environment, one chap achieved both renown and abhorrence due to his classroom tenure.
This individual was known amongst us as the ‘Friar Stick’, a rather unflattering name coined by Liam Ó Muirthile and Greg Delanty in their poems. He governed the scholarship class, which was a significant advantage for many, ensuring exemption from secondary school fees. Without it, one would usually start employment by the age of 12.
This class, however, was unique in its provision of unlimited scholarships – an opportunity grasped by nearly everyone. These grants were from the city and county council, but they came with a hefty price. Pupils remained at school until teatime every day without any respite. They even had to attend on Saturdays, Sundays and even on St. Patrick’s Day if necessary. Their sheer commitment resulted in them securing almost all the scholarships.
Their parents were nothing but thankful for these achievements. They showered the headmaster with gifts, anything from an electric shaver to a motorbike. They acknowledged that their children earned these scholarships through harsh discipline, intense fear, nightmares, anxiety and physical pain. Such an ordeal was enough to break some of these boys, rendering them incapable of enduring further education.
Yet, the parents and the system remained satisfied. Such was the reality of life back then.