When my older brother, Larry, and I arrived in September for second and third grades at the boarding school for missionary kids, I had a hard time settling in. I missed my home in the Nigerian village of Egbe, an hour and a half plane ride away from Kent Academy. Most of all, I missed my mom, dad, little brothers, and baby sister.

On Saturday afternoon, there were lots of things to do out on the blacktop playground. Dozens of kids ran around in the warm sun, shouting and shoving. But what I really wanted was to just lie on my bed and read a book. Unfortunately, one of the aunties said I had to go outside for fresh air and sunlight.

There were six swings and a long, tall slide in front of the girls’ dorm. On the upper level in front of the boys’ dorm were teeter-totters and pull-up bars. Nearby stood a huge, wooden, green-painted structure that had two long, parallel beams with a row of short bars between them. Kids flew across them lickety-split by swinging each hand forward, one right after the other. They reminded me of the monkeys that glided through the air from branch to branch in the trees near home.

I liked the large jungle gym beside the staff apartment of the boys’ dorm best. I played there for a little while, but it got crowded with other kids, and I couldn’t scramble around easily anymore.

So, I wandered over to the monkey bars where I’d seen other kids swinging easily across from one end to the other.

Climbing High

The play structure was now empty, and I climbed the three rungs. I grabbed the first bar and let my legs dangle. When I lifted one hand to swing forward, I fell off. I got back up and tried again.

After several more failed tries, I saw Mark, a neighbor from Egbe. I waved, and he walked over. He was my brother Larry’s friend at home and a couple of years older than me. Mark was kind and talked with me almost every day at KA.

I grinned, and said, “Hi. I’m trying to swing on these bars, but I’m not strong enough and I always fall off.”

Mark smiled back. “If you spit on your hands and rub them together, you’ll have a better grip.” He walked to the other end. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He spit on his hands, wiped them on his shorts, reached to the bar, and swung across. Easy as pie.

Since he was bigger and smarter, I trusted him. So, I rubbed my tongue around inside my mouth to make it extra watery and then spit a wad into the center of each palm. “Pi-tooey. Pi-tooey.”

Next, I boldly climbed the three rungs and stood tall while holding onto the wood frame for balance. Butterflies stirred in my tummy, and I tried to calm them down. I’m not afraid of climbing, I reminded myself. Every night I practice when I scamper up to the top bunk.

Taking a deep breath, I stretched one skinny arm high, but with the other, I still held onto the side. I’m almost up. This time, I’m going to get all the way across.

Hanging in Mid-Air

Reaching out with my other hand, I grabbed the bar. There. I’m holding on. I gave a satisfied sigh.

Even though both hands now felt a little slippery, I clung tightly and pushed my feet from the rung. For one moment my body swayed in midair, and I felt all my weight pulling on my arms.

I’ve done it! I’m up!

But as I swung my body forward, my wet hands slid off the bar. I don’t want to scrape my knees, I thought. As I dropped, I flung out my arms to brace myself.

When I hit the ground, I landed hard on my hands and knees. A sharp pain shot up my right arm, and I screamed in panic. “Ow! Ow! Owwww!”

My right elbow buckled, and I rolled to my side on the tarmac. Grabbing the hurt arm, I held it to my chest and sucked in deep, ragged breaths.

Mark’s head appeared above me. “What happened? Debbie, are you hurt?”

I moaned. The pain was so bad I couldn’t say anything.

“Tell me what’s wrong!” His freckled face scrunched with worry. “Here. Take my hand, and I’ll help you stand.”

Finally, he pulled me to my feet, and I clutched my right arm to my stomach. Mark walked with me behind the girls’ dorm and over to the nurse’s office. Once I entered the doorway, he said, “I’ve gotta go.” My friend turned and ran toward the boys’ dorm.

He doesn’t want to get into trouble, I thought. The nurse might blame him for tricking me and telling me to spit on my hands.

So Much Pain

Gulping back tears, I turned to the nurse and said, “I fell off the monkey bars and my arm hurts really bad.” I didn’t say anything about the spit.

She took a wet cloth and wiped the dirt off my arm. I winced.

“Where does it hurt?”

I pointed to my wrist.

After she looked it over, she said, “I think you’ve sprained it.” Then she wrapped a stretchy cloth bandage around my hand, passed it between my thumb and fingers, and wound it up to my elbow. Tears rolled down my cheeks as the pain grew.

Next, she pinned the end closed and said, “This will help it feel better.” She smiled kindly. But I wished my mom was here to hold me.

On the way to dinner, I walked slowly across the playground. Each step jolted my arm, so I held it against my body with my left hand. Halfway to the dining room, Mark found me and walked beside me for a bit. Finally, he said, “How are you feeling?”

Staring straight into his eyes I said, “Why did you tell me to spit on my hands? That was a mean trick.” I glanced away. “Now I don’t trust you.”

“But it’s true!” Mark insisted. “It always works for me and the other guys.” He shrugged and held his palms toward me. “Maybe you had too much spit on your hands since you didn’t wipe them on your pants.”

He stared at his tennis shoes, then said in a low voice, “I’m really sorry you hurt your arm. I didn’t want you to fall. Can we still be friends?”

I thought for a minute. He’s a good friend from home, and he’s my best friend here.

I nodded slowly. “I guess you didn’t mean to.”

A Hard Time Managing

At the dining table, each time I moved my arm, it ached terribly. When I picked up my fork with my right hand like usual, a sharp pain shot up my arm. I switched the fork to my left hand and scooped up some meat, but that promptly tumbled off. Once again, I tried to use my right, but I dropped the fork to the plate.

Tears filled my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I can’t even eat. I wiped my nose with my napkin. Well, I don’t think I’m hungry anyway. So, I sat with my hands in my lap until we were excused.

At bedtime, my roommate helped me take off my shirt. It was hard to put on my jammies using just my left hand, but I managed.

After lights out, I cried quietly into my pillow. It hurts so much. Can Mommy come to get me?

At last, I drifted off to sleep, wondering, how will she even know I’m hurt?

Looking Back

I wasn’t mad for long at Mark because he was such a special friend from Egbe. His family lived next door to us, and he came over often to play with my big brother Larry. Plus, he had the same name as my younger brother, Mark.

It was comforting to have a friend from home, and our daily conversations helped me adjust to life at Kent Academy.

However, the pain in my wrist got worse.

I soon found out it wasn’t just a sprain, but what happened next will be revealed in a future story.  

What I Know Now

I’m now convinced Mark had the best intentions and truly wanted to help me. Since that time, I’ve learned a little moisture can make dry hands feel tacky and provide a better grip. We’ve all seen a teacher lick her finger to flip through a stack of papers. Baseball players spit on their hands to grasp the bat, and pitchers do the same to grip the baseball. On that fateful day in second grade, I used too much lubrication and didn’t know I needed to wipe some off my hands first. Additionally, I had no strength in my skinny, 7-year-old arms.

Thanks to social media, I’ve reconnected with Mark’s older brother and sisters. It’s been fun to chat with Tim, Becky, and Betsi. I had hoped to talk with Mark, too, and tell him I don’t blame him for this. Sadly, Mark passed away a few years ago.

Link It to Your Life

Did you have a fall or an accident as a child? How were your physical needs taken care of? What about your emotional needs—did you have someone help you through it?

Are you struggling now with pain? I hope you can find all the help you need.

Or perhaps you know another person who is suffering now, and you can offer a hand.

Father, please be near to everyone who is hurting right now. Help us to keep our eyes open and be responsive to those in need of help.

To find out why I was sent to a boarding school, click on my About Page here.

For more information on Third Culture Kids (TCKs), here is a video of an interview between Calvin K.W. of Global CKtizens and Dr. Ruth Van Reken. Ruth’s family were our neighbors at Egbe, and she is a co-author of the book Third Culture Kids: Growing Up Among Worlds’ which explains the many new nuances of the TCK experience here.