I slam my history book closed, slide it into my desk, and head to the doorway of our seventh-grade classroom. Looking back, I spy my friend Eileen putting her books away, so I wait. When she joins me, we stroll down the long, bright hall. The late-afternoon sunlight streams through open windows that line the right-hand wall of the single-story school building for missionary kids in Nigeria.

“I’m so tired of all my classes.” Eileen rubs her forehead as we step onto the front porch. “All the reading and studying have given me a headache.”

Tossing my head back, I take a deep breath of the warm, humid air. As we walk across the tarmac playground, a bright yellow-green African pigeon swoops between us and soars toward the boys’ dorm. It turns into a tiny speck as it flies past the dorm to the hill behind it. I sigh. “We have such tough classes this year. Someday we’ll be as free as the birds.”

My friend smiles. “I love all the birds here in Nigeria. They’re so beautiful, and I like to talk to them.”

I shake my head and chuckle. “I know! But how are you able to talk to birds? What an amazing talent you have.”

Chatting and laughing, we walk across the playground, aiming towards the shade of the huge mango tree in front of the girls’ dorm.

At the first tetherball circle, my seven-year-old brother, Grant, clings to the ball, his blond hair glistening with sweat. A slender, sinewy junior high boy with dark brown hair looms over him, arms straight out to each side.

Tetherball and Terror

I stop to check on my little brother, and Eileen strolls to the girls’ dorm.

For a minute, I watch in silence.

The big guy shoves Grant in the chest once, then twice. This looks like trouble brewing.

My brother turns and gives me an ear-to-ear grin, but the bully grabs the tetherball and slams it into the back of Grant’s head. The smile fades to a grimace, and Grant grunts. “Ow! Ow!”

I yell, “No! You can’t do that! Leave my little brother alone.” My heart starts pounding.

The bully laughs and grabs Grant by the back collar of the T-shirt. “We’re just having fun.” With his other hand, he drills the knuckles of his fingers into the top of my brother’s head.

Grant flinches and tries to duck out of the way. “Stop that!”

I ball up my fists and shout, “You’re hurting him. Let him go. I’m going to tell the dorm uncles on you.”

“Go ahead. They don’t care. They say this toughens up the boys.” The junior higher tightens his grip on the T-shirt, and it digs into Grant’s throat. The little guy’s face turns bright red as he’s lifted onto his tiptoes.

False Bravado

The tormentor holds him there for a few seconds until he finally releases his grip.

Grant rubs his throat and sucks in deep gulps of air. Sweat trickles down his face and drips off his jaw. But in an attempt at bravado, he forces a laugh. “Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“See, he’s laughing. It’s all in fun.”

“No! You’re hurting him. You’ve got to stop.” I stomp my foot. “You big guys always pick on him. Quit that right now!”

“Okay, okay, okay.” He yanks my brother close, swings him around, and shoves him in the back. “Get out of here, you pipsqueak.”

Grant stumbles forward, then takes off running across the playground toward the boys’ dorm without looking back.

Tears well up in my eyes. I watch the tortured kid climb the steps, open the door, and escape inside.

The bully saunters off.

I stand there shaking. Why do those junior high boys pick on the little ones? How do they get away with beating them up every afternoon?

I trudge up the steps to the girls’ dorm, my thoughts in turmoil. Maybe they were bullied when they were little. How tragic that the cycle continues.

Looking Back at My Childhood

My brother got picked on, beaten up, and hazed almost every day of his first few years at Kent Academy (KA). The junior high boys had virtually free rein in the afternoons to chase after the younger, weaker boys, push them around, throw them on the ground, and torment the little guys.

There were too few staff members to adequately monitor the playground. Some of the uncles just looked the other way. Sadly, one of them laughed and encouraged the bullying.

Additionally, my brother regularly received harsh punishment from the staff for minor infractions. Nearly every week, he received a thrashing with a belt or razor strap by one of the four dorm uncles.

One uncle used a rubber tube filled with a metal core. Grant says he’s never seen a weapon like that and concludes the uncle crafted it deliberately to cause pain.

In the classrooms, the teachers humiliated him. My brother had ADHD, undiagnosed in those days, so the teachers had no idea how to deal with it. For example, when he daydreamed out the window, one teacher threw the wooden chalkboard eraser at him and hit him in the head.

Grant survived by putting on a show of false bravado and became the class clown. He always tried to cheer others on and would stick up for the underdog. But for five or six years, no one stood up for him.

What I Know Now

This vignette is Grant’s story, and he has permitted me to share this memory because it’s part of my story. It hurt me that I couldn’t protect him day after day on the playground. I was able to intervene this one time, but I wasn’t aware enough to monitor this every day. Because I knew it wouldn’t do any good, I didn’t report it to the staff.

I didn’t even complain to my friends but bought into the lie that this was normal behavior. Because I could not see a solution to the problem, I put it out of my mind most days.

But now I know better, and how sorry I am that all this was allowed to happen. My brother tells me that by age eleven, he believed he was incompetent and useless. It had been drilled into him that he was a nuisance to the world. He became convinced that everyone would be better off if he were obliterated. That was the beginning of years of suicidal ideation.

I wish I had been a better big sister to my siblings. However, I was too focused on navigating my own challenges. In recent years, I’ve apologized to them and worked at repairing our relationships.

Additionally, some of us Adult KA Kids (AKAKs) are petitioning the mission to investigate the historic harm and abuse that occurred at this school. Following the example of Jesus, the current leaders will, hopefully, reach out with sincere remorse and repentance, offering reparation and restitution for all those affected.

In the End…

I admire my intelligent, feisty, and kind-hearted brother. I’m amazed at how he survived the many unnamed bullies and navigated his way through life despite his childhood traumas.

May we all seek truth and find humility, hope, and healing.

To read more about my childhood in the boarding school, click on my About page.

My friend Maribeth Poole writes that our internal survival mechanisms are wrapped up in attachment patterns that we live with. Check out her blog post here.