A Band-Aid Clinic

The kids congregate by the steps and entertain themselves by slapping at each other and yelling while we get organized. Josh starts playing his guitar and we sing. The kids join the song. While the singing continues the “medical” staff search dirty legs, feet, and arms for cuts, scrapes, and boils. A small brown boy perhaps five years old points to a festering sore on his leg. The trained first-aid administrator sits the boy down on the steps, then bending over opens the hydrogen peroxide bottle. A que tip dipped in peroxide is slowly rubbed on the wound. White foam instantly appears over the sore killing all the bacteria in it. The child doesn’t even flinch during the painful process. After the foaming has abated, a triple antibiotic covered Band-Aid is applied to the sore. Another satisfied customer of the Delap SDA School Band-Aid clinic runs out to play with his friends and sing. Today there are not many sores and the kids don’t feel like singing, so we close down our makeshift clinic. This process consists of putting the Band-Aids and the peroxide back the backpack that brought it. Everyone walks back to campus except the chaplain and I. We sing softly to the couple of little kids that are left. They try to play his guitar. I sit and take in the poor neighborhood and the clamoring children.

After a short time Leandro gets up and slowly leaves. A very small girl and an only slightly older boy cling to him as he meanders back toward campus. After going a hundred feet, he sends them back. The kids speak no English, but Leandro has learned a little Marshallese so the kids understand him. The little children come back to me squeezing their way next to me. I haven’t finished processing all that I see around me although I’ve seen it all during earlier trips. The little girl next to me looks at me with precious big dark liquid eyes. The boy snuggles closer trying to get some attention too. They both seem so innocent.

It is almost time for sundown vespers so I get up to leave. “Yokwe!” I say and wave goodbye. The two kids stare at me with open mouths as if they can’t imagine my leaving. They get up and run after me. What can I do besides walk slowly away? They catch me and each takes a hand, or more precisely, a finger. We slowly make our way down the road. I hope they will get scared about being so far from home and go back. However, they don’t even think about it. As we turn the corner to the campus gate, I try to tell them to go back. They stare blankly at me. I point back the direction we came from and try to motion them away. They don’t seem to understand.

Coming out of the gate is my salvation I think. Three Marshallese teenagers including one of my favorite high school seniors walk toward me. Lucyla looks at me and smiles.

“Looks like you have a daughter, Mr. Wright,” she observes.

“They followed me home. How do I tell them to go home?”

“Just tell them to go home to mama,” offered Lucyla.

“I tried that, but they don’t understand my words.”

“Just say mama.”

With that she caught up with her friends and disappeared. I still had the kids with me. I point and say, “Mama.” Nothing. So much for help from Lucyla. Thankfully one of my school’s elementary students comes running up.

“I’ll tell them,” the new student says.

She starts saying something in Marshallese. While the kids are distracted, I hurry through the gate. I feel bad for just leaving them hanging outside, but what else could I do? While I wait with the other missionaries for the church to open, the elementary student comes up to me.

“Your daughter is over there,” she laughs.

I look and see neighborhood kids, but not the little girl. I’ll be teased for a few days about this.

Richard Wright Copyright 2001