“Boppy” Goes to School
Robert
E. Horseman, DDS
“We
read an article that said if you eat cheese, it doesn’t give you cavities.
Is that right?
A
bright-eyed eight-year-old in Mrs. Ream’s 3rd grade class asked this question
of me. My granddaughter had “volunteered” my services as guest speaker
during the week they were studying teeth and oral hygiene.
“My
grandpa’s a dentist,” she told the teacher, “and he’ll be glad to come
talk to us.
Grandpa
was not glad. On the contrary, he experienced an unsettling admixture of
terror and flopsweat when informed of his volunteering. After a flat-out
refusal, however, I had to surrender reluctantly when tears threatened to go on
Full Red Alert and the concentrated focus of an eight-year-old’s feminine
wiles pierced my heart like a ruby laser.
Now
what? I didn’t think for a minute I could get away with the standard
admonition to brush and lay off the Tootsie Rolls, which might suffice for an
unhip 1st grade or kindergarten audience. These kids already knew about as
much dentistry as a 1st quarter freshman dental student. When I was a 3rd
grader, we were trying to master finger painting and learning to wave bye-bye.
I thought glove puppets were real and my highest ambition was to be a circus
acrobat.
Now
I had to address little children who were computer literate and regularly
critiqued the work of nuclear physicists and Pulitzer Prize winners.
I
decided to give them the latest information from the Centers for Disease Control
and my recommendations for avoiding cross-contamination and visits from
gimlet-eyed OSHA investigators operating in full citing mode.
The
teacher introduced me. The students, all scrubbed and attentive, responded
in a well-rehearsed sing-song fashion, “Good morning, Dr. Horseman.” My
granddaughter then stood up and announced to all that they had her permission to
call me “Boppy.” I could have died.
If
I do say so myself, my talk went well. I condensed the entire knowledge of
the Western World in the field of infection and contagious diseases into 10
fact-filled minutes. Then I made the fatal mistake of asking for
questions.
Twenty-four
hands shot up as if I had called for volunteers for an all-expense-paid holiday
to Disneyland. I indicated a munchkin in the first row who I initially assumed
was a student, but now recognize as probably being a 37-year-old midget, planted
there by pranksters who would like nothing more than to see me humiliated and in
line for the Doofus of the Year Award.
“They
have vaccines for polio and diphtheria and a plethora of other pathogens,”
stated this little cyborg, “so why don’t we have one for tooth decay,
assuming your theory of cariogenesis is correct, which I doubt?”
It
occurred to me while trying to frame a rational response to this kid who
probably had his application to a major law school already approved, that it’s
a darn shame they haven’t figured a way to make birth control retroactive.
Most
of the other raised hands belong to kids who didn’t want to ask questions;
they wanted to relate something very important and relevant to the subject.
“Uh...my
cousin...no, wait...my other cousin said her dentist...she doesn’t live
here..my cousin doesn’t, I mean. She said her dentist was going to put
something on her back teeth...a button, I think.”
“Her
dentist said he was going to a put a button on her back teeth?” I
repeated slowly, stalling.
“Yes,
that’s what she said he said.”
“She
means a sealant,” offered the vaccine moppet.
The
other students nodded vigorously, apparently tuned in to some 3rd grade glossary
not available to adults who were out of the loop. I recognized a
Ritalin-enhanced lad in the back row who had been signaling impatiently and
pointing to his orthodontically embellished arches under construction. He
referred to his “binary appliance” and the prospect of a “4 by 4” or
maybe it was a “2 by 4.” He wanted to know what I thought, so I told
him in all honesty the only 4 by 4s I knew about were recreational vehicles and
the 2 by 4s were boards.
He
gave me a pitying look as my granddaughter’s voice rose above the snickers,
“Way to go, Boppy!”
At
this juncture, the teacher, sensing that I was in over my head, suggested the
class thank me for giving up my time so they could practice skirmishing with yet
another know-it-all adult. In haste, I distributed the youth brushes I had
brought with me, or tried to, since every other kid informed me that the Interplak
was the instrument of choice for plaque removal at his or her house. I was
left with the impression that my brush offer was on a par with an announcement
of Brussel sprouts for dinner.
As
gracefully as possible, I took my leave while they resumed their discussion of
Post-Impressionist artists and their impact on Dadaism and its deliberate
irrationality and negation of traditional artistic values.
If you ever get the chance to address the inmates of your local grammar school and there’s no possibility of your being out of town on short notice, go for it—you’ll learn a lot.
Originally published in the Journal of the California Dental Association, 06/90.