Stories over Dishes

My mother gave us fluoride drops as children "to promote oral health." She was a dental assistant and was determined that her children would not have cavities.  Two and half decades later and her children are all proudly cavity free.  She and our father saved to pay for our orthodontics, but I was a self-conscouis adolescent who didn't want the added burden of a tin grin.  Yet, I am a colossal jaw-clencher, tooth-grinder, who at 19 was told that if I didn't want to lose my teeth, would need braces.

I quickly mastered the skill of the closed mouth smile.

The following year, I came to the Dominican Republic for the first time.  To my surprise, the very thing that caused me embarrassment in Canada, was a source of different kind of attention in this country.  The children in the villages were fascinated.

In one village we worked in their feeding program.  This program feeds about 200 children, elderly, and pregnant women, three times a week.  While the program is operated by a Canadian couple, it runs successfully thanks to a group of dedicated community volunteers.  One of these volunteers is a young woman named Sarah.  Sarah could stare down a grizzly bear.   (I doubt she's ever seen one, but if you were to but Sarah and a bear in the same room, I'd  put my money on Sarah being the one walking away after the encounter.)

Sarah was there every day feeding the kids, serving food, washing dishes.  Whatever need to be done, she would do it.  She was committed to her community.  Along with that commitment and dedication, she had truck loads of attitude.  She seemed to be somewhat jaded by the stream of volunteers from the North that came through, feeding children and posing for photos, only to leave again a week later.

One morning while washing dishes, Sarah asked me about my braces.

"You will have straight teeth when they come off?"
"Yes."
"Are they expensive?"
"Umm, yeah. I guess."
"How did you get the money for them?"
"Well, I didn't.  My parents are paying for them."

Her eyes widened.  We washed the dishes in silence as she slowly ran her tongue over her teeth. Scrape. Wash. Dry. Scrape. Wash. Dry. Scrape. Wash. Dry.

Finally she spoke.

"Do you think your parents would pay for me to have straight teeth?"

How do you respond to that?

I mumbled something, but I don't remember what.  What I should have said was "Darling, it is not straight teeth we need. It is a straight heart.  It is learning to shoot straight, to speak straight, to work on the alignment of our heart and our soul and our will.  You can't buy that.  No one can give you that.  I barely know you, but you seem to be miles ahead of me in that regard.  You are a warrior, keep your spine straight, your feet one in the front of the other."

Sarah wanted to go to school.  She talked about being a nurse.  Before I left on my last day, she asked if I would remember her after I went back to Canada.  She wanted me to tell my people about her.  I didn't forget, but I didn't tell her story.   I would try when people asked about my trip, but I struggle over my words and my guilt.  I still do.  But I'm telling her story now, at least this part of it.

I'm going back to the feeding program today.  I hope to see Sarah, to wash dishes with her and hear more of her story, to borrow some of her boldness.

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