When I was six years old, I lived in constant fear of Mrs. Ford. She was a loud, formidable woman who taught the older children and was known for a lethal ear-pinch. So, when she burst into my classroom and barked, "I want Myburgh!" my life flashed before my eyes.
She grabbed my arm and marched me down the corridor. I was terrified. I ran through every possible sin I could have committed, bracing for the inevitable pinch.
Instead, she hauled me to the front of her class. Eighty older students stared as I studied my shoes in silent agony. Then came the command:
"Myburgh, open your mouth and show them your teeth!"
I obeyed. What else could I do?
"Students," she bellowed, "look at these teeth! These are the teeth of a dentist’s son. Look how they sparkle and shine! You, too, can have teeth like this if you look after them."
She dismissed me with a brisk "Thank you," and I bolted. I ran all the way back to my class, desperately wishing my father had a more discreet profession—like an engineer, a businessman, or a fireman.
I went in expecting a reprimand; I left as a human toothpaste commercial.
0 comments:
Post a Comment