Child abuse is never acceptable …

 I get very angry about child abuse. I was abused as a child. By the government. In the school dental clinic. Every six months the summons arrived in the mail. Like probation but without the welfare payments and counselling and the meal tickets.

There was no anesthetic. There was the smell of meths and the sound of squeaky nursey shoes and that aggressive flapping sound of a starched white apron. The pursed lips, the folded arms and the hate-filled eyes.

I reserve my strongest hate for that steel curved pick thing that was used with hate, stabbing and twisting and probing and ooh let’s just spike his tongue as well, just for fun. Never mind the blood, he’s just a kid.

Then there was the drill sound. Fast enough to sound like a mechanical scream but slow enough to make the whole event last a morning. Excruciating, sustained and piercing pain. It’s character building, and anyway, I wouldn’t have to drill if you cleaned your teeth properly.

She kept an antiquated drill in the room. She said it was for if the power ever went off. It was there to add to the overall effect of vindictive child-hate.

The drill screamed loud enough to drown out the sound of my crying. I choked and gagged on stray bits of spit and filling and cotton wool. But that didn’t matter either. He’s just a kid. It’ll teach him a lesson. It’s not real pain. He’s just imagining it.

The abuse ended with a condescending story about Bertie the Germ. But no, not ‘ended’ because six months later it happened all over again.

Fast forward 30 something years. With memories of that dental clinic and all that it represented – pain, contempt, disdain and ‘he’s just a kid, he’s just imagining it’. The smell of antiseptic and the white clothes and the gigantic posters of teeth and gums and the jaw bone.

But there are new things. A water cooler and a leather couch and a dentist asking if I’m feeling anxious and reassuring me that the procedure will be painless and as quick as possible. And Mozart. And artwork on the walls.

Two-and-a-half-hours later my wisdom tooth had been extracted – without any pain. More than that, the dentist was human and respectful and repeatedly asked if I was comfortable. He never referred to me as ‘just’ anything. I was a real person.

Child abuse in whatever form is never acceptable. Just like we are all not ‘just’ teachers, children are never ‘just’ children.

And no, I’m not ‘making a mountain out of a molar’ (Gregg, 2010).

­—­ Peter Giddens