Dana L. Yeoman, DDS

Dentures and Implants

The Power of a Smile to Transcend Borders Part 7

I grew up speaking some Spanish.  I don’t really consider myself fluent unless I’m talking to a child who matches my grammatical level.  One of the hardest things for me to do is switch mental gears from English to Spanish without getting warmed up.  It’s like warming up the engine of an old car.  If you take it out of the garage too soon, it chokes and sputters and doesn’t accelerate no matter how much you push on the gas pedal.

The only thing worse than switching to Spanish at a moment’s notice is trying to translate from one language to another, particularly when the person wanting translation is speaking too fast.  That is like stalling your engine in a intersection during rush hour traffic.

Knowing this, I felt sorry for this poor Ukrainian college kid!  He was trying his hardest to translate into English the stream of words coming from the  excited old man.  He would start a sentence and then end it with a fragment of another sentence.  His face turned red and he stumbled all over for words.  My heart went out to him, but I stood there helpless.

It took a long time to piece together the mysterious old man’s message.  The fragments I got sounded like I had started the next World War.  It began with, “This is my grandson.  Americans have been our enemies for years,” followed by, “You Americans come here...” 

The poor translator was being taxed beyond his capacity by the raving words of the old man, and I stood there looking suitably repentant for the sins of the world.  Unexpectedly, I was caught up in the arms of the old man with the warmest hug I had received since leaving the United States.

“You Americans come here and treat our children with kindness.  This is a beautiful thing.  The Government will never tell me you are the enemy again!”

Having spat that out, the flustered translator threw up his arms in surrender and walked away.  This did not stop Grandpa from gushing over with what I now knew to be his gratitude.  He cornered a fresh translator, and I learned that his name was Anton.  He was puzzled why strangers would come half way across the world to help his grandson.  This was so beautiful to him, and he knew now Americans could be his friends.

The weight of the revelation was enormous.  This man had grown up with a lifetime of Soviet influence and propaganda.  He had as much fear of America as we had of a nuclear war with Russia.  In my lifetime, we have established a queasy peace with a now-diminished Russia.  However, just like our own grandpas here, old grudges die hard.  For someone who had lived through the Cold War on the Soviet side, a miracle would be needed to change his mind about Americans.  And perhaps there was a small sort of miracle that day. It came in the form of a goofy dental student and a ticklish little boy.

The next day, I was walking through the courtyard of the Sanatorium looking at the fresh strawberries an ancient woman was peddling.  The radio was blaring traditional Ukrainian music.  Grandpa Anton (for he instantly became my grandpa, too) took me up in his arms and danced something like a polka to the tune.  Some of my young patients caught sight of us and giggled.  I winked back.  Nothing was going to stop me from enjoying a victory dance with my grandpa.

From that moment on, things changed for us Americans with the people at the Ukrainian Sanatorium.