University of Southern California School of Dentistry - El Molaro (Los Angeles, CA)

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TED ZUNDEL Alhambra, California University of California V, at Santa Barbara Delta Sigma Delta 'QI' What me worry? When he finally pulled his head out of the thoracic cavity of his cadaver, Ted emerged into the limelight early in the sophomore year as a dark horse candidate for class president. In spite of his election and ensuing policy of laissez-faire student government he has maintained himself as a well-recognized member of his class. Ted figured that since laissez-faire worked so well politically he would test it clinically. Sure enough, Dr. Conley discovered that Ted thought we were keeping score like a golf game and sug- gested he do something to improve the situation. By the time our senior year was over he was only five points from the top-of the iunior point sheet. But an A scholar at the University of Santa Barbara was not to be deflated. Since the ZundeI's had only 58 teeth between them Ted decided What are parents for anyhow. So after he did his Dad's foils he went back and did endo. After the endo he went back and did fixed pros. With this organization we know you will be successful in practice Ted, but what happens if you run out of parents? l29

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FOREWORD We were strangers, but there was a feeling of excitement common to all, that morning 2 years ago, as we entered the doors of 635 Exposition. We anticipated the unfamiliar and unexpected, and not even the odor from the room at the head of the stairs failed to dampen our spirits. We were warned by our big sisters but shrugged it off with a casual, No sweat! l've been getting A's without even trying. lf we limit our social life to the weekend, we'll have no problems. Looking back, this bit of naivete may seem ridiculous, but at the time it was a blessing in disguise. Without it, we might never have crossed the threshold. As it was, it took us half a semester to fully realize what we had gotten ourselves into. No sweat! ? We did more sweating than sleeping. lt wasn't that the work was so difficult, but there was so much of it! We learned many things, but most of all, how to cope with frustration. Wait 'til next year, was the worn out phrase that kept us all going. A reflection upon a few hysterical but historical echoes from our Junior year starts with The Great Deception: the class schedule which only our Histo lab meeting twice a week, not six . . . Our Brief Class Votes 'which consumed a lunch hour and nearly ended in violence. lt's a miracle everyone went to the same place for our ditch day . . . The Girls in Bacteriology Lab who couldn't tell a cotton stopper from the hair on their heads . . . Mannequin Mornings: front, back, front, or is it back, front, back? Whoops, shreaded gooms! Big Mother is watching you! . . . The Hand-Me-Down Bio-Chem Labs that met in the lounge . . . The Histo Coffee Machine which dispensed a liquid that looked like coffee, smelled like hot chocolate, and tasted like chicken soup . . . Neoplasm Mania: all the once-beloved moles we claimed as beauty marks suddenly became ugly and potentially malignant papillomas. . . . Men: the great social potential we spent a year with, hardly saw, and much less ever spoke to. Unfortunately, our contacts were limited to the slamming of lockers during chem lecture, the stampede into the prosthetics lab, the back-row chatter during Harrison's lectures, the disarranged histo slides, and the empty slots when exams were near. However, we did speak to their scab boxes, though not very nicely. They were rough on unprotected shins .... Along with these we employed a few defense mechanisms to circumvent the pressures accompanying our absorption of knowl- edge: some girls gained weight, twice as many lost . . . the socialties were forced to choose the companionship of a microscope, while the social conservatives were reported missing to the FBI . . . half the class mastered the first acting skill of looking confident when bewildered, the other half developed the ability to sleep in class . . . one girl began to curl her hair, but most of us devel- oped inferior right lateral complexes . . . dowdy, dirty lab coats with skull bag accessories were in fashion . . . the one effect common to all of us was our adoption of Islam, but instead of bowing to Mecca daily, we bowed toward 34th St. With all this, the positive result of our busy year was that time passed quickly. Suddenly we had our caps and only finals lay between us and the unsuspecting patient. Our Senior year, otherwise known as the year of the Calculus Crusade, held great hopes that it would be as light as our first year had been hard. From the very beginning, it lived up to our expectations at least in part when our issue was light in hand as well as on the wallet. The list of our courses seemed somewhat disconcerting until we found they were all only one unit. Imagine being able to understand a complete lecture, to not sit through 45 minutes of factual enlightenment without seeing any light. The clarity applied to all but one instance: many of us are still trying to figure out what a moribund patient is. The most difficult of our courses was the one given by the O.D. department, represented by a camel-less courier in an acidophilic turban who kept us on our toes. Hours were another matter entirely. Three o'clock afternoons are numbered, we were warned, and this was no understatement. We changed into our civilian clothes so late in the day that the only weather we experienced was that which we read in the papers. Of course, our windowless world had its advantages, that is, in case of an atomic attack. The scarcity of men in our Junior year was more than compensated for by having an abundance of them in our Senior lectures. The privilege had been granted however, not to protect our civil liberties or to improve our extracurricular activities, but because it was found that the female element cleaned up the lectures and raised the imalel behavior level. This proved to be a gross inac- curacy, for the lectures were always punctuated with boo's, hisses, grumbles, and assorted gobble gobbles. To compensate for more men in our classes, we had less homework than in our Junior year. It was lighter both literally and figuratively, and some- what domestically inclined. lt consisted mostly of the laundering of spattered uniforms badly in need of depumising. We realized we were existing in the calm before State Boards, but the midnight oil was stored and exercises for the atrophied non-microscopic eye were given up. Our home-away-from-home was unique in many ways. lt was called a lounge but served as a hideout. The caps and uniforms, and the industrious clicking of knitting needles reminded one of the maternity ward in a hospital. Like the 901, it smelled of alcohol but with overtones of lanowhite, and it looked like, well, before or after Minnie had been there? Of course, the year was not without its own particular difficulties, for example: resisting the impulse to dump the contents of our clinic cases onto the floor and screaming. My kingdom for a prophy brush! Then there was also the seemingly unyielding clinic C barrier. Anything would be a welcome end to the frustration, even if it meant letting yourself be overheard saying to a patient. Pyorrhea is prevented because we scraaapppppeeeee the tartar from under the gooms with our scalers. Obstacles though they were then, they will soon become memories recalled with a smile. Along with these will be cherished the friendships that we've made and the lifetime bonds that we've formed. They have become so much a part of us that even on the day of graduation when separate ways lie ahead, See you tomorrow will seem as natural and appropriate a farewell as it has each day for the last two years. l3l