Slashing Medicaid payments puts Tacoma kids’ dental care at risk | Opinion

About a year and a half ago, I started temping at Lindquist Dental Clinic for Children in Pierce County. I told the dental director, Dr. Stephens, “I don’t really like kids,” half-joking, half-honest. She smiled and said, “Just try it.”

I did. And it changed me.

What started as a way to fill a few open days became a place where I’ve felt most myself — while treating children. I’ve worked in a variety of dental settings, but nothing has matched the warmth and impact of this nonprofit clinic, which has served kids across the South Sound since 1936.

Dr. Stephens, one of the few Black women in dental leadership I’ve ever worked with, has led the clinic for 15 years. Her office smells like a warm candle and displays a poster about equity vs. equality — subtle but powerful reminders of the values guiding this place.

The team reflects that same spirit. One assistant, a former teacher, connects with children instantly. Several others speak Spanish, making care accessible and comforting for many families.

Most kids are on nitrous during treatment, headphones on. I’ve had six-year-olds belting Alicia Keys or Taylor Swift. Some tell me they chipped a tooth biting their sibling; others talk about horse shampoo or wanting to become librarians. These spontaneous, unfiltered moments have stayed with me. They remind me what it means to show up for people, especially when they’re young, scared or overlooked.

Our staff is as diverse as our patient population: Vietnamese, Guatemalan, Canadian, Korean American. Culturally, many of us don’t usually talk openly about our work. We were raised not to draw attention to ourselves. Even when our work is meaningful, it can feel boastful to name it. But I’ve come to believe that these behind-the-scenes realities matter, especially now.

Starting July 1, Washington state will cut Medicaid reimbursement rates for pediatric dental care by nearly 50%. This comes just two years after the first rate increase in 15 years. At Lindquist, where most patients are on Medicaid, that cut translates to a projected $200,000 shortfall. A clinic that has never turned away a child due to finances is now in jeopardy.

This is what I’ve been thinking about lately: A six-year-old whose mother was detained by ICE. A transgender teen with beautiful dyed hair. A tween with loving lesbian foster moms. I’m so grateful they had a space where they could feel seen and safe. Their stories are just as much a part of this clinic as the dental charts and cavity fillings.

The world can be chaotic and unforgiving. But for now, this little corner of Tacoma still reminds me that healing — physical, emotional, communal — is possible. And worth protecting.