Teeth

I have bad teeth. Terrible. It feels like a character flaw, like laziness or disruptive jealousy rather than a genetic mishap– a short limb or freckles. Freckles which I also have, incidentally.

In contemporary America, where perfect teeth are a birthright, teeth whitening is practically constitutionally protected, having problem teeth is just this side of treason. People suspect. They suspect you of either having poor hygiene, being British or poverty. Even in dystopian Panem, everyone has perfect teeth. People lose humanity before enamel.

None of that applies to me. And yet.

I think of someone to blame. Mothers are always good for that and I imagine that maybe my teeth chip so much because my mother spent her pregnancy eating peanut brittle. What did she know, after all? She was a teenager, for god’s sakes. A teenager with a sweet tooth, probably.

But even if she had a sweet tooth, it was perfect. A chicklet tooth, white, smooth, her mouth is filled with them. My mother has perfect teeth effortlessly, which probably explains why she married a man with such terrible teeth. Opposites attract, after all.

“Why did you have to marry papa?” I ask her at moments of extreme agitation. Things could have been different for me if she’d married Julia Roberts. I could have been unapologetically American.

She shrugs. Who can remember that far back?

“I’ll take the genetic gamble,” She must have thought, considering my father’s dentition. Or she may have gone the more ridiculous “love conquers all” route.

Maybe.

But love doesn’t conquer year after year of cavities, cracks, discoloration, root canals, extractions, and crowns. Nor does my dental insurance cover it all.

“I have such terrible teeth,” I complain to my husband. He is 53 years old. He had his first cavity two years ago. It was a big deal. I considered dressing up as the Tooth Fairy. I had three root canals before I turned 10. He knows better than to say “oh, no, your teeth are fine.” My teeth may be bad but I’m not a complete moron.

“Then it’s lucky that your mother is a dentist,” he tells me.

I know I must be lucky that my mother is a dentist, but when I’m sitting in her chair, I’m not thinking lucky. I’m thinking damned to hell.
Because you try sitting there with your mouth open while your mom pokes around with pointy instruments, shaking her head disapprovingly.

“I don’t think you brush,” she tells me.
“Ya ba ba,” I respond, mouth hanging on its hinges.
“Oh? You think you can talk?” she shoves some more cotton into my cheeks. “No, you listen. You do bad job brushing and worse job with the floss.”
I sigh.
“No need for dramatic sigh,” she says and continues to work.
On a good day, I have a cavity.
“I will drill just a little,” mama tells me, trying to talk me out of a topical anesthesia, so I don’t get addicted to it.
“Please give me some novocaine,” I ask her. I assume people who are not treated by their parents don’t have to beg to have them nerves numbed.
“I will drill and if you feel pain, you raise hand,” Mama says.
“But I don’t want to feel pain,” I tell her. I feel like a baby. Does anyone want to feel pain?
She ignores me.
“Open,” she says, and I do, reluctantly.

She starts drilling. I feel pain immediately. Not pain exactly, maybe, but I know it’s coming and the anticipation of the pain is almost worse.

I raise my hand.

The drilling stops.

Mama takes off the blue mask covering her mouth.

“Yes?”
“I felt pain.”
“You did not.”
“Yes. Pain. Painful pain.”
“Impossible. I was no where near the root.”
“Maybe my root grew. Besides, I don’t like the noise of the drill.”
“I will get drill that sounds like Stradivarious next time. Open.”
“I really want a shot.”
“It’s like a disease with you, begging for needle.”
But finally I get it. My mouth numbs and I settle back.

Mama continues to drill.

I am relaxed. I will feel no pain. Drill away, Mama. Drill away.

But oh.

My jaw hurts. How long are humans supposed to keep their mouths open?
This isn’t natural.

I hate teeth. I hate my own teeth and I hate people who have perfect teeth.

Mama completes the filling.
She polishes and she cleans.
“I hate my teeth,” I tell Mama.
“Your teeth are fine,” she tells me. She removes her mask, hands her instruments to her assistant for cleaning.
“They’re yellow. And I get cavities all the time even though I brush and floss,” I whine. I’ve been whining for years and yet nothing has changed.

“Color doesn’t matter,” Mama said. “It’s genetic. Some people have white and some people have darker colors. It’s not important.”

It’s not important to people who have perfect teeth, like Mama. And yet here I am, forever looking wistfully over the dental fence.

One year ago ...

• Pink Thing - 2010