Those who had or were in pursuit of braces teeth were unaware of the phenomenon,
Time and time again, braces-wearers would try and convince me that the clamps and wires lining their mouths were a curse, not a blessing. Painful, messy, and irritating were a few of the words used to describe their trials and tribulations with braces. They couldn’t chew gum, eat candy or corn on the cob, drink hot or cold beverages too fast, or floss with ease. In pictures, the flash would reflect off of the metal studs glued to their teeth, illuminating their robotic smiles. Some woke up with their cheek or lip stuck in the braces, and others snapped their rubber bands when opening too widely.
Still, I was convinced braces were worth it. I would have something to complain about on a regular basis, be able to show off my new braces colors every time I went in for a tightening, (the rainbow smile was in fact, amazing), and the end result was a set of exquisite, enamoring braces teeth. I learned at a younger age than most (after experimenting with As-Seen-On-TV eyebrow wax) that beauty was painful, and to obtain the ultimate in beauty one must be willing to go through the ultimate in pain. I was ready for the pain, but lacked the parental force to finance, and merit, my masochism.
***
My sister desperately needed braces. She sucked her index finger until she was about twelve, which had desecrated her orthodontics. Our dentist highly recommended braces for her, but said that she needed a cavity-free check up before he would refer her to an orthodontist. Years later, she has yet to wear braces because of her poor dental hygiene, and never seemed to yearn for the braces teeth that I did. Perhaps this obsession jumps generations, but that did not stop me from both envying her cracked, cavity-swollen smile, and hating her for not taking advantage of it.
My mother was so focused on my sister’s need of braces that my wishes were pushed aside. I was told my teeth were perfect, and I should be happy that I didn’t need to go through what my sister, inevitably (or so we thought), would have to. She didn’t understand that perfection was not natural; it needed to be aided by metal clamps, wires, and glue. To have perfect teeth was to push and pull them into submission, using whatever force necessary to rightfully dub them braces teeth. Orthodontic bondage was the price one paid for 32 perfectly polished smiling diamonds. As much as I expressed these feelings to my mother, she did not crack: I didn’t need braces and my sister did, so I would not get braces and my sister would. A simple equation, but I was still unhappy with the answer. I had seen many pairs of siblings with braces: Why couldn’t my sister and I both have them? Why was I doomed to a natural smile and my sister a perfect one?
The answer, I knew, but did not want to accept. It was the answer to every question I asked my mother: Why do we buy off-brand food? Why do we buy make-up at the drug store? Why can’t we have the seven-foot faux snow Christmas tree? “Money,” was her simple, pure, and honest answer. Money was something I had a perverted concept of. People with money ate Kellogg’s cereal for breakfast. People with money put on make-up from the mall. People with money wore braces and flashed fantastic toothy smiles. Having money was a way of life; a way of life that was better than the life I had. Later, I would realize this concept of money was learned from my mother’s relationship with it, and how she defined our lives by it.
Regardless, it was an important factor in my obsession with braces teeth in all of their pearly perfection. If I had money, would my seemingly ideal teeth be a candidate for braces? Would my dentist still deter me from pasting plastic and metal to them? If a practitioner of medicine changed a diagnosis to suit them selves or a colleague, whom else could I manipulate with money? These questions were daunting, and the answers shrouded in confusion and excuses from my mother. Money, she was convinced, would come to her by way of mystic force or serious banking error. It was fluid and elusive, forever available yet difficult to grasp. Working longer or harder was out of the question due to an inherent laziness and belief that she was continually being screwed by the man—a trait that is, in my family’s case, an unfortunate fish in the gene pool. However, I would not let bad genes, a poor worldview, or an irresponsible relationship with money ruin my chance at achieving personal happiness. Braces teeth were the beginning, the end, and the center of all that was pure, beautiful, and good in my adolescent world. I was willing to do just about anything to prove I was worthy of orthodontic advancement.
Growing up in a suburb of the Silicon Valley perpetuated my wealth-seeking, braces-loving ways. Rows of creamy stucco, two-story Spanish-style villas lined the lower-middle class section of town, and Berlin-wall-esque gated communities separated them from the middle class. Behind the gates, dozens of oversized, nearly identical homes loomed over manicured lawns and daily-swept driveways. The superbly wealthy lounged in custom built San Francisco-style Victorians and replicas of 18th century French Colonials on Garden of Eden like acreage. The mosaic-bottomed marble pools, I’m sure, cast a beautiful light onto the edge of the dark Brazilian-wood decks when the children scampered about on bright Sunday afternoons. Lunches were sandwiches on rye bread, washed down with organic white cranberry juice, and imported Italian gelato for dessert. On weekdays, mothers drove their children to and from school in sleek, bullet-like BMWs and Audis. The poorer children were subject to a small embarrassment when they were dropped off from “my child is an honor student” bumper-sticker donned minivans.
Back home, dinner was eaten around a table, and involved meals portioned according to the latest rendition of the food pyramid. Refrigerators were lined with a rainbow of fruits and vegetables, and dotted with snack-time favorites: peanut butter and jelly, apple juice boxes, cheese and crackers. Post meal, time on the computer was limited to an hour or less—dependent on homework research—and ‘TV-time’ was strictly monitored by parents. This was the life I yearned for. The snacks in the fridge, the gardeners waking me up on Sunday mornings, the chores and their promised five-dollar allowance, the pick-up and drop-off from school, the help with homework, the restriction of entertainment. While I was constantly pushing the little boundaries I had, I relished the idea of feeling secure within stricter, ‘normal’ ones. Braces, I was sure, would be a catalyst to normalcy. Not only would I be on the road to a perfect smile, I would be enjoying the many things my peers took for granted.
***
My sister’s need for braces grew with my obsession. Her mouth was reminiscent of a stone-hedge explosion—teeth jutted out at strange angles, colliding with each other, resulting in a plethora of cracks and chips. Her teeth were playing hide-and-seek, running away from each other, some hiding behind others. No longer was this solely an aesthetic issue: her orthodontic deformity was evolving into a medical problem. If she continued to take poor care off her teeth, she would be going in for a denture fitting at twenty-five. I’m sure the dentist was horrified when giving this diagnosis, as my sister was completely unphased. I can imagine her sitting in the dentist office emitting loud, obnoxious sighs as the dentist paces around her x-rays and preaches about the importance of brushing and flossing. Her eyes roll, her foot taps, and her eyes wander to the clock, waiting for this to be over so she can clamp her mess of a mouth onto her McDonalds sitting in the car while my mom drives her home. Her mind wanders to the gang-stealing-cars video game my dad bought her weeks ago, and how to go about finishing the mission she has been stuck on. I can assume my mother was hanging onto any word that sounded reminiscent of monetary value. My sister’s behavior was of no interest to her, as she was too worried about financing the braces. I can see them leave, chomping on French fries throughout the course of the drive, and discussing something other than what was just spent time ignoring and worrying about.
My sister continued to destroy her teeth, and I continued to hate her for being so ungrateful. At her fingertips was the object of my obsession, and she brushed it off as a minor irritation—a fly swarming around her TV screen while trying to watch her favorite show, or notes home about unfinished class work and poor behavior. I begged and pleaded with my mother (and the mirror) for braces to perfect my seemingly fantastic smile, with no avail. As I meandered through school hallways, I hated my peers with their metal mouths and braces teeth. I hated their parents who wore business-casual, who picked up my friends from school in nice cars, who fed them fresh fruit and exotic cheeses, who had two dining tables in their giant houses—one for everyday dining, and one for formal.
I was obsessed with those who had for the same reason I hated them: I couldn’t enjoy the things they, I was convinced, took for granted. I saw everyone around me skating through life, with out a care in the world, never acknowledging the fantastic, normal things their everyday life was filled with. Braces, for me, would be the push down the mountain of poverty and chaos to the quaint valley of middle-class normality. My sister had yet to realize this, but would one day bring herself to the edge of that mountain, throw herself down, and fall into the seat of kings to be fitted with the metal, wires, and glue that would pull her into the realm of the normal. I, however, will forever sit at the sidelines as a judgmental and jealous observer, coming to terms with my out-of-the-ordinary unaltered self everyday.
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