Braceface! Metal Mouth! Railroad Tracks!

Dear Kids of the 21st Century,

You have absolutely no idea how lucky you have it. This is the part where I would normally dust off one of my own parent's stories (i.e. we had to walk five miles to school in the snow or we were only able to afford bread, milk, and sugar for breakfast, or some variation on that theme).

Instead, I'm going to tell you what it was like - to have braces back in the late 70's. Yeah - let me put it this way. There was no Invisalign crap. Also, in the late 70's many insurances didn't even cover braces. If your parents weren't covered under one of those thank-your-lucky-stars-policies (cough Lincoln Life cough), you might have gone through your adolescence with wildly, malformed teeth. How 'bout dem apples?!

Now on to the story.

Once upon a time, in a not-so-distant-land, there lived this little girl who was quite adorable in a non-glamorous way.


Kris - Age 8

Then one day, almost over night, she started losing her baby teeth and when her permanent teeth grew in their place, they grew back in a way which made her look not so adorable anymore. In fact, she looked quite ghastly and was often referred to as having "buck teeth" by her school mates.


Kris - 4th Grade, 5th Grade, 6th Grade

Her mother took her to the local orthodontist and he confirmed the worst possible scenario.




BRACES!!!

Side note: By the way - can you believe that Dr. Ingleman is still in practice?! Sheesh, the man must have been 21 when he was workin' on my mouth ;).

She went through a series of x-rays and molds.

Note: Dr. Ingleman was the very first dental-type that I know of that gave you some sort of option for what "flavor" you wanted in the plaster of paris crap that had to stay in your mouth for hours (well not really hours - but it seemed that way sometimes). I liked cherry the best. The mint sucked.

But before she could get braces on, the x-rays and molds confirmed that another step would need to happen first.

Before those lovely railroad tracks could be laid, two teeth needed to be pulled from her mouth - specifically the two top incisors.

Because her mouth wasn't large enough to hold all of her teeth.

And this people - was without - my wisdom teeth!!! Yes, I know - shocking. Even my husband expresses disbelief when I repeat this story (the point here is that I have a "big mouth" - hah!).

After the girl, who resembled a horse (see six grade picture above), had her two teeth pulled, she was scheduled for the day of death (i.e. the laying of the metal).

True confession: the staff gave the girl a pill to take the morning of the procedure. It was supposed to dry out her mouth so that she wouldn't slobber all over them.

It was just a teeny tiny white pill. She tried to take it. REALLY. She just couldn't. She had some phobia about swallowing pills.



At the orthodontist's office, her mouth wasn't dried out. At all. One of the chicks asked her if she had taken "the pill".

SHE LIED! Said she did. She didn't want to get in trouble. She was pretty convincing. They believed her and proceeded with the adhesing of brackets to her teeth - meanwhile - she was slobbering buckets and buckets of goo.

Enough of my third person story.

Getting brackets put on your teeth - well - if you've never experienced it - it's like having hunks of crap put into your mouth. And your lips feel like they get bigger because they have to wrap around and over metal brackets or else the whole world sees metal.

The most painful part of the "get your brackets on day" was the molar-area. I'm a sensitive chick and I hate crap being put onto my molars. I can still hear the crunch crunch crunch noise that occurred when they were trying to slide (hah!) them on.

So after mounting those brackets, they sent me home with pain relief in the form of this crap -



The idea here is that you pinched off a hunk of wax and molded it however you wanted to, and then put in on your bracket. You would most likely do this if one of those ugly, nasty, metal hokey-pokey's were tearin' holes into your mouth innards.

After a couple of weeks, I had the lovely experience of going back to get the wires put in.


Kris - 7th Grade, 8th Grade (with braces)

That, my friends, is the real beginning of a pain you never forget. Screw childbirth - at least for childbirth, there's drugs!

See this?

This is an orthodontist's King of Pain. Yes, it's the tool that slices/dices/cuts/straightens/tightens everything and anything.

If I ever thought about going into a trade that involved working with my hands and tools, this was the moment that I was turned off.

But the pain (and humiliation) didn't stop there for me. First, I was given the "KING" of all head gears. It was the kind that looked like you had a cap on your head - not the cool thing that sat at the back of your neck.


not Kristina's mouth

Forget about getting a goodnight's sleep because this doo-hickey (it slipped into your mouth and hooked into the upper, side brackets) made it difficult to sleep anywhere but on your back. At the time, I was a stomach sleeper - but after that - no more. And the side? Oh no. To sleep on the side, you would risk bending this metal mouth piece. And that meant that your parents had to spend more money. And when you had parents like mine, you just didn't risk it.



Oh yes - let's not forget these puppies. "Allegedly", they were supposed to help me in some way. What way? Couldn't tell you. I think that I consciously blocked out that memory :).



After decades (okay - not that long) of having these puppies on, they finally came off and unlike other kids, I didn't automatically get that beautiful, flesh-toned retainer.



Oh no. I was subjected to something like this - only mine was clay colored and was "flavored" with a strong cinnamon taste (which the thought - still gags me today).


not Kristina's mouth

Eventually, I did get to move to the retainer and throughout my life, I only manage to lose it once. I stopped wearing the thing in my mid-20's. I have no clue why I even wore it that long - maybe I was too afraid of having to have braces again...

So I look back at this period of time in my life and I can't believe how ghastly I looked. I'm glad that at the time - I wasn't cognizant of my appearance. That probably had a lot to do with my parents. Fourth grade was the start of their marriage unravelling in a big way. I don't think that they realized it - but I certainly saw all of the signs.

So smart at ten/eleven. Go figure :).

4th Grade, Indian Village Elementary - Mrs. Crowley

I told you earlier that 4th grade was an important time for me. Here is the first of many recollections re: that period of time in my life.


In 1976, I was nine years old and entering the fourth grade. I had attended Indian Village Elementary school since kindergarten and had felt pretty comfortable in my surroundings, although - and I know you'll find this hard to believe - I was an extremely introverted child. I had fantastic teachers for K-3rd and for fourth grade, I was looking forward to having Mrs. Mitchell. She was an older woman who ran a very strict classroom setting but I heard, she was the best.

Imagine my surprise when two days before school, we stopped by to pick up my books, and found out that my teacher wouldn't be Mrs. Mitchell. It was to be a new teacher, Mrs. Crowley. I was shaken up a bit but forgot about it quickly as I wanted to enjoy my last two days of freedom.

But so much for peace and quiet because rumor around the neighborhood was that Mrs. Crowley was black. This upset my parents - mostly my father - tremendously. Although I knew my father said horrible things about black people, I thought for some reason that a teacher would be exempt from his wrath. But no. The 'n' word was used like it was a typical part of everyday conversation. By the time school started, my stomach had a great ole pit in it.

On our first day of school, my sister and I caught the school bus and sat for the requisite 20 minute ride. When we arrived, there was a school bus already there, sitting directly in front of the school with curtains hanging in the window. How odd I thought. Why doesn't my school bus get to have curtains? The whispers inside the school halls was that a handful of black children had been bussed in to our school system. I was really confused. All of this chaos was a lot for me to handle on my very first day of school.

I walked down the hall to room 21 and stepped into the newly decorated classroom. I found my desk, took a seat, and then looked around to see if I recognized any of my classmates (hi Beth! hi Tom!). But then all of that became a moot point when I saw my teacher walk in the room.

Mrs. Crowley was an attractive woman with a hair-do that was pretty common for a white woman in 1976. I call it the Miss America hair-do. Her skin was black - and not light-skinned but dark black and that frightened me. Didn't it hurt to have skin that dark? I knew that when I stayed out in the sun and my skin got burnt, it really hurt! I was worried for her. Throughout the day, it was very difficult to concentrate because I kept on looking at Mrs. Crowley, trying to understand her. She looked so different but sounded so much like my other teachers.

Over the next couple of weeks, I still found myself stealing glances at Mrs. Crowley and once in awhile, she would catch my stare and smile back at me. About two months into school, I was picked to work on a special project which required that I stay after school. When I went back to pick up my homework, Mrs. Crowley was still there, cleaning up, and setting up for tomorrow's class. For the first time, I was face to face with the teacher that I was both fascinated with and scared of. We were alone and I could tell she was going to initiate conversation. It was a very casual conversation - she asked about my project I was a part of and I commented on how late she was staying. Whew! I had escaped.

Meanwhile, back at home, my dad still had not let up on the "n" word. Every day he still made it quite clear to me and my sister that our education was in jeopardy because the school system had hired "her". The hateful messages I received from home were so confusing because my gut totally felt the opposite. I was learning so much from Mrs. Crowley. She was a fantastic teacher. It got to a point that I needed to know, once and for all, what the real story was.

One day, I volunteered to stay after school to re-arrange the desks. I did it on purpose and I even lied to my parents about it. They thought that I went to my best friend, Beth's house (and to this day, Beth has kept my secret). When Mrs. Crowley and I were alone, she asked me some questions.

Kris, I see you staring at me throughout our day and I was wondering if there's something you want to say to me.

She said this all with a smile. For the first time, there was no fear in my body.

Mrs. Crowley. Does it hurt to be black?

She looked at me and crooked her head, looking for more information.

How do you mean, Kris?

I told her that her black skin seemed so dark and that it reminded me of someone who had been burnt. Did it hurt her? She smiled from ear to ear and gently touched my shoulder.

Sit down with me.

She then talked to me about everything. We started with skin color and she continued answering any and all questions I threw at her.

Why do people call black people the "n" word?
Why does my daddy hate "n" people?
How come my school bus doesn't have curtains?

I touched her hands. They were smooth and soft. Her nails were painted a dark color - maybe a brown. They were perfectly manicured. I touched her hair. It felt so much different from mine. It was straight like mine but it didn't feel nearly as soft as mine. I hugged her and it felt so nice. And she smelled incredibly good, a smell that is still with me today.

It's absolutely, one of the most memorable moments of my elementary years. I was anxious around my teacher because of her skin color. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine any one in the year 2008 saying the stuff that I said and thought as a nine year old fourth grader??!! I can't. It just totally blows my mind.

It's hard to believe that 32 years ago, I had these types of questions because today, skin color is so irrelevant to me. But it's that way because Mrs. Crowley took time to answer the bizarre, but innocent questions of a nine year old girl raised in a very ignorant home. By the time the next semester rolled around, my parents had pulled me and my sister out of Indian Village and placed us in a Catholic school. I only had Mrs. Crowley as my teacher for four short months however, it was an extremely valuable four months for me.

In 1976, Mrs. Crowley influenced and inspired me more than any other historical black American figure has. Here was a woman who was willing to subject herself to the ignorance of an entire community just so that she could teach and make a difference. And she did. Probably more than she ever realizes. Her influence and actions has had a rippling affect on my life. It's because of her that I never thought twice about dating someone of a different color, race, or religious background. It's because of her that I'm a better parent. It's because of her that Ethan's outlook on life is to evaluate every one by their actions and not by their physical attributes. She taught me that what was inside mattered most, a lesson I should have learned from my parents.

PART 1 - Indian Village Elementary School - 4th Grade

Alrighty. It's time for another class picture. Feast your eyes on a group of pre-hormonal Hoosier kiddies. I'll tell you a little bit more about fourth grade - and in particular - the people who were a part of this class...tomorrow.



Row 1: Tony Lude, Tom Stinson

Row 2: Cathy Caldwell, Errol Stech, Janice Smith, Brian Rice, Skip Shock

Row 3: Tom Elston, Kelly Miller, Melanie Davis, Ralph Barva, Shonee Bobilya, Lori Schmidt

Row 4: Glen McCormick, David White (?), Joyce Lloyd, Billy ? , Mike Sharp

Row 5: Tim Bush, Kelli Biddle, Brian Blazer, Shelly Vasquez, Beth Fruechtenicht

Row 6: Rodney Rider, Kristina Frazier, Danny Gould, Lewis Mastin

Row 7: Kim Spore, Robert Stone, Belinda Flotow