Tang 1

Jessica Tang
Ms. Gardner
English 10 Period 4
18 January 2015
I Brushed My Teeth with Blood This Morning
I spend most of my time in front of the mirror looking at my mouth or more
specifically, whats inside. I open my mouth, contort it into strange shapes, stare into the recesses
of that dark cavern and wish I can see the upper back molar teeth. How strange, I think to myself,
that humans show their teeth to express happiness when animals show them as a threat.
Perhaps smiling is a defense mechanism, I think. I smile quite a lot at people these days.
When I was younger, I wanted sharp claws and sharp teeth; I cut my fingernails sharp so
they would hurt when I dug them into my skin. But my teeth? I could only wish that my canines
were larger, sharper, like a lions or a wolfs. I wanted to be predator, not prey; I did not like my
flat, blunt molars and wished I had such strange teeth that I scared other people when I smiled.
I am not the only person to wish to modify my teeth: history is evidence enough of that.
The Iban People of Borneo would drill holes through the pulp of the teeth and place brass studs
within. The Moi of Vietnam would file their teeth, through the enamel, dentine, cementum, down
to the gums. In the French colony Annam, everyone was expected to stain their teeth black
through an excruciating process. After all, they claimed, Even dogs can have white teeth.
Where does this fascination come from? Perhaps it is because teeth are so strange. We
need them to eat, and so they represent life. Yet teeth, like bones, are a daily reminder of our
mortality. They are the part of us closest to death; closer still are a carnivore's, sharp and
unforgiving and stinking of rot. Nature is cruel only in her indifference, but she is cruel

Tang 2
nonetheless. Her children must spend their days eating each other or being eaten themselves.
Teeth are primal; teeth are desperation. I am starving, I bare my teeth and I go in for the kill.
Teeth to the jugular vein. I bite. My teeth are red; my mouth tastes of salt and metal. I can only
begin my day by ending the life of another.
Even the old hunters, when their bare hands were not enough to bring down game,
fashioned teeth of stone for themselves instead, tipping the spears and javelins that were so
crucial to hunting and warring. But we are not so obvious with our teeth, now. Our defenses are
quieter and more insidious. Our teeth are words, not weapons.
Well, we must all defend ourselves at one point or another. But sometimes I shut myself
in my room and listen to voices floating up from the floor below. My mother and my father are
tearing into each other again, lashing out and drawing blood as they furiously stab and parry and
blow. They're always done within the hour, but sometimes enough blood is drawn that one of
them leaves the house. They always come back, but every now and then I wonder.
It is not my parents I am worried about.
My sister comes home from college for the holidays; she is glowing with happiness,
holding within her a radiance I have not seen since elementary school. She still annoys me, but I
am glad to see her well. The peace lasts for nearly two weeks.
My father pushes. Carol is not doing well enough, he says; she needs help, she needs
teaching. She sets her jaw and declares that she does not. He is insistent but she does not give.
Now he shows his sharpness and I listen to the copper-tang of blood from the room next door. I
have heard this fight before; I know how it will go, and I am tired. Here it comes: the door slams,
and I hear a long, keening wail that I can tune out as much as fingernails on a chalkboard. My
mother slips inside for damage control and I hear all the usual wounds spilling out again.

Tang 3
I hate coming back, Carol says.
I know I'm not good enough, but- she begins.
I just want my dad back, she ends.
I think, Maybe if I had ever seen him as a father, I would understand. My eyes are dry.
A year before: we three sit in the car, my father, my sister, and I. His presence is the
weight of fangs between the shoulder and the neck, and we are uneasy. My father accuses my
sister of not trying hard enough and a heavy weight drops into my stomach. She seethes in silent
rage as he keeps speaking, thinking he is making headway until he is too close to her jugular
vein, and she lashes out with a screamed I HATE YOU! Shock. And then everything snaps and
my father hits the dashboard and yells at my sister and she shrinks back and I hate it, I hate it,
but I cannot muster up the strength to act. Instead, I smile and diffuse the tension until we arrive
home, and then I spill everything out to my mother and I can't help but cry.
Two years earlier: my sister and my father, again. I hunker down in my safe zone:
wrapped in a blanket, chatting with my friends statik and Rose on my cranky old PC; there is no
one else to confide to. I whisper to them the fight in the next room, confess that I want my family
to just get along, confess that I am afraid to speak up. I borrow their courage and I get up and
stand at the doorway. Deep breaths. I tell them to stop. My heart pounds; my hands are shaking
by my sides. My sister is on the left, my father on the right. They both look at me, and for a
moment, the looks on their faces They stop. I am smiling; I am relieved. I am foolish enough to think that their fights will
stop. At my next dentist visit, Doctor Frasersmith finds the first and only cavity I will ever
have. He fills it in with a fake crown.

Tang 4
I am angry and my teeth have nowhere to bite, for whom can I attack? My sister? My
father? They are all victims and I will not add to that burden, but embers burn behind my eyes
and my throat is hot. I am ready to spit fire that has no place to go except to me. Nighttime is
always best for setting fires. Sixth grade, and my mother holds my hands and prays with me; she
turns off the lamp and shuts the door on the way out, turning the white walls black with shadow.
In the darkness of my room, I speak, I spit. The flames burn beautifully.
I keep my fires private where no one can see. They burn on my tongue, but I keep my
mouth closed; they scorch and stain my teeth, but my fire will stay with me. It hurts and it
strains, but that is why the jaw is the strongest part of the body. Still, fire is a rebellious thing and
sometimes I must close the door to my room and speak, but I never escape without burns. I think
that I would like to have tears like a phoenix's that heal even as they fall.
In the third grade, I was always terrified that I would unleash my anger full-fury on
another. I am not so afraid now. I have better control than that; I can weather the inner tempest
on my own. Still, I do not leave without new wounds. In the mornings, I spit blood into the sink.
My teeth are stained. My brush is, too.
I brushed my teeth with blood this morning. I am happy using my own, but some days I
think that I would gladly take another's. I bare my teeth in a smile at the mirror; one day I will
direct them to someone other than me. Today is not that day.
I wait with anticipation.