All Smiles

Writing, For Fun 

I fell in love with writing at a dental office. 

Not from the stacks of magazines and brochures spilling over the 90s artificial gold rack in the back corner. Martha Stewart’s 101 Tips For New Gardeners or Rachael Ray’s One Pot, 30 Minute Delish Dinners for The Family didn’t get much more than a passing glance from me, or judging by the layer of dust caked to the top of the issues, anyone else.

Not from the TV that didn’t get any channels. It served as a digital brochure, highlighting the newly available treatment options, like our professional whitening kit. My picture floated across the screen—I insisted I be the first to try it. My teeth were diamonds, glittering like camera flashes on a red carpet. Worth the blinding bouts of tooth sensitivity— instant pain like a lightning bolt shooting up your nerve? Eh, maybe. That photo sure was nice. 

I fell in love with writing in the back lab—a space only big enough for one (small) person to fit sideways. It had one of the biggest windows in the place, a long rectangle overlooking the Cherry St. parking lot. 

Tucked inside the closet-sized room, sweating in the afternoon sun, and watching passersby stand in line to mail packages at the Post Office across the street, I’d meticulously shape, smooth, and prep temporary crowns—a little stunned that someone would walk out the door, eat, drink, and live their lives with something I made glued in their mouth. It made me feel oddly connected to those people. To their stories. 

I wrote a poem about it on a fluorescent pink sticky note meant to identify the owner of the molds in front of me. One day my dad found it, smiled, and tucked it into the pocket of his lab coat. He kept it safe until I found it half stuck to an old receipt in his desk drawer. I wonder if it’s still there. 

I fell in love with writing in the break room, where I’d sit on the far end of the round card table during lunch, in between patients, or in case of a no-show (that happened a lot in the summer), writing anything that came to mind: a song lyric, poem, short story.

One time it was a fairy tale about a secret land where it rained precious gems. Any lucky soul who stumbled upon it would want for nothing—if they could escape without being cut from the stone’s rough edges. 

“Whatcha working on now, silly girl?” the hygienists would say to me. 

“Oh nothing,” I’d say as casually as possible. 

Because writing was just a hobby, something to do in my spare time, just for fun. 

*

The Weight Of A (Family) Promise

I come from a family of scientists—dentists, PTs, hygienists, nurses—so, naturally, I was going to become one. 

The office has been in my family for generations. The Straley dentist dynasty. 

My grandfather opened the doors in 1961 and my dad bought it from him in the summer of 2002. As the oldest child, it was supposed to be mine one day. In keeping with tradition, in about 40 years, my name would be added to the plaque. 

But I’d put my own twist on it.

To make the dental thing more me, I thought I’d be a cosmetic dentist and transform my dad’s small-town practice into the go-to spot for a stunning smile. Phosphorescent Smiles; that would be the new name (in hindsight, this is the moment I should have known I’d be a writer—no dentist would come up with something so outrageous).

I started working there during my high school summer breaks—prepping and cleaning the rooms, restocking shelves, ordering supplies, taking inventory, and learning about the mouth. 

My dad bought me a thick introductory textbook on dentistry terminology. The bright blue cover was as clear as the summer sky, which I wished I were under. Every day, he would assign me a section or two to read, quizzing me on the contents at random moments: passing by one another in the hallway, on the drive home for lunch, or before he’d see his next patient. 

If I got it right, he’d reward me with a spare piece of candy he had hidden in his office, a watermelon jolly rancher, or a handful of M&Ms. Sometimes, he’d sneak a bite himself before seeing his next patient. 

But if I failed, I was sent back to his office to study. My dad was strict, but I didn’t mind. He wanted me to know my stuff, so I was happy to learn and absorb all I could. 

By the end of the book, I could correctly identify tooth number 7 on a chart, tell you why he needed a 30-minute buffer in his schedule when there was a crown prep for number 16 (the second molar), and the problems associated with a posterior open bite. 

Then, I started assisting my dad chairside. 

I memorized the basic instrument placement, instructions, and process. He could ask for the explorer, and it was already in between my pointer and middle finger—palm up—for him to easily grab and prod away. 

As we waited for my dad to finish up a hygiene check, I kept our next patient, Mrs. L., company. It was super important to my dad that we connect with and nurture patient relationships. He sees people all throughout their lives—decades of watching people grow and change. 

She told me stories about seeing my grandpa and now my dad and how she liked the family feel of the place. 

“One day, this will be yours, my dear.” I smiled, but a pit in my stomach forced a little cough and a small shiver, leaving my arms dusted with goosebumps I couldn’t shake. This feeling surprised me, like the first crack of a firework show. But it was there for a reason. 

She baked me a fruit cake every Christmas until she passed. 

*

Science. Fiction.

The July morning was sticky—like melted marshmallow fluff glued to the side of your cheek after diving into a freshly toasted campfire s’more. My flower scrubs matched my mood: sunny, cheerful, in bloom. 

It was Saturday, so we only had one patient, Mr. B, an emergency who needed an extraction—turns out butterscotches and 80-year-old teeth aren’t best friends. My dad and I pulled into the empty parking lot and went in the back. I clunked my way up the narrow stairs into the break room. There was something eerie about the office when no one was in it. It felt like a held breath, waiting, anticipating what lies ahead. Cleaning disinfectant wafted through the air like the dandelion seeds outside, making me sneeze.

Mr. B was nervous and in pain—a combination many people often associate with the dentist.

Blue bib. Face mask. Gloves. Suction. Blinding light. 

I was ready.

It started with several syringes of lidocaine. The patient had to be numb.

I wished I were numb. Instead, I went to work, sucking up buckets of spit, pressing an overactive active tongue away from the drill, hunched over, close enough to see but far enough away to be spared every detail—a position that’s caused many of my dad’s back issues. 

Even 15 years in my life’s rearview mirror, I’ll always vividly remember one thing: The blood. 

So much blood, like tree sap oozing down the mouth and sticking to every surface. 

With each ounce I soaked up, I felt more drain from my face.

My stomach rose and fell with every twist, turn, and prying motion from the forceps. I started to lose the feeling in my fingers—my wrist felt so weak, like trying to make a fist first thing in the morning. 

It looked like my dad was getting a workout. 

His arm cocked in a way that made you think he was about to arm wrestle a pool shark in a dive bar. Beads of sweat pooled in the crevices of his forehead. His breath was labored, longer, with full belly inhales. His hand quaked against the pressure of the tooth being yanked from its bone as if the jaw was protesting. 

I felt I’d aged a decade in the 63 minutes we were in that room. That if I looked in the mirror, surely it was I who was 80 and not barely an adult. 

The patient didn’t feel a thing. In fact, I think Mr. B fell asleep. 

So I was the most relieved when it was over, when the ivory mass, stained garnet, plopped on the silver tray, and I could put my instruments down.

I meticulously scrubbed every inch of that room, more intently than I ever had before. 

As I dropped the tools into the piping-hot sanitation machine, my mind as numb as Mr. B’s mouth, I knew I’d never do that again. 

*

Finding My Voice 

I didn’t learn my lesson. 

In my first semester at Michigan State University, I went pre-med.

Though I was studying science, I needed a humanities credit. Most people opted for sociology, anthropology, or psychology but I wanted to keep books in my life. So I took English Lit 101. 

I absolutely loved that class. 

Spending hours studying for a biology exam felt like torture—every lecture, assignment, office hour, and study group felt interminable. But I didn’t mind the hard work, the deep work, it took to excel in my English class. 

One October evening, mid-semester, we were studying stories in different forms—a graphic novel of the Lizzy Borden trial, a 1988 play Tea about five Japanese women living in an immigrant community in Kansas. We talked a great deal about the power of form and how it could enhance the meaning of a text. 

To test this theory, I thought I’d do something rather unconventional—turn my paper’s introduction into a story that set up my ideas and critical angle for the piece. Hours later, my roommate burst through the door, saying, “Ready for dinner.” When I didn’t respond right away, she asked, “What are you doing?”

Instinctively, without conscious thought, “I’m painting” dripped from my mouth. 

I was in the middle of describing a sunset. It felt so real, like I wasn’t staring at an overly glossy, chipped walnut bunk bed that hundreds of bodies had slept in before me. 

I wasn’t even just seeing the colors I was describing on the page bleed into the sky. It felt like I became part of the sherbert landscape, sinking into the depths of the horizon. 

I changed my major at the end of the term. 

*

The Critic 

After graduation, I moved back in with my parents while looking for a job. On a perfect Michigan summer night, all I wanted was a scoop of my favorite ice cream—chocolate peanut butter in a sprinkle waffle cone. I inherited my dad’s sweet tooth. 

The parlor sat atop a little hill. Several picnic tables and bright umbrellas dotted the patio like gumdrops. We spent a lot of time here growing up. I spent hours balancing on the edge of the retaining wall, chasing my sister around the little patches of green grass, the two of us only stopping to wave at truck drivers encouraging them to honk their horns as they made their way down Main Street. 

Standing in line, my dad recognized the man in front of him as one of his patients. 

“Jeff, what a nice surprise. What are you doing here?”

Standing up a little straighter, he motioned to me,

“My oldest just graduated college, so we’re celebrating!”

“Oh, how nice,” the man said. “What’s your degree?”

Beaming, I said, “English Literature.”

With a chuckle (already laughing at the joke he intended to tell), the man locked eyes with me and said, “So, you’re here for a job application, then.” 

My dad said to pay him no mind. 

I never planned to. 

*

The Storyteller

I was never meant to be a scientist. I was always meant to be a storyteller.

Even still, my time working alongside my dad at the office taught me a great deal about what it meant to be a good writer:

• Be present in the moment, especially when it’s hard.
• Notice (and care about) the details, no matter how minute.  I watched as my dad examined the natural curves, spacing, and look of people’s teeth when making recommendations, shaping their crowns, fillings, and veneers to perfection; no two the same.
• Connect with the people around you; they are your true inspiration
• Study and work hard until the job is done right. 

Every once in a while, I come across a word or phrase that takes me back to that moment, to a young girl scribbling stories on scrap paper in the back office. 

Like when the word “amalgamate” flashes across my screen, I think of the silver amalgam we’d sometimes use to fill cavities. The glint, like a hidden treasure tucked behind a tooth no one would see but us.  

Though I didn’t open Phosphorescent Smiles (better for everyone involved), the little office that housed so many of my family’s dreams was the place I launched mine.