The American Dream: Behind Closed Doors

Bright light. Shrill whirring. Sharp pain. Blood. A man cloaked in a white lab coat holds up a tooth in a rusty pair of tongs and laughs maniacally as his patient lies debilitated in a steely lab chair. This is the image often conjured when the word “dentist” is uttered. People, in absolute terror for their mouths and their wallets, utterly fear the dentist. A visit to the dentist is among the top phobias, along with spiders and heights. However, a trip to the dentist’s office is not one to be feared: it is an opportunity to appreciate the professions of the hopeful; this is the story of the path to the American Dream.

Driving down Snyder Lane, the first noticeable structure is Rancho Cotati High School. Especially in the afternoon, the institution of learning makes its presence known: cars pour from the parking lot, and students stream in masses along the sidewalk. The students converse loudly about the most important subjects in life until the air is filled with teenage talk, sounding like the chattering life of the rainforest: Didn’t you think that test was terrible? Are you going to buy food before you go home? What are your plans for tonight? In the hustle and bustle of the nearby school and church and daycare and shopping center, a small, mundane edifice sits across the street from the grandeur of the high school. Modest grey walls framed by burgundy trim fashion the typical boxy office of a doctor, this specific doctor specializing in teeth. Humble shrubs and bushes spotted with purple flowers line the concrete pathway to the door.

Ding-a-ling! A fairy-like bell rings as the white glass door is opened. Wide windows dominate the wall that faces the street, the walls are painted a gentle shade of yellow, jazz music plays through the speakers; the air is breathable. The waiting room contains a wooden stand that holds magazines from Time to People, a Gamecube that hooks up to a wide-screen television, and comfortable chairs that sit on an antique rug. Against the right wall, unexpectedly, a mahogany buffet decorated with Chinese carvings holds welcoming snacks—peanuts and almonds, water and juice, coffee and tea. The most curious component of the waiting room, however, is the left wall that holds fifteen framed pictures. All of them contain the same thing: the dentist with a patient, both smiling gleefully; heartfelt notes from the patients are written in the right-hand corner of each portrait.

A hospitable welcome can be heard from the receptionist. She sits at an enclosed desk, whose walls extend to a navel-height granite counter. A beta fish swims cheerfully inside his fishbowl, which sits next to a bowl of chocolates. A small glass ball hangs from the ceiling on a red thread; the rainbows it casts scatter on the walls, the desk, the framed degrees on the walls. The air tastes clean and crisp. “The doctor is ready to see you now.” Only light tapping sounds emit from my feet as I walk on the bamboo floor, down the hallway, to the dental chair that anticipates my arrival. I walk past a patient chatting with the hygienist, a bathroom filled with soft white towels, and the doctor’s office, whose desk is neat but littered with papers.

As I settle into the dental chair, I examine my surroundings. On a tray to my right lie silver instruments of pain. I do not know the function of each slender tool, but fear their presences in my mouth. Cutout advertisements for whitening products, toothbrushes, and toothpaste, displaying people flaunting their perfect teeth, do not ease my apprehension. Tick, tock. The gentle jazz music playing overhead hardly mirrors my emotions. Tick, tock. I stare out the white Venetian blinds in front of me at the next-door church parking lot. Tick, tock. My palms grasp the soft beige arms of the dental chair. Tick, tock. Footsteps; it’s the doctor. “Hello, it’s nice to see you today. Let’s take a look at your teeth.” An amiable smile and a handshake, like a glass of warm milk and a chocolate chip cookie.

Twenty minutes fly by, no pain included. “Your teeth look great! Continue to brush and floss like this, and you won’t see another cavity for a while.” I sit up, stretch, walk to the receptionist, pay for the appointment. “You next appointment is February twenty-ninth. Enjoy your afternoon!” Done, done, done—the sun shines through the wide front windows; I can’t help but return the receptionist’s smile.

I walk to the doctor’s office to thank him. His office door is white with a faux gold handle. The door is only open a crack, but I can see the doctor staring at his work, head in his hands. When I utter my thanks, his head snaps up, a smile plastered on his face. As I open the front door, as I amble down the pristine concrete, as I drive to wherever I am going, that image is branded in my mind.

The dentist is a very good actor. Imagine the smiling face he keeps in a jar by his door. Imagine the lonely nights he spends filling insurance and patient forms. Imagine the heated discussions he and his wife have behind closed doors while the children sleep. His work, his pain, his sacrifice—this is the American Dream: the hope that he will be able to lay down the foundations so that his children may be able to achieve the same dream.

-Erica