Losing Teeth

Today, Karlyn Kohrs Campbell came and spoke to my Women's Studies class. Sometime during her talk, she mentioned Susan B. Anthony, and I was, for a moment, transported back to childhood.




If you met my mother and spoke with her for an hour or so, you wouldn't guess right off that she is a feminist. I don't even know if she'd say she is, but I can tell you that when I was born, she named me Clancy because she'd heard the name on Gary Collins and Mary Ann Mobley's 1970s morning show and liked the fact that it was a little gender-ambiguous. She has a master's degree in business education, and she'd seen too many Melanies become Mels, too many Janette Anns become J.A.s. She thought ahead and figured that if people couldn't tell on paper if I was a man or woman, they'd take me more seriously. In keeping with the bucking of the gender norms, my parents bought me Tonka trucks along with dolls (I always liked books better than either, and they bought me plenty of those too) and dressed me in t-shirts, jeans, and sometimes little boys' camouflage army outfits, not the pleated skirts and Mary Jane shoes I wanted to wear.

But back to the Susan B. Anthony connection: Every time I lost a tooth, my mother would get my tooth fairy pillow out of the closet, an angel-shaped pillow with a serene face, red dress, wings, and yellow yarn for hair. She had a pocket in front for the teeth, like a little marsupial pouch. I'd wiggle the tooth until I got down to that last slender root and gingerly break that while my dad teased me, saying he'd be happy to tie my tooth to a doorknob and get it out for me. I'd put my tooth in that pouch, go to sleep, and the next morning, in the pouch I'd find several Susan B. Anthony dollars with the back sides covered in red glitter--fairy dust, my parents explained. I'd fondle the coins in wonder, taking in the magic, but I think it's even more magical now. Thanks, Mom.