I Was A Teenage Beaver
The beaver is a member of the rodent family. Native to North America, the thick-coated furry animal makes its home in the lakes and streams of our American west. At one time the beaver was almost hunted to extinction. Adults are called beavers, babies are called kits, and I don’t know what teenagers are called. Did I mention that beavers have overly large front teeth?
I know all this because I was a teenage beaver; that and the fact I did a research paper on it (ninth grade, fifth period; I got an A). But I only did the stupid paper because the rodent itself had become so near and dear to my heart. I was living its life, not in lakes and ponds, well not always, but in my everyday life. Figuratively of course; however, as a teenager, to me it seemed more literal.
I was a teenage beaver! My two front teeth, along with the aiding and abetting side teeth, protruded from the orifice known as my mouth a full twelve millimeters. Yes, I know, it sounds like nothing, but what it means, or rather what it meant was that even with my mouth completely closed, I could still inject my thumb inside. Don’t believe me? Well, I have the negatives to prove it.
How the Beaver Got His Start
Of course, I didn’t choose the moniker of “beaver.” It was lovingly bestowed upon me by my fellow classmates. I was different, obviously different; equipped with an abnormality that not only couldn’t be covered to any real satisfaction but also announced itself four minutes prior to my arrival. Kids can be cruel and any differences are fuel for the fire. In my youth, my big sister became my guardian angel, willing to punish anyone who dared use the term in front of her. She would “belt” them, as my mother would say, closed fist. I remember wondering why the attention was being addressed toward me; what I had done to deserve being called a name. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized the teasing had little to do with me personally and more to do with the limited imaginations of my fellow classmates.
I remember knowing, even at a young age that I really had only two ways of dealing with the situation.
I remember knowing, even at a young age that I really had only two ways of dealing with the situation. I could embrace my beaverhood or I could turn my back on it and begin the constant struggle to rid myself of the namesake. Strangely enough, it was the beaver itself that guided me to the path I eventually chose. The beaver is a unique animal that has survived much in the wild. The beaver uses its flat, wide, leathery tail to slap the water, like a paddle to warn off intruders. The lonely small beaver will not back down, protecting its home until the end, even in the face of a much larger opponent, such as a bear. Beavers construct their damns so well that the only way to rid a lake or pond of the edifice is to blast it. These little rodents were tough and the more I learned about them, the more I liked them, identified with them. I was a beaver dammit and I wasn’t going to back down from any bear.
Embracing my Beaverhood
At this point, you’d probably expect that I got into a fair amount of fights, not true. Actually I withdrew a little, found being with myself more fulfilling than being with the so-called popular people. A transformation took place; one that I would not understand until well into my college years. It was a strange transformation, but a vital one to my well-being. You see I realized that I didn’t care what people thought of me. I didn’t need their acceptance or approval to live my life. I built my own dam and I didn’t let them into my swimming hole. Sure, they thought they were popular, but they weren’t in my pond.
My parents didn’t see it that way. Unable to articulate why I had become so much of a loner (now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a Charles Manson type or anything, I had friends, I just didn’t need their approval or attention) they decided a cosmetic change was in order.
Braces!
Not those wimpy braces that people glue to the front of their teeth. I’m talking face full of metal; full-metal jacket. Bands wrapped around each tooth cemented in place, head-gear worn at night, wires jabbing into the tender walls of the mouth; I have the scars to prove that too. A metal dam held together with baling wire and cement (it would eventually take a four-hour process and two years of scrapping by different dental techs to rid my mouth of all the cement).
I was the braces king — seven years, a record that I have yet heard beaten. Seven years. They were implanted in sixth grade and weren’t removed until I was a senior in high school; two weeks before senior pictures, thank goodness! I was a braces natural. I took to them like fish to water. Hooking the lip of a can of pop on both the top and the bottom set, I could drink without using my hands. Heck, I could have been on “stupid human tricks” I was that good!
The thing is, my parents spent two grand on those babies, a tidy sum of money in those days, and I don’t remember being excited to get them. I mean sure who would want metal attached to their teeth, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t remember ever saying, great, now my teeth will be straight and I won’t be called a beaver anymore. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped caring and, strangely enough, my classmates had stopped calling me a beaver, although I couldn’t quite say when. My braces became a symbol. I was proud of them, telling people how long I had worn them and even explaining the thumb in mouth trick that I had long ago stopped being able to perform.
A Beaver Finds His Groove
I had two teeth pulled, one on each side, but never had to wear the rubber bands connecting my upper set to the lower and preventing me from opening my mouth. I stopped chewing gum — miserable stuff to get off metal — stayed away from sweets and nasty stuff like corn on the cob and popcorn; something I still can’t eat very well. I brushed my grill two times a day and chewed ice in between to keep it clean. Habits were established, more out of convenience than necessity, that have stayed with me all my life. And while it is no longer easy to tell, I am still a beaver. I still build dams and I still only let certain people into my ponds, but I’m okay with it. I like being a beaver. I’ve had to chase away a few bears and had my dam demolished a time or two, but I’ve always been able to simply start over, piece by piece, stick by stick. I’ve learned to rely on my perception of reality and not care what people think, and I’ve learned how to drink a can of pop using my hands.
