Sweet Machine muses on dermatology. Below the fold, I muse on my own experiences and open the thread for you to discuss yours.
(EDIT: This post got fuxxored as I tried to rearrange a couple bits. If you saw it when it was first published, it may be a slightly different version now — my apologies.)
I have always been somewhat confused about dermatology as a practice. I grew up poor. To poor people, when insurance exists, it pays only for the most strictly medically necessary claims — even if something will significantly improve your health, if you aren’t gonna die without it (though even sometimes then; my husband recounts his uncle with leukemia calling up Medicaid about a refused treatment and saying, “Look, if you don’t pay for this I AM GOING TO DIE”), you don’t get it.
It’s something that’s been on my mind since my move, too. I was born and raised in central California. Now, you have to understand how central California is: pretty much the entire San Joaquin Valley (the biggest valley in the country, remember) is agricultural land. Cities are these little islands of very, very dense population, surrounded by these vast unincorporated areas filled to the brim with cornfields, grapes and cotton, walnut orchards, dairies. To get from one city to the next, you’re going to be driving ten or twenty minutes of backroads running through this “county” land.
And as you can imagine, this area was substantially poorer than the areas of California that usually come to mind when its name is invoked. My home county is 50.8% Latin@ and 41.8% white. 23.4% of its residents live in poverty (as defined officially by the Census). Median income is $34k. Those are all recent figures, which have seen a lot of growth from SoCal residents moving up into the area seeking lower pricetags on all the homes in those freshly-built developments, sitting on land that used to grow food.
I grew up a poor kid, surrounded mostly by other poor kids and a bunch of lower-middle-class kids. These kids got acne just as much as the upper-class kids did — it’s hard to go through teenagehood and not explode into pimples at some point or another.
But to most of these families, acne was an annoyance. It wasn’t a medical condition.
I remember the first time my now-husband mentioned his visits to a dermatologist as a teen. He’s always had a problem with acne. But I was honestly surprised that you could go to a doctor to get rid of pimples — it wasn’t something that occurred to me as being in the realm of possibility.
I mean, I went to a dermatologist as a teenager too. It was to remove a couple of concerning moles from my back and a small tumor from my thigh.
I mean, yeah, zits suck. And most people would prefer not to have them, all told. And trust me, I am well aware of the politics of appearance and how these things can affect your life, your relationships, and your career — I’m not trying to diminish that point at all.
But, well, seeing a doctor for acne was definitely something that felt like a trapping of higher class. It was grouped in with the idea of seeing a doctor about changing the shape of your nose. It was definitely cosmetic — with all of the misogynistic implications, yes, too.
***
Even coming from this background…
When I moved from my hometown to a small urban area just south of Pittsburgh, PA, I noticed a huge difference as far as emphasis on appearance goes. And I don’t just mean the way that trends and fads take a couple decades to catch on over here (I saw more teenagers with their hair dyed neon colors here in my first two months than I saw in twenty years in California).
Look, let’s just be out with it — my teeth are crooked. Way crooked. At least that’s how I perceive it. Growing up in California, even as a poor kid, growing up alongside other poor kids, and later friending myself into a lower-middle-class group — my teeth were a signifier. My teeth told everyone who saw me: I am poor.
But not just poor. So poor that my mother didn’t have the money to get them fixed.
’cause, you see: even in Ag County USA, even when you lived under the poverty line? When you hit puberty, you got braces. After a certain point — maybe sophomore year of high school at the latest — you had straight teeth. Period.
And I didn’t.
I spent most of my childhood smiling a stupid smirk with closed lips, and deliberately teaching myself not to laugh when I found something funny, so that people wouldn’t be subjected to the sight of my hideous teeth.
I remember — I think it was fourth grade — going in for school portraits. And the photographer arranged me awkwardly on the set like they always do (why is it to get a “good” picture you have to be as uncomfortable as possible in reality? Photography is my frigging career and I don’t understand why we consider the human body a prop to be manipulated rather than a natural form to be captured) and I smiled my tight-lipped little smile. And the photographer was Not Pleased, and decided to make it into a huge issue, trying to tease me into smiling an open smile. And I was just about crying by the time he finally snapped my picture, and when it got back? It was me, with my lips almost closed, but just a sliver of my two front buck teeth peeking out. And I thought, OH GOD, I LOOK LIKE A VAMPIRE. And you can imagine how things went from there.
I also remember an earlier time, maybe second grade, when I was on the bus to school, I sat in the row where you can see yourself in the mirror the bus driver uses to keep an eye on the kids. And I would stare up into that mirror and practice how to smile so as to look least offensive to the casual observer.
Of course, I was fucked up in a variety of ways.
But then I moved here. And I noticed something: a huge percentage of the people in southwestern PA? Have crooked teeth. And nobody seems to care.
It was honestly jarring to see so many people who were just like me, and who seemed to suffer no penalty for it. Because back in California, pretty much the only people I ever saw with crooked teeth were homeless.
I was insistent, absolutely insistent, that I wanted braces at some point in my 20s. Mattw knew how much it meant to me. There were a few spending priorities we worked out while we were still long-distance-ing: our wedding. Buying a home. And braces.
But then I moved here, and after a few months of acclimation, I… stopped caring. And while yes, there is still that niggling demon in the back of my head, and if we won the lottery I’d certainly go in for them? It’s not a priority anymore.
***
What has been your experience with these sorts of things? Were you pressured toward these sorts of procedures? What seemed like it was in the realm of possibility and what wasn’t? How do you think your race might have affected these attitudes? (I have to point out that while I grew up poor in an area with a lot of Latin@s, *I* was still white, so I can’t speak for the experiences of the POC there.) What about any other sorts of cultural intersections?