I first learned betrayal at four years old. The gummy ache in my mouth throbbed every time I pushed my tongue against my wobbly tooth, each nudge a painful reminder that something was changing. Not wanting to pay for a visit to the dentist, my mom told me to lie down so she could "take a quick look." Trusting her, I opened my mouth wide, only to be met with the sharp, shocking betrayal of her yanking the tooth out herself. In that moment, dentist or not, I realized teeth would be a recurring enemy in my life.

Even in the sterile safety of a dental office, I could never escape discomfort. My earliest memories include sitting awkwardly in the dentist's chair while two hygienists cleaned my teeth and exchanged comments, some snarky, some cryptic, all in Tagalog. I didn't speak the language, but I understood the tone: judgment masked as small talk, laughter at my expense, the suction tube draining my saliva as I sat there, undignified, with nowhere to hide.

As I got older, I became determined to take better care of my teeth, not out of passion for oral hygiene, but to avoid that sense of shame and scrutiny. But no matter how diligent I am, it seems I can't escape the criticism.

A few weeks into the spring quarter, I casually mentioned to my roommate that I was running low on toothpaste. Recalling I had just opened a new tube the last month, she paused and stared in disbelief. Despite trying to brush off her crude comments on my toothpaste usage, she took it a step further and began polling our suitemates to determine whether my daily squeeze was normal. Apparently, the fact that I'd gone through an entire tube in under six weeks was baffling enough to warrant an investigation.

Suddenly, I am berated with accusations for my crimes against Crest. I suppose I may be going through toothpaste at a suspiciously rapid rate, but in my defense, I don't have a secondary stash at home like some of my roommates do. This tube is the only constant in my life that I can wholeheartedly rely on.