"HOW IT FEELS TO BE ALLERGIC ME"
JULIA OUYANG
It’s that time again. I race down the stairs to the kitchen searching for some distraction from my homework, and I swing open the doors to the pantry. Crowded and stuffed from top to bottom, the shelves contains obscure Chinese food, Mott’s fruit gummies, and ooh this new box of cookies. By habit, I snatch it off the top shelf and flip the box around to the nutrition facts and ingredients list. I frantically skim through the the long paragraphs and pictures until I find in small capitalized letters “MAY CONTAIN: MILK, EGGS, SOY.” Eggs? My eyes return to the top of the ingredients list and scan through the series of artificial ingredients and sugars until I find the culprit. Disappointed, I return it to the disorganized shelf and aimlessly wander around to continue procrastinating. This is my everyday.
In first grade, I laid face down on a table as the doctors punctured me with tiny pricks in the imaginary grid of my back with each box labelled eggs, soy, cats, dogs, etc. I returned to school the next day unable to focus in class and constantly shimmying my body against the back of my little blue chair, appearing as though I was doing the harlem shake, to prevent myself from scratching the hives. Other children curiously stared or gave me dirty looks as if I had the contagious cooties. I scored an 100 percent on my test, but this time, my parents weren’t proud. I aced the sections in eggs, dust, pollen, dogs, cats, cockroaches, mice, ragweed, willow trees, red oak trees, and willow oak trees which I didn’t even know exist. These swords of Damocles loomed above my head at all times, always haunting my very existence.
In second grade, my mom took me to the local kroger pharmacy to buy my new toy: the epi-pen. My pediatrician forced me to practice hitting a fake epi-pen against my thigh weeks earlier, and it never fully registered within my child brain that I would ever need to use it. I borrowed an old cheap black leather shoulder purse from my mother and strung it across my body to hold the thing that could save my life. My mom strictly told me to carry the purse everywhere and never register it with the nurse in fear of going into anaphylactic shock any second of my life. So I hid the secret. For our class’s winter holiday, we were told to decorate cupcakes with colorful sugary candies. A class mom bought me a vegan cupcake to decorate and eat as to prevent me from feeling left out. While Aliyah and Toby loved their cupcakes, I took one bite of mine and hated the bland, chalky taste. I dumped it in the trash can and vowed never to eat those yucky,vegan cupcakes again.
In fourth grade, I attended my friend’s Mid-Autumn Festival party. The table was filled with platters of duck and chicken, beef stir fry dishes, scrambled egg dishes, and moon cakes. My friend’s Chinese mom lined us up and scooped some of each dish into our bowls. But when it was my turn, I warned her in my broken Americanized Chinese “wo dui ji dan guo ming.” Her sorrowful and understanding eyes pitied me and passed me my plate without the eggs and moon cakes. I lost some of my culture that day. The other kids exclaimed how the dessert was delicious and pleaded me to try it, but I turned them away and laughed it off. Inside, the guilt swarmed me as I recognized that I would never be fully immersed in my heritage and Chinese culture because of my egg allergy.
In seventh grade, my dad pressured me into playing in a basketball team called the “Blue Tigers” with boys three years older than me. I hastily spread sunscreen over my face before the practice in fear of the beaming rays of the hot scorching star. But as I dribbled the ball, my eyes gradually began to burn. I thought it was just the sunscreen sweating off and dripping into my eyes, so I attempted to rub my eyes on my dad’s jersey but to no avail. My eyes seared as time continued and it became an unbearable agony. A player’s mom noticed the tears in my puffy eyes and quickly ushered me into her silver Honda minivan to protect me from another attacker: pollen. I looked on as the other kids shot hoops and laughed while I was isolated and constantly sneezing with a runny nose and swollen eyes due to my allergies.
In middle school, I began my quest to be “normal”. I would scarf down Hawaiian Sweet rolls from my fridge after school or eat pieces of my friends’ birthday cakes. I loved baking muffins and attempted in vain to create recipes substituting applesauce for eggs. Disappointed but not surprised, I would throw them in the trash can and instead bake a new batch with eggs. I would scarf down the muffins and chug a glass of water to wash it all down. In half an hour, I would suffer the consequences, a minor rash on my stomach or lips or an itchy throat, but my reaction would end and I would begin again at square one. When I was seven, the doctors told me I would grow out of this allergy by the time I was fifteen. And anxiously, I waited for eight years to let go of this troubling disease. Eight years of scarfing down cheesecakes and cookies to build my immune system. Eight years of telling myself that I will one day eat a boiled egg. But I failed. By the time I was 12, I stopped going to yearly checkups as to not disappoint myself again with the same results: positive. Soon enough I turned fifteen and realized this was my reality.
Every year, my parents now spend one hundred dollars a year to buy me 2 needles that I will hopefully never need. But that one emergency sparks the fear in them and me, the accidental overdosing of egg with no one to save me but myself. On top of the wasted money, I will never be able to enjoy the luxuries of celebrating my culture fully without contracting a rash afterward. As a self- proclaimed foodie, cooking and eating are my favorite hobbies but ones that are limited by my allergies. I won’t be able to enjoy a nice scrambled egg with my child on a Sunday morning or eat as much birthday cake as I want because of it. My allergies constantly perpetuate my disconnect with others as they question: “You’ve never eaten huang dan yue bing?”, “Wait, how can you not eat fried rice when you are Asian?” , and “Is your allergy really that serious?” or when others have come to the first ever epiphany that “OMG you can’t eat cake or ice cream or even bread!” But my inability to eat eggs makes me unique right?
I have always envied those without allergies and sometimes consider my life without allergies. No waiting period after taking the flu shot to check if I have a reaction. No fear for my life whenever I eat an unknown food. No hiding from the outside world in the springtime. No rashes or hives from eating desserts. No four hundred dollars spent a year on epi-pens that I have to drag everywhere I go. No shocked questions about my unique diet. But no one enjoys that one piece of birthday cake I get to occasionally take a bite off as much as I do. No one understands how much joy it brings to me when I nibble a little bit from that cookie containing eggs. My allergies are my kryptonite, my achilles heel, always posing a problem amidst a perfect meal or a sunny spring day. However, my allergies that may seem like a burden to others have formed my identity as a risk-taking, hopeful, and still always procrastinating person.
In first grade, I laid face down on a table as the doctors punctured me with tiny pricks in the imaginary grid of my back with each box labelled eggs, soy, cats, dogs, etc. I returned to school the next day unable to focus in class and constantly shimmying my body against the back of my little blue chair, appearing as though I was doing the harlem shake, to prevent myself from scratching the hives. Other children curiously stared or gave me dirty looks as if I had the contagious cooties. I scored an 100 percent on my test, but this time, my parents weren’t proud. I aced the sections in eggs, dust, pollen, dogs, cats, cockroaches, mice, ragweed, willow trees, red oak trees, and willow oak trees which I didn’t even know exist. These swords of Damocles loomed above my head at all times, always haunting my very existence.
In second grade, my mom took me to the local kroger pharmacy to buy my new toy: the epi-pen. My pediatrician forced me to practice hitting a fake epi-pen against my thigh weeks earlier, and it never fully registered within my child brain that I would ever need to use it. I borrowed an old cheap black leather shoulder purse from my mother and strung it across my body to hold the thing that could save my life. My mom strictly told me to carry the purse everywhere and never register it with the nurse in fear of going into anaphylactic shock any second of my life. So I hid the secret. For our class’s winter holiday, we were told to decorate cupcakes with colorful sugary candies. A class mom bought me a vegan cupcake to decorate and eat as to prevent me from feeling left out. While Aliyah and Toby loved their cupcakes, I took one bite of mine and hated the bland, chalky taste. I dumped it in the trash can and vowed never to eat those yucky,vegan cupcakes again.
In fourth grade, I attended my friend’s Mid-Autumn Festival party. The table was filled with platters of duck and chicken, beef stir fry dishes, scrambled egg dishes, and moon cakes. My friend’s Chinese mom lined us up and scooped some of each dish into our bowls. But when it was my turn, I warned her in my broken Americanized Chinese “wo dui ji dan guo ming.” Her sorrowful and understanding eyes pitied me and passed me my plate without the eggs and moon cakes. I lost some of my culture that day. The other kids exclaimed how the dessert was delicious and pleaded me to try it, but I turned them away and laughed it off. Inside, the guilt swarmed me as I recognized that I would never be fully immersed in my heritage and Chinese culture because of my egg allergy.
In seventh grade, my dad pressured me into playing in a basketball team called the “Blue Tigers” with boys three years older than me. I hastily spread sunscreen over my face before the practice in fear of the beaming rays of the hot scorching star. But as I dribbled the ball, my eyes gradually began to burn. I thought it was just the sunscreen sweating off and dripping into my eyes, so I attempted to rub my eyes on my dad’s jersey but to no avail. My eyes seared as time continued and it became an unbearable agony. A player’s mom noticed the tears in my puffy eyes and quickly ushered me into her silver Honda minivan to protect me from another attacker: pollen. I looked on as the other kids shot hoops and laughed while I was isolated and constantly sneezing with a runny nose and swollen eyes due to my allergies.
In middle school, I began my quest to be “normal”. I would scarf down Hawaiian Sweet rolls from my fridge after school or eat pieces of my friends’ birthday cakes. I loved baking muffins and attempted in vain to create recipes substituting applesauce for eggs. Disappointed but not surprised, I would throw them in the trash can and instead bake a new batch with eggs. I would scarf down the muffins and chug a glass of water to wash it all down. In half an hour, I would suffer the consequences, a minor rash on my stomach or lips or an itchy throat, but my reaction would end and I would begin again at square one. When I was seven, the doctors told me I would grow out of this allergy by the time I was fifteen. And anxiously, I waited for eight years to let go of this troubling disease. Eight years of scarfing down cheesecakes and cookies to build my immune system. Eight years of telling myself that I will one day eat a boiled egg. But I failed. By the time I was 12, I stopped going to yearly checkups as to not disappoint myself again with the same results: positive. Soon enough I turned fifteen and realized this was my reality.
Every year, my parents now spend one hundred dollars a year to buy me 2 needles that I will hopefully never need. But that one emergency sparks the fear in them and me, the accidental overdosing of egg with no one to save me but myself. On top of the wasted money, I will never be able to enjoy the luxuries of celebrating my culture fully without contracting a rash afterward. As a self- proclaimed foodie, cooking and eating are my favorite hobbies but ones that are limited by my allergies. I won’t be able to enjoy a nice scrambled egg with my child on a Sunday morning or eat as much birthday cake as I want because of it. My allergies constantly perpetuate my disconnect with others as they question: “You’ve never eaten huang dan yue bing?”, “Wait, how can you not eat fried rice when you are Asian?” , and “Is your allergy really that serious?” or when others have come to the first ever epiphany that “OMG you can’t eat cake or ice cream or even bread!” But my inability to eat eggs makes me unique right?
I have always envied those without allergies and sometimes consider my life without allergies. No waiting period after taking the flu shot to check if I have a reaction. No fear for my life whenever I eat an unknown food. No hiding from the outside world in the springtime. No rashes or hives from eating desserts. No four hundred dollars spent a year on epi-pens that I have to drag everywhere I go. No shocked questions about my unique diet. But no one enjoys that one piece of birthday cake I get to occasionally take a bite off as much as I do. No one understands how much joy it brings to me when I nibble a little bit from that cookie containing eggs. My allergies are my kryptonite, my achilles heel, always posing a problem amidst a perfect meal or a sunny spring day. However, my allergies that may seem like a burden to others have formed my identity as a risk-taking, hopeful, and still always procrastinating person.