Spice Tolerance

Spice Tolerance - Payton Lanzara (Oswego East High School, Twelfth Grade)

Let’s get one thing straight: I am white.

I wear shoes in the house,

I clap at the end of movies,

and for the love of all that is holy

I cannot tolerate anything spicy.

My first boyfriend was Mexican.

His love language was gift giving,

and while that wasn’t necessarily a problem

the fact that these little gifts were bags of hot Cheetos

and Takis

and flamin’ hot popcorn was,

especially because at the time I

couldn’t even tolerate Sriracha.

Eventually, I couldn’t handle the heat anymore.

I left.

My second boyfriend was Hawaiian,

and though his food wasn’t spicy

it was almost too sweet.

It was as if the grainy texture

and creamy flavor was trying to bury something,

maybe ingredients that were bad for me?

I wasn’t exactly sure.

After a while, it began to feel too shifty.

I left.

My third boyfriend was white,

and he claimed he hated spicy food when we met.

It was only later into the relationship that I realized

it was a lie,

that he ate spicy food every day

and forced it down my throat as well.

It burned my mouth,

crossed every barrier I had put up,

and I blamed him for every bit of it.

The issue was, he blamed me.

I left.

My fourth and current boyfriend genuinely does hate spicy food,

but I still feel like I’m forced to eat it sometimes.

It doesn’t burn my throat as much anymore,

and I’m not sure if it’s because I drink milk before and after

or because I’ve grown to tolerate it.

I’ve learned to know how to take it,

learned how to not complain anymore.

It’s not his fault, not anymore.

I got so used to finding spice in my food that

even when it’s not there, I feel

the phantom pains of it.

That’s not his fault,

yet my brain tells me it is,

just like it was the fault of the others.

Really it’s their fault I’m like this,

that I pick apart my food looking for

wasabi

and hot peppers

and can’t see all the fruits that surround those things.

The thing is, they’ve made me think it’s mine.

It’s a cycle I haven’t left,

one where I’m blamed for freezing

or not communicating,

one where i’ve started to believe them when they say

I’m at fault for continuing to eat what they force me.

the worst part is,

It was never about the food.