Rumbles. The seams of my abdomen begin to split as my body doubles over onto itself. My legs buckle; I try to resist but a sensation of impotence settles around me. I look at those around me and find a sea of unaffected faces. Unaffected and ignorantly blissful, they are blessed to be free of something that burdens me incessantly, caused by a tiny genetic defect hidden away on my Chromosome 2 that prevents me  digesting certain sugar compounds, or, as many know it, lactose intolerance. 

Lactose intolerance occurs when a person’s small intestine isn’t able to make enough lactase, an enzyme essential to digest lactose, a sugar found in milk. Lactase usually turns lactose into two simple sugars that are absorbed into the bloodstream. But when an insufficient supply of lactase causes lactose to move into the colon instead of being processed and absorbed, it causes the classic signs of lactose intolerance like gas and diarrhea. 

It’s a difficult, silent burden that the lactose intolerant bear. Mother Nature attempted to forbid the lactose intolerant from an entire section of the food pyramid, restricting dairy-based American staples like cheese and ice cream from our diets. They seek to suffocate us. Boba and coffee are fundamentals of high school hangout culture; milk coincidentally being a frequent component of both. Perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not.

Even the most basic act of eating can drag my small intestine into a Sisyphus struggle. Bodily cells work in overdrive, desperately trying to overcome a threat they’ve been doomed to fail against from birth. The result? Countless hours behind closed (bathroom) doors, a torture only comparable to waterboarding or child birth.

But do the lactose intolerant keel over and succumb to the oppressive whims of the world?

Never.

My fellow brethren and I brace our stomachs, plaster on a smile, and determinedly continue to live our lives. We continue every weekend with a disobedience of nobility. When someone proposes to meet up at Peet’s or Sharetea we refuse to flake. We do not groan, moan, or break into rashes like the weak-minded gluten intolerant. We answer with a resounding “Yes,” saving the interminable number of hours otherwise wasted on fruitless deliberation of alternative places to eat just to accommodate us. 

We do this for the greater good. 

We consistently and willingly put ourselves in harm’s way, week after week, for the sake of others while they continue blissfully ignorant of their lactose-tolerant privilege. We are the unsung heroes of society, 

But there are alternatives, some say. I’m advised to find the easy way out like some of my lactose intolerant brethren have done in the past, in the form of pills or dairy-free alternatives. But as William Ellery Channing once said, “Difficulties are meant to rouse, not discourage. The human spirit is to grow strong by conflict.” In the face of two paths, one of ease and another of difficulty, I choose to be roused. I choose to be daring, utterly unafraid. I choose lactose.