The item that’s in almost every American’s pocket or purse is chewing gum. It seems like someone always has it on hand. It’s a conversation starter, an ice breaker, a way to share some minty freshness. But for me, gum is abysmal.

It started when I was a child. I was disgusted, appalled by the stains gum would leave on the streets of my once clean suburban neighborhood. 

I’d feel enraged whenever I’d step my hand-me-down Skechers in a fresh sticky piece. I remember the feeling of my shoe being held back. I’d look down at the ground to see my shoe looking like the cheese-pull in pizza, only unsanitary and pink. 

Unfortunately, that wasn’t my only interaction.

My dad bought me some chewing gum at our local drug store when I was around 5 or 6 years old. My sister and I watched TV while we chewed our gum. We were big fans of Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape. 

I fell asleep with the gum in my mouth. I woke up to it in my thick curly hair, the widow’s peak area, specifically. So, my mom did what she had to do. She shaved it. She tried to go for a trim, but she had to bring the clippers. 

Arguably, my receding hairline could have been my fault. However, to leave a kid unattended like that, that’s just hazardous. Thanks, mom and dad. 

Chewing gum has been one of those things I’ve had to face all my life, whether it be on the streets, in my hair or underneath a public school desk. This is why I’m seasoned with hand sanitizers.

I get why people like gum: it’s cheap, and I guess it tastes good. The five minutes of flavor and excessive thirst afterward just isn’t enough of an incentive for me. It truly goes back to the bad memories. Gum isn’t for me.