The fear of the color orange is “chrysophobia.” The fear of citric fruits in general is "esperidoeidiphobia." We even have a scientific name for the fear of something as uncommonly specific as a Bolshevik (bolshephobia), but we don’t have one for something as ubiquitous as an orange.
And frankly, we need one because we are irrationally, intensely, and persistently fearful of this fruit.
Here is my suggestion:
Portokaliphobia: from the Greek: πορτοκάλι, portokáli, meaning “orange” and the Greek: φόβος, phóbos, meaning "fear" or "morbid fear."
Is it really possible that we are afraid of an orange? The virtual masses answer with a resounding “Yes.”
“All citrus trees are of the single genus, Citrus, and remain largely interbreedable; that is, there is only one ‘superspecies’ which includes grapefruits, lemons, limes, and oranges… Fruits of all members of the genus Citrus are considered berries because they have many seeds, are fleshy, soft, and derive from a single ovary.”
Is this a fruit, or something that Sigourney Weaver is going to have to beat off my face?
Oh, the horror of having to report for jury duty at the Orange County California Courthouse. They don’t produce all that many oranges anymore, so the namesake of Orange County may now have to refer to solely the color of its most elite residents.
And don’t get me started on why portokaliphobes should not visit Brazil. The top producer of oranges in the world, Brazil supplies half of the world’s orange juice. Being served feijoada with huge chunks of orange while recovering from a rhinoplasty in São Paolo doesn’t seem so strange after all.
Brazil’s biggest client is the Netherlands, which leads me to deduce that per capita, they have the lowest incidence of portokaliphobia in the world.
We could have developed our portokaliphobia at any age, with the parents of some sufferers reporting that the fear was present at birth. It has even been seen in dogs, the proof of which is documented in numerous YouTube videos.
While there is no proven cause for phobias, factors like experience, culture, and genetics can increase our susceptibility.
In the case of your portokaliphobia, it may have developed from your experience of being pelted with oranges by bullies as a child.
Some consider taijin kyofusho, the fear of offending or harming others, to be a phobia that is culture-specific to Japan.
Consider the genetic component of needle phobia:
“About 80 percent of needle phobics have a first-degree relative with needle phobia. This is evidence that needle phobia has a genetic component. It is a genetic trait that had survival value for humans prior to the 20th century. Before modern medicine, an individual with an inordinate fear of being stuck with a fang, a thorn, or a knife was less likely to die in accidents or in encounters with hostile animals or men. Prior to the 20th century, even an otherwise non-fatal puncture wound had a reasonable chance of causing a fatal infection. This trait that had positive survival value prior to the 20th century now has a negative survival value since it shuts its victims off from many of the benefits of 21st-century medicine.” (Emanuelson, 1997-2010)
Growing up surrounded by cane fields in Hawaii, I felt that my phobia was warranted. Cane spiders have the diameter of a can of tuna fish and their egg sacs are the size of quarters.
In my early life, I’d respond to a spider by screaming and convulsing with full-body shivers. When I moved out on my own, I trained myself to be able to aim a broom at a spider, turn my head, and squash it. Then, I started dating a guy who is a humanitarian and life-long vegetarian.
We were sitting in my apartment one afternoon and I saw a spider making its way across the living room floor. I rose and not unlike a superhero, announced, “Don’t worry! I’ll take care of it!” I grabbed a flip-flop and slammed it down on the beast.
He was horrified.
He said, “You didn’t have to kill it, you know.”
Pshyeah... Of course, I did.
Shortly thereafter, my new guy and I saw a large garden spider that had set itself up between two railings near my front door. I couldn’t kill it because he’d notice that it was gone. And I certainly didn’t want to shoo it away because in its current position, I’d be able to keep my tabs on it.
I saw it each morning when I left for work and every evening when I came home. I’d take a quick glance at it to make sure it was still there and therefore not waiting for me in my toilet bowl.
Sometimes her web was broken in the morning, and by the evening, it would be fully repaired and taut.
Sometimes, she’d have a snack stored in a corner of her web, wrapped up like a tiny dragon’s beard candy.
At first, that grossed me out completely, but then I developed a kind of maternal relief in knowing that she was eating okay.
I started worrying about her when the gardeners came.
I worried about her when it rained.
I worried when it was a particularly breezy day.
One evening, after a long day of staring at flowcharts and mindmaps, I dragged my ass up the stairs to my apartment and I looked to the railing for my elegant, tough homegirl, and she was gone.
The railing was clean. I went inside, ate an orange, and missed her.
***
Bibliography
Emanuelson, J. (1997-2010). Welcome to the Needle Phobia Page. Retrieved September 10, 2010, from Needle Phobia Page: http://www.futurescience.com/needles.html
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