BUGS
A new friend perusing my clothing designs recently asked, “What’s with the bugs”? “You seem to put an extraordinary amount of bugs on clothes you design.” “Well, ya!” I agreed emphatically, “because they’re insanely cool and more interesting than most people I know!” Only a few seconds passed before I knew the G-word was coming. “But they’re sooooo GROSS.” There it is.
For many, bugs are also disgusting, ikey, or creepy, which gives them “the willys” or “the hebejebes.” The problem with this is that unless you become an entomologist (studies insects) or an arachnologist (plays with spiders, mites, ticks, or scorpions) or a lepidopterist (special kind of entomologist who gets moths and the three superfamilies of butterflies), you probably stopped looking at bugs around the same time you stopped making mud pies. (Except to step on them, swat them, or appreciate the pretty ones from afar.)
When I was very young, I liked small things that fit inside small jars. Ladybugs were especially entertaining, appearing so feminine. But they were a flight risk. The first bug (bugs are actually a subset of Insects) I ever fell in love with was the Roly-Poly, or Pillbug, not a bug or insect but a crustacean called the Isopod. I found them under the pear tree in the backyard when I was about 5 years old. They lived not far from The Anthill. (Oh, the joys of ants!) I admired Roly-Polys because they were so small yet (somewhat) protected by just curling up and waiting. I would put them on a leaf or atop a mini-dirt mound and watch them uncurl. The Ants, too, were captivating, how angular and sturdy their bodies are made and how they bonded by species and their occupations of carrying, tending, or following. Then there were also the worms and the spiders and the caterpillars and the milkweed bugs!
When I was 5 years old, Bret the Brat was 7 years old. A mean 7-year-old who found a massive anthill next to the school playground. He screamed “watch!” then stomped it with both Keds. He jumped off quickly, realizing there were more inside the mound than out, and frightened they might bite. I crouched above them, watching them scramble, unsure of which route to escape and which to hide. There were so many of them, anthropomorphically afraid and confused. I called Bret the Brat an asshole and walked home (probably crying).
Most insects are immensely hardy yet vulnerable to every human carrying a can of poison concocted for the single purpose of killing them (or even a fast-moving shoe)! As a result, we don’t always appreciate a carefully divided shell and tiny red wings that look like a magic cape as they fly away. We also don’t see the determination of a “job well done” for worker ants or the hues of brown on the tiny head of a granddaddy long-leg. Or even appreciate the red and black geometrical design on the backs of milkweed bugs. But I bet that most children do. Or, they might if they had dirt and a small jar. Maybe you did when you were a child.
My brother told my mother he heard me curse at Bret the Brat, and apparently, cursing loudly in the neighborhood was a more severe offense than destroying a colony of working ants. Banished to my room, I took the little jar from my coat pocket. Three ants, one roly-poly, and a tiny worm. Score!
Sometimes I daydream that just as rush hour traffic begins to accelerate, Bret (child brat now, adult bully) is forced to pull his car to the berm to fix a flat tire. Just as he pulls the last lug nut, he feels a tiny poke, then a prick, then he’s doin’ a weird guy jig next to the interstate. He’s doin’ the Ants in Your Pants Dance — on a red ant hill. Those are the ones that bite. Karma, right?
This piece was originally written for the AKAConnects Newsletter but was way too long, so it’s here! If you enjoy classy clothes with bugs and/or classic art, see my Etsy store, AKAConnects, and sign up for our Seasonal Newsletter (with much shorter pieces).
