Bug-a-Boo! Or How “Magical Thinking” Helped Me Deal With Bug Phobia
Creepy, Crawlies, et al
“God in His wisdom made the fly, And then forgot to tell us why.” — Ogden Nash.
I read “The Fly” poem by Ogden Nash when I was around fourteen and at the height of my bug phobia. I loved the poem but thought it was too narrow in scope. It should have included not just the fly but the entire genus of six-legged critters.
I’ve always been terrified of bugs.
Where it began…
When I was seven, I lived in Pune, India. Back then, Pune was a town with more trees and open spaces than buildings. Our home sat beside a square mile of open space teeming with mango and palm trees rich in bug populations.
We didn’t have netting on our living room, or bedroom windows like our neighbors did. My mom suffered from asthma, and netting made her wheezy. So, our windows stayed open all year long. And through these, a procession of bugs made their way into our living room.
Motley Crew…
Our living room played host to stick insects, crickets, and praying mantises. To long-bodied flying ants that dropped their prismatic wings overnight on the floor tiles. And to a motley crew of beetles: the burly rhinoceros and mango stem borers and the small-but-stout dung scarabs.
My dad was tolerant, even welcoming of these winged visitors. My mom and brother were less so. As for me, I kept my eyes glued to the window. As soon as I spied a blur coming through or heard the rustle of papery wings, I bolted from the room.
I stood just outside the door, stuck my head in, and yelled, “Get rid of it!”
The prayerful mantis…
Dad did not comply — at least not right away. His game plan for helping me overcome my fear of bugs was to get me to like, or at least appreciate, the critters. “Come in and look at them. See how beautiful they are!”
He remarked about the mantis posing prayerfully on top of the radio, “Do you know this is the only insect that can turn its head from side to side?” He marveled aloud at the stick insect’s camouflaging chops. And the rhino beetle’s ability to carry up to a hundred times its bodyweight.
I was not impressed. I would not, could not like the bugs. Their bristly legs and gently waving antennae made my skin crawl. And I had a nightmarish fear of them landing on my head and tangling in my curly hair. No, Dad had to get rid of the intruders if he wanted me back in the living room.
A lovable kid…
So, Dad gave in. He coaxed the larger ones: mantises, stick insects, borers, and rhino beetles into paper bags. He then opened the front door and loosed the creatures into the garden. But as soon as the door opened, a couple of small and modest-sized beetles flew or scuttled in.
I hurtled out of the room yet again and resumed my position by the door. “Take them out!”
“They won’t do anything to you.”
That made me mad. “I won’t come in until you get rid of them! Until you kill them!”
Yeah, I was a lovable kid.
My dad had to now choose between his daughter and a beetle or six. In matters of the heart, Dad was a practical man. He worked out a practical solution.
The stainless-steel katoris…
My mom had a collection of old stainless-steel bowls that we call katoris in Hindi (an Indian language). These were commissioned in service of the bugs.
As soon as a beetle landed on the floor, Dad placed a katori over it. He slid a piece of paper underneath the katori so the bug could crawl onto the paper. He then picked up the makeshift safe-house and released its occupant into the garden.
Lovebug…
I never learned to love bugs. And I didn’t think I’d learn to appreciate them either.
But several years later, as an adult, I spotted a four-inch-long grasshopper outside my apartment in Thane, India. I took in the contrast of its soft leaf-green hues against the glittering jet-black of the freshly tarred road and thought, “How beautiful!”
And then last month, in my backyard in Houston, I found a batch of chubby, white soldier-fly larvae feasting on the compost. I thought: “Awww… Nature’s little helpers!”
Voldemorts (or “They-who-must-not-be-named”)…
My bug phobia is a legacy that I handed down to both of my daughters. They are so terrified of roaches that they cannot speak the name. They refer to them as “Voldemorts” — as in “They-who-must-not-be-named.”
As for me, I don’t like roaches inside my home. But I have grown tolerant of any I spot in the yard. I no longer reach — reflexively — for bug spray.
Breaking the legacy of bug phobia…
I didn’t want my grandkids to inherit the matrilineal bug phobia. So, I caught them young.
When my grandson, Aju, was a toddler, I would take him outside to the patio. I would point out the line of ants marching with crumbs of food held in their mouths. I told him they were carrying the food home to feed their “baby ants” (larvae).
When he asked about who or what had cut circles out of his dad’s rose leaves, I showed him pictures and videos of leaf-cutter bees. I told him they used the leaf pieces to build their nests. And, no, they didn’t hurt his dad’s rose bushes.
When my granddaughter, five-year-old Kai, asked whether dragonflies were “dangerous,” I said, “No.” Then we stepped outside to look at the dragonflies swooping and gliding, and showing off their shimmery, sapphire-blue bodies and translucent wings.
You did it, Dad…
Three months ago, when the grandkids came over, I found a roach lying in the sunroom, toes up.
I screamed.
Seven-year-old Aju bounded in to the rescue. “Ammama (grandmother), it’s only a dead Voldemort.”
He went into the garage and came out with a broom and long-handled dustpan. He loaded the little carcass onto the dustpan and disposed of it in the garbage bin.
“See, Ammama,” he said, “you don’t have to be scared. I’m not.”
I felt my eyes prick at Aju’s words.
You did it, Dad, I thought. This one’s for you!
If you liked this story about Nature, then you might enjoy this story too.
