Stomping Bees

Kelli Jae Baeli

As a child, I tasted power for the first time one spring afternoon as I walked through the wild grass behind my house. I noticed an abundant supply of small bees buzzing from flower to flower to drink the nectar found there. I stood over one of them, considering how tiny this life was, and the revelation came upon me that I was no longer the most insignificant life in my limited world. Here was a life lesser than mine; not only lesser, but weaker. A sense of power came over me, and before I went further, I punctuated my revelation by stomping the insignificant little bee, lifting my bare foot to watch him wriggle in a dance of death.
   I took a deep breath and realized one murder was not enough to quench me, and set out upon a rampage of bee-stomping. I liked the feel of them under my huge, powerful, crushing, 7-year-old foot.
   Returning to the house that afternoon, I spoke of this experience with evil zeal. My much wiser brother, (a year and 11 months my senior) informed me of the danger: "One of them will sting you."
   My mother supported this opinion: "Don't do that, Jae, you'll get stung. Besides it's mean."
   I was not convinced. The exhilarated surge of power was too great to ignore. On my way back out the door my sibling, seeing my obstinacy, gave me a tidbit of brotherly advice: "Wear shoes."
   I took my stubborn little self back to that field, still barefoot, since I had decided that half the thrill was that I could kill bees without the weight and protection of a shoe-with only my huge, powerful, crushing, 7-year-old foot.
   I proceeded to find an unsuspecting, feeding bee. Smiling rudely to myself, I lifted my foot and brought it down with much relish upon that inferior insect. I did not, however, take the opportunity to notice whether his stinger was up or down, and when he got it in the end, I got it in the foot.
   A needle of pain shot through my heel, and horrified, I sat down to examine the swollen red circle there. Tears sprang from my eyes, and I pulled myself upright to run, limping, back to the house where I seized a sneaker and returned to that squirming bee, (after some emotional searching) at which time I promptly pummeled the life (and then some) from his ugly little body.
   After being discovered that evening with a swollen heel, and after a sound chastisement for ignoring mother's warning, I went to bed in tears, trying to erase the image of my brother's self-satisfied smile. "I-told-you-so's" could be very annoying, even at that age.
   The next day, I limped back to that field, one sneaker tied snugly, the other loose, and stood over another bee. I knew that a stinger would not go through the hard rubber sole, but somehow I was more interested in giving that bee a good once-over. I crouched beside him, watching closely and wondering at his power. And there I remained most of the morning.
   I never did stomp another bee.
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