Why I’m Not Afraid of Bees Anymore

      I’m not afraid of bees. It’s true. I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t always like this. I’m not some kind of brave soul or anything. I just met one. That’s all. Let me explain.

      It started at a pool club one day. I was invited by a friend of my mother’s, who also happened to be the mother of my brother’s friend, to their country club. It was a fancy place, where they served salad with fresh avocado and quinoa at the snack bar. Anyway, it was a warm day, not too hot not too cold, not perfect swimming weather, but you don’t complain when asked to enjoy an afternoon in a place as ritzy as this. I wasn’t planning of swimming though. I just wanted to read my book, a nice, clean white copy of George Orwell’s 1984 (which I have yet to finish). But the water gleamed and sparkled invitingly and I was already in my bathing suit since everyone else was wearing one, so I decided to take a dip. The water was refreshingly cool. It glided over my skin like silk as I propelled myself forward in its gravity-defying embrace. I decided I had made the right decision, and was going to enjoy myself as long as I could in the pool. I swam to find an empty swimming lane, which was easy since there were only a small handful of people in the pool, and swim from side to side, taking breaks to admire the smooth water flowing over my arms and legs.

     It’s during one of these breaks that I noticed it. A tiny little bee. Not a cute bee, mind you, like a bumble bee, with its bushy, fuzzy, friendly body. But a wasp. A wasp with a small body, its curvatures and edges sharply defined, that screamed out to all who could see “Do Not Touch”. Bright school bus yellow and harrowing night sky black made it even more frightening. But this one was different. It had fallen into the water, and was struggling helplessly to get ashore, its tiny, pin-like pricks for legs furiously flailing about. It sharp body was crumpled, and its tiny translucent wings were beginning to fold. It only had a matter of time before it drowned. I watched it struggle, as I was thinking of what to do. I could help it, I thought, but it was a wasp, and the last thing I wanted was to cause a ruckus in this fancy establishment because I was screaming in pain over a bee sting. But then again, it was pretty helpless. Would it really sting me when it was literally dying? Would it even have the strength or sense to? I decided to get over my doubt, and help it the best I could. Slowly and carefully, I reached over to it. I positioned my fingers right above its tiny legs, and they grasped onto me, sticking to me as soon as they grabbed my finger. I then gently lifted it up, careful not to make any sudden movements and placed it on the buoyant divider that separated the pool into sections. It stayed there for a minute, and I felt proud of myself, perhaps unjustifiably so, for conquering my fear. Then, it fell back in. It did this several times, each time with me fishing it out again. Finally, I decided to bring it over to the edge of the pool, where it could rest and dry up before flying off and enjoying its happy, little life. But, the silly little thing kept trying to make its way into the pool, as if on a suicide mission it desperately wanted to complete. I saved it each time, and directed it back to safety. I watched it for a while, hoping to see it sprout up from its slump and take flight once more.

      That’s when my mom came by. She had come to say hi to me and dip her feet in the water (that’s the most swimming she does now). I told her about the wasp, and showed it to her. She took one look and said “It’s dying.” Dying? That never even occurred to me. It was down sure, but out for good? It didn’t even cross my mind. I was suddenly saddened. That puzzled me at first. It was only a bee, I thought, no reason to be sad. Bees die all the time. But this time, it felt different. I had worked so hard to save it. Put in more time than I think most give to bees in their life, other than beekeepers I suppose. It didn’t ruin my day or even the next twenty minutes of my life, but for a brief time, I felt sympathy for it and regretted that I couldn’t do more to help it. Eventually, I swum away, leaving it to either die on its own or miraculously fly off and live another day. I have a feeling it did the former, however.

     I don’t know why but now, whenever I see a bee, I don’t panic. I don’t try to run away. Every now and then I may shoo it, but for the most part, I leave it be. Even if it flies around me or lands on me, I leave it alone. I feel peaceful around them, in fact. I don’t know why. Maybe I feel a sense of report with them. I helped one of theirs, so they won’t bother me. Like a truce between two opposing gangs. Or maybe I just felt so close to the one in the pool, made a relationship with it, perhaps as close as a human and bee can get in a short period of time, and now I feel a sense of kinship with them all. Perhaps that’s just what happens when you have an encounter with something so unfamiliar. So different from what you are.

     My newfound comfort around bees has been very useful to me, especially upon entering my college career. My campus is overrun with flowers, so naturally the bees come as well. On early September days, when everyone else is frantically running about, trying to avoid bees that would most likely leave them alone anyway, I am calm and relaxed, able to go on with my day unfazed. I can let one land on me, and not be bothered. I can shoo one away from my food when eating outside without fear. Basically, I live my life more confidently, all because I found my connection to the enemy. To the great unknown. To a natural world we have estranged ourselves from. Perhaps we could all benefit from running towards the things that scare us away, and come to grips with things we’d never want to even touch