BZZZZZ
I was fearless, as fearless as a five-year-old can possibly be. I sped down hills on my bike, turning only at the last millisecond to avoid the curb. I ventured to forbidden territories where strange scents and people existed. I swung higher than all the other kids at the park and jumped with no trepidation. I waded further into the ocean than any mother would let their 4’4” child dare. I walked on top of the monkey bars when everyone else was still too scared to touch them from below. Somehow I believed my 30-pound lanky frame was invincible to physics. I was confident my body would just tumble and keep going unscathed. What scars I did earn, I wore proudly as evidence of my willingness to face physical pain and my capability to conquer it. The white skin on my knuckles proved I was a champion at the game Ga-Ga. The 3-inch long discoloration on my spine showed I was unafraid to leap from high heights. The panic that surfaced in the nanoseconds before each possible death excited me. It drove me to find adrenaline-inducing situations again and again. Fear wasn’t in my vocabulary. I was unstoppable.
From eating as many jalapeño seeds as I could to rollerblading faster than a moving car, I lived to challenge the limits my small body imposed. Naturally, I took any and every opportunity I could to prove to the world that I was the best and the strongest, though I was neither. I don’t know if it was my insatiable desire for attention or my arrogant confidence that made these feats possible, but either way, it seemed like the only thing that would slow me down was death.
Growing up in New York City has its perks. There are always fun activities to do and great places to eat at, all within walking distance from a subway or bus stop. But what the city lacks is houses with spacious, green backyards to run around on. Unless you go to the edge of Queens towards Long Island, it’s almost impossible to find any with all the malls, restaurants, and corporate buildings vying for just a small plot of cement to start an overpriced establishment. Naturally, parking is not only a nightmare to find in NYC, but also ridiculously expensive when you do finally find a spot. With space so limited, my “backyard” was a garage used for storage and a parking space along a long driveway that went through all my neighbors’ “backyards” to an exit between a post office and a pet store on Eliot Ave.
Grandma, who took care of and entertained me while my mom worked from 7 to 5 and my dad worked from 10 to midnight, liked to take daily walks down this long driveway, perhaps to clear her head of all the shenanigans I put her through. Grandma would hold her hands behind her back and walk slowly down the middle, not saying a word, listening to the medley of birds in the spring, cicadas and crickets in the summer, and rustling leaves and wind in the autumn. I had no patience for such things. I wasn’t interested in going down the same crooked, uneven road to a gate I wasn’t allowed to pass through. To keep myself busy, I resorted to watching worms crawl through dirt or spinning my way down the driveway until I veered off course and crashed into a garage door. One day, I decided to sprint to the gate as fast as my short legs and diaphragm would allow.
Whhhhhhffffff. Wsssssshhhh. The wind presses louder and louder against my ears as I pick up speed.
Thhhhhddddd. Thhhhdddd. Thhhddd. Thhdd. Thd. Thd. My sneakers hit the ground at smaller and smaller intervals.
Hhhhhhuuuuu. Hhhhhhhuuuu. My breathing quickens and becomes more audible.
Thwp. Something of unknown identity slams into the back of my throat. Before my mind can decide what to do next, my jaw comes up. Crrrnch.
My feet keeps moving, but my mind drains of all rational thought. WHAT IS HAPPENING?! WHAT DO I DO?! Horrified, I open my mouth to scream, but instead my tongue scrapes against the creature that had decided to lodge itself in my mouth. I feel my organs clench in alarm and my arms lose feeling. Before it can start crawling over the roof of my mouth, I come to my senses and spit it out.
I feel relief as I see a black mass fly forward. I look down to see my thighs still moving up and down in alternation. As I swing my left hand up to match my right leg, I see it. The black-and-yellow striped deformed sphere with crooked wings that had attacked my throat is now sitting on the tip of my thumb. Seeing what it was, I start screaming incoherently and running even faster towards Grandma. I jerk my left arm back and flail my body to throw it off. I don’t know if it’s alive or dead, but what I do know is that I need to get this monster off of me. In the midst of my thrashing limbs episode, I feel a pinch. A short sharp pinch.
Almost crashing into Grandma, I thrust out my left hand to point out the danger that’s closing in on my life. She calmly swats at it a few times and brushes the dead bee off. The pink, swollen flesh underneath is exposed. I start to cry and hiccup as Grandma leads me back down the driveway, washes my hand with soap and water, and hands me a bag of frozen peas.
How can something so small tear my huge confidence? Am I just another five-year-old? The sting didn’t even hurt that badly. There was no overwhelming pain, only a dull throb that lessened with each heartbeat. I’ve suffered much worse injuries in my life, but never before have I felt so naked and weak. I got over the bee sting, but not bees. Suddenly, I was alert to and afraid of the small things in this world: bees, butterflies, cockroaches, ladybugs, and swarms of gnats. Each and every flying insect was a potential threat to my well-being. While other people welcomed the blossoms and music signaling the end of winter, I dreaded the springtime. The world came alive and the number of creatures that could attack me increased exponentially. There was nothing for me to do but jump violently, thrash, duck at lightning speed, and push all other humans out of the way to get to safety. Anxiety and terror were presents delivered by these enemies. Everyone became exasperated with my overreactions, but I couldn’t help it. This emotion was new and it was real.
I considered if I was I ever truly fearless. Are my fears just tightly wrapped and buried deep within until the day someone or something tore its protective covering and released its power? Could this new version of me have been avoided if I hadn’t encountered a bee? Could I have lived my entire life without fear? Now that I had it, I didn’t know how to get rid of it or what to do with it.
My injured confidence questioned whether I’d be able to conquer the next challenge the world presented. But surprisingly, I was. I rode the fastest, tallest roller coasters with my eyes open; watched the goriest, most traumatizing and suspenseful horror films; rock climbed structures that had no grips; jumped off ledges and zip lined with speed; and water skied despite being repeatedly slapped by lake water and choked by pints of water contaminated with god knows what. But I still couldn’t face bees or any of its relatives without freaking out. Somehow, I thought confronting and overcoming more logical and seemingly scarier fears would make my fear of insects disappear, but instead, my small fear of large things only made my large fear of small things seem trivial and foolish.
You’d think after confronting them year after year after year, I would now be desensitized to their presence. For six years, I attended Hunter College High School, located on the Upper East Side right in front of the Park Avenue Mall, home to cherry blossoms and tulips, and right by Central Park. I was constantly surrounded by wildlife that unfortunately attracted all sorts of bugs, particularly bees during pollination season. I was told if I just stand still, bees would not sting me, but where was the proof? What if they decided to sting me anyway? I couldn’t take that chance. One time, a bee moving menacingly towards me from the right forced me to shove a seven-year-old boy on my left out of the way so that I could make a beeline for the curb. I couldn’t help it. There is no time to think rationally when bees can cover 5 feet faster than I can utter the sentence “bees are horrible.”
Senior year, I decided to take AP Environmental Science. Not because I was particularly interested or passionate about the environment (because believe me, the environment and I mix as well as vinegar and olive oil), but because I had heard this class was easy. And so it was. As second semester and warm weather rolled around, attention to schoolwork dwindled and teachers thankfully accepted that it would never come back. Senioritis was going around so instead of doing formal lab work while glued to a swivel chair that made your backside hurt, we went to the Conservatory Garden, a beautiful, quiet site that is popular for leisurely walks and weddings… and bees. And because of some evil god who has a taste for cruelty and irony, we were asked to identify the different bee species that roamed this suddenly loathed garden.
Are you fucking kidding me? This assignment is the epitome of my worst nightmare. Can’t everything just be labeled as bumble bees? Is it really necessary to get up close and personal with every variety of this ugly, despicable monster? For 2 full hours, I circle stiff-legged around the three gardens with my fist clenched so tightly around my pencil that I thought I would have permanent white knuckles and deep crescent nail marks on my palm. It’s not so bad when I slowly approach them while they’re just sitting on flowers. The problem is when they approach me. When they zip in out of nowhere, I close my eyes, willing the blackness of my eyelids to become a solid barrier, and scream with my lips pursed closed. As each bee takes its turn in terrorizing me, I feel my insides wind tighter and tighter until they become a dense mass, ready to explode and end the horror. My own screams start to annoy me, but I can’t control them.
I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until I walk out the Vanderbilt Gate. Relief diffuses so quickly through my veins that it forces a breath out of me. I survived. As I speed walk to the subway station, desperate to be surrounded by brick and metal again, it registers in my mind that I didn’t run from the bees. Admittedly, this new method of freaking out while standing still compared to my old method of freaking out while running around like a lunatic is hardly more effective in helping me control my fear, but I realize fear has made a home. It doesn’t say hi to me everyday, but it’s here to stay. Escape is futile.
Over the years, I’ve come to fear a lot of things: needles, jello, dogs, and thunder. But fear is longer limited to just material things.
Fear of not being good enough.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of being alone.
Fear of death.
There is no end to what we can fear. Hundreds of words have been created to describe the countless things we can fear in life. But why do we fear? What do fears do? People have come to fear having fears because to have them is to be weak, to be vulnerable, to be capable of defeat. But what people don’t understand is that to have fears is to be human. No one can live without fear. Fear drives survival, adventure, risks, and change. Fear can help you avoid danger so that you stay alive. Fear can create thrilling experiences so that you feel alive. Fear can force you to gain courage and confidence. Fear can lead to discoveries. Fear should be embraced. Even though it can shape who we are, our beliefs, and our actions, it doesn’t have to define us. Instead of letting fear label us as cowards or fools, we should use it to learn and grow.
When I was younger, it was the exhilaration fear created that pushed me to jump into dangerous situations. Not knowing what’s coming next can be daunting, but it can also be one of the most exciting things you experience, especially if you come out alive with a good story to tell. Will I get hit by a car if I don’t turn my bike quick enough? Will I see monsters on untraveled streets? Will I land on my feet or my neck if I let go of the chain? Will I be devoured by shark teeth or be swallowed by seawater if I keep swimming? Will I fall during that millisecond only one foot is placed firmly on a monkey bar? Never in the moment do you enjoy the fear, but after you triumph, you feel powerfully indestructible and think that was awesome.
But unfortunately, you don’t always triumph. Sometimes you come out crying, screaming, gasping. Every time I eat jello, I cringe and gag at the gelatinous consistency pressing against my tongue. Every time it thunderstorms, I flinch from each boom. And every time I encounter a bee, I still leave shaken, cold, petrified, and wondering what I did to deserve this anxiety. So how do you separate the good fears from the bad?
To that question, I don’t have an easy solution. The first bee that terrified me showed me fear can show up at any time. It can startle you and shock you. It can bathe you in sweat and tears. It can make you scream for help. But it can also give you courage and make you scream for joy. It can create a new addiction, making you come back for more. The only way to know your fears and what they do for you is to let them happen and overwhelm you. How else will you know what scares the shit out of you if you don’t try everything that might?
So will I ever get over all of my fears? Probably not. Living with fear is hard, but it’s inevitable. Instead of letting the fear destroy us, let it challenge us and evolve us. This bee did me a favor in sacrificing itself: it prepared me for a lifetime of fear, so what am I going to do with so much fear? I’m going to use it to live.
From eating as many jalapeño seeds as I could to rollerblading faster than a moving car, I lived to challenge the limits my small body imposed. Naturally, I took any and every opportunity I could to prove to the world that I was the best and the strongest, though I was neither. I don’t know if it was my insatiable desire for attention or my arrogant confidence that made these feats possible, but either way, it seemed like the only thing that would slow me down was death.
Growing up in New York City has its perks. There are always fun activities to do and great places to eat at, all within walking distance from a subway or bus stop. But what the city lacks is houses with spacious, green backyards to run around on. Unless you go to the edge of Queens towards Long Island, it’s almost impossible to find any with all the malls, restaurants, and corporate buildings vying for just a small plot of cement to start an overpriced establishment. Naturally, parking is not only a nightmare to find in NYC, but also ridiculously expensive when you do finally find a spot. With space so limited, my “backyard” was a garage used for storage and a parking space along a long driveway that went through all my neighbors’ “backyards” to an exit between a post office and a pet store on Eliot Ave.
Grandma, who took care of and entertained me while my mom worked from 7 to 5 and my dad worked from 10 to midnight, liked to take daily walks down this long driveway, perhaps to clear her head of all the shenanigans I put her through. Grandma would hold her hands behind her back and walk slowly down the middle, not saying a word, listening to the medley of birds in the spring, cicadas and crickets in the summer, and rustling leaves and wind in the autumn. I had no patience for such things. I wasn’t interested in going down the same crooked, uneven road to a gate I wasn’t allowed to pass through. To keep myself busy, I resorted to watching worms crawl through dirt or spinning my way down the driveway until I veered off course and crashed into a garage door. One day, I decided to sprint to the gate as fast as my short legs and diaphragm would allow.
Whhhhhhffffff. Wsssssshhhh. The wind presses louder and louder against my ears as I pick up speed.
Thhhhhddddd. Thhhhdddd. Thhhddd. Thhdd. Thd. Thd. My sneakers hit the ground at smaller and smaller intervals.
Hhhhhhuuuuu. Hhhhhhhuuuu. My breathing quickens and becomes more audible.
Thwp. Something of unknown identity slams into the back of my throat. Before my mind can decide what to do next, my jaw comes up. Crrrnch.
My feet keeps moving, but my mind drains of all rational thought. WHAT IS HAPPENING?! WHAT DO I DO?! Horrified, I open my mouth to scream, but instead my tongue scrapes against the creature that had decided to lodge itself in my mouth. I feel my organs clench in alarm and my arms lose feeling. Before it can start crawling over the roof of my mouth, I come to my senses and spit it out.
I feel relief as I see a black mass fly forward. I look down to see my thighs still moving up and down in alternation. As I swing my left hand up to match my right leg, I see it. The black-and-yellow striped deformed sphere with crooked wings that had attacked my throat is now sitting on the tip of my thumb. Seeing what it was, I start screaming incoherently and running even faster towards Grandma. I jerk my left arm back and flail my body to throw it off. I don’t know if it’s alive or dead, but what I do know is that I need to get this monster off of me. In the midst of my thrashing limbs episode, I feel a pinch. A short sharp pinch.
Almost crashing into Grandma, I thrust out my left hand to point out the danger that’s closing in on my life. She calmly swats at it a few times and brushes the dead bee off. The pink, swollen flesh underneath is exposed. I start to cry and hiccup as Grandma leads me back down the driveway, washes my hand with soap and water, and hands me a bag of frozen peas.
How can something so small tear my huge confidence? Am I just another five-year-old? The sting didn’t even hurt that badly. There was no overwhelming pain, only a dull throb that lessened with each heartbeat. I’ve suffered much worse injuries in my life, but never before have I felt so naked and weak. I got over the bee sting, but not bees. Suddenly, I was alert to and afraid of the small things in this world: bees, butterflies, cockroaches, ladybugs, and swarms of gnats. Each and every flying insect was a potential threat to my well-being. While other people welcomed the blossoms and music signaling the end of winter, I dreaded the springtime. The world came alive and the number of creatures that could attack me increased exponentially. There was nothing for me to do but jump violently, thrash, duck at lightning speed, and push all other humans out of the way to get to safety. Anxiety and terror were presents delivered by these enemies. Everyone became exasperated with my overreactions, but I couldn’t help it. This emotion was new and it was real.
I considered if I was I ever truly fearless. Are my fears just tightly wrapped and buried deep within until the day someone or something tore its protective covering and released its power? Could this new version of me have been avoided if I hadn’t encountered a bee? Could I have lived my entire life without fear? Now that I had it, I didn’t know how to get rid of it or what to do with it.
My injured confidence questioned whether I’d be able to conquer the next challenge the world presented. But surprisingly, I was. I rode the fastest, tallest roller coasters with my eyes open; watched the goriest, most traumatizing and suspenseful horror films; rock climbed structures that had no grips; jumped off ledges and zip lined with speed; and water skied despite being repeatedly slapped by lake water and choked by pints of water contaminated with god knows what. But I still couldn’t face bees or any of its relatives without freaking out. Somehow, I thought confronting and overcoming more logical and seemingly scarier fears would make my fear of insects disappear, but instead, my small fear of large things only made my large fear of small things seem trivial and foolish.
You’d think after confronting them year after year after year, I would now be desensitized to their presence. For six years, I attended Hunter College High School, located on the Upper East Side right in front of the Park Avenue Mall, home to cherry blossoms and tulips, and right by Central Park. I was constantly surrounded by wildlife that unfortunately attracted all sorts of bugs, particularly bees during pollination season. I was told if I just stand still, bees would not sting me, but where was the proof? What if they decided to sting me anyway? I couldn’t take that chance. One time, a bee moving menacingly towards me from the right forced me to shove a seven-year-old boy on my left out of the way so that I could make a beeline for the curb. I couldn’t help it. There is no time to think rationally when bees can cover 5 feet faster than I can utter the sentence “bees are horrible.”
Senior year, I decided to take AP Environmental Science. Not because I was particularly interested or passionate about the environment (because believe me, the environment and I mix as well as vinegar and olive oil), but because I had heard this class was easy. And so it was. As second semester and warm weather rolled around, attention to schoolwork dwindled and teachers thankfully accepted that it would never come back. Senioritis was going around so instead of doing formal lab work while glued to a swivel chair that made your backside hurt, we went to the Conservatory Garden, a beautiful, quiet site that is popular for leisurely walks and weddings… and bees. And because of some evil god who has a taste for cruelty and irony, we were asked to identify the different bee species that roamed this suddenly loathed garden.
Are you fucking kidding me? This assignment is the epitome of my worst nightmare. Can’t everything just be labeled as bumble bees? Is it really necessary to get up close and personal with every variety of this ugly, despicable monster? For 2 full hours, I circle stiff-legged around the three gardens with my fist clenched so tightly around my pencil that I thought I would have permanent white knuckles and deep crescent nail marks on my palm. It’s not so bad when I slowly approach them while they’re just sitting on flowers. The problem is when they approach me. When they zip in out of nowhere, I close my eyes, willing the blackness of my eyelids to become a solid barrier, and scream with my lips pursed closed. As each bee takes its turn in terrorizing me, I feel my insides wind tighter and tighter until they become a dense mass, ready to explode and end the horror. My own screams start to annoy me, but I can’t control them.
I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until I walk out the Vanderbilt Gate. Relief diffuses so quickly through my veins that it forces a breath out of me. I survived. As I speed walk to the subway station, desperate to be surrounded by brick and metal again, it registers in my mind that I didn’t run from the bees. Admittedly, this new method of freaking out while standing still compared to my old method of freaking out while running around like a lunatic is hardly more effective in helping me control my fear, but I realize fear has made a home. It doesn’t say hi to me everyday, but it’s here to stay. Escape is futile.
Over the years, I’ve come to fear a lot of things: needles, jello, dogs, and thunder. But fear is longer limited to just material things.
Fear of not being good enough.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of being alone.
Fear of death.
There is no end to what we can fear. Hundreds of words have been created to describe the countless things we can fear in life. But why do we fear? What do fears do? People have come to fear having fears because to have them is to be weak, to be vulnerable, to be capable of defeat. But what people don’t understand is that to have fears is to be human. No one can live without fear. Fear drives survival, adventure, risks, and change. Fear can help you avoid danger so that you stay alive. Fear can create thrilling experiences so that you feel alive. Fear can force you to gain courage and confidence. Fear can lead to discoveries. Fear should be embraced. Even though it can shape who we are, our beliefs, and our actions, it doesn’t have to define us. Instead of letting fear label us as cowards or fools, we should use it to learn and grow.
When I was younger, it was the exhilaration fear created that pushed me to jump into dangerous situations. Not knowing what’s coming next can be daunting, but it can also be one of the most exciting things you experience, especially if you come out alive with a good story to tell. Will I get hit by a car if I don’t turn my bike quick enough? Will I see monsters on untraveled streets? Will I land on my feet or my neck if I let go of the chain? Will I be devoured by shark teeth or be swallowed by seawater if I keep swimming? Will I fall during that millisecond only one foot is placed firmly on a monkey bar? Never in the moment do you enjoy the fear, but after you triumph, you feel powerfully indestructible and think that was awesome.
But unfortunately, you don’t always triumph. Sometimes you come out crying, screaming, gasping. Every time I eat jello, I cringe and gag at the gelatinous consistency pressing against my tongue. Every time it thunderstorms, I flinch from each boom. And every time I encounter a bee, I still leave shaken, cold, petrified, and wondering what I did to deserve this anxiety. So how do you separate the good fears from the bad?
To that question, I don’t have an easy solution. The first bee that terrified me showed me fear can show up at any time. It can startle you and shock you. It can bathe you in sweat and tears. It can make you scream for help. But it can also give you courage and make you scream for joy. It can create a new addiction, making you come back for more. The only way to know your fears and what they do for you is to let them happen and overwhelm you. How else will you know what scares the shit out of you if you don’t try everything that might?
So will I ever get over all of my fears? Probably not. Living with fear is hard, but it’s inevitable. Instead of letting the fear destroy us, let it challenge us and evolve us. This bee did me a favor in sacrificing itself: it prepared me for a lifetime of fear, so what am I going to do with so much fear? I’m going to use it to live.