The teacher had a block of wood
with different items attached to its sides;
a pipe cleaner, sandpaper, a cotton ball;
including a soft furry bumblebee
stuck on with a pin.
It was a lesson about touch.
When I told my mother about it
she lamented the bee as though it’s living body
had been cruelly impaled by my heartless teacher,
never considering that the bee
might have been a treasure my teacher found
and wanted to share with us.
This was a story my mother told me
over and over again,
the spin she put on
every experience, mostly I guess
because it was a good story, full of pathos,
with clearly defined victims and villains
and haunting regrets.
The hero always dies, beautiful and tragic.
It was and still is extremely important
that I understand the suffering of innocents
and do whatever I can to save the world
by knowing everything there is to know,
but no matter how hard I try
I will still discover a tragedy I failed to prevent
or one I will soon cause by my selfishness.
I, like most of the others, was afraid to touch the bee
even though it was dead
and the teacher assured us
it could no longer sting,
but I touched it anyway, and it was very soft..
Our teacher was young and new to the job.
It was the beginning of the school year,
and she was trying out the things she thought of
over the summer to make teaching
new and fun. She was surprised, amused, and a little disappointed
that our imaginations were so powerful
the mere thought of a stinger
made us shiver, depriving us
of the beautiful softness
she wanted us to know, but she was soft.
I felt disloyal. Maybe my mother
was trying to be sympathetic to my squeamishness.
What I said wasn’t what I meant.
I wanted to know if it was safe to try something new and scary.
The answer was, not unless you want to crucify someone.
