Bug Jar.

When I was little, in Mrs. Blackham’s first grade class, I remember that Adam had a big huge Mason jar, the kind I could barely get my little arms around (and I was taller and longer-limbed than a lot of the kids, although I didn’t realize things like that back then). I guess Adam brought it in for a science project or for show-and-tell or something. It was filled up to the brim with this miniature dense forest, leaves and twigs and stones and dirt at the bottom. It was heavy, and there were nail-holes punched in the lid.

There was a praying mantis in the jar, sitting calmly on one of the larger sticks. The leaves around him (her? I never cared) were jagged and saw-toothed from his sharp jaws gnawing on them, and he looked very comfortable to me. I never gave it a second thought. I didn’t like bugs. I didn’t feel sorry for him, not in the slightest. He was dumb enough to get caught. I didn’t worry about him having enough air or room to move around or being alone in there for the rest of his short life.

Lately, though, I get it. I understand how it feels to be stuck in a giant glass jar where you can see everything outside… but everyone can see inside, too. Or at least they think they can, see what you’re like inside that miniature jungle-jumble of leaves and sticks, and someone can always see straight to you no matter how you try to hide. Someone always can.

And then there are the kids that are always squinting, trying to figure out what’s so special about this stupid jar, and they think they see something… what’s that? Right there, right there, do you see it?! But they’re just making it up. They’re not seeing what’s really there. Sometimes they’re not even trying that hard.

That’s how I feel. There are so many faces suddenly poking at the glass, wanting to see what’s inside, trying to pry off the lid… and there’s only one I think I want. Everyone else is just trying to see what isn’t there.