Hive

You just had to be the hero. 

See what happens when you help people? 

What happened to protecting us? 

Why act against our own self-interest? 

The rapid-fire thoughts pierce my mind at a staccato pace as I fight the feeling of helplessness. That flailing sensation like my footing has long lost its purchase to the ground. 

How am I even able to think straight after what just happened? Sitting in this chapel shoulder to shoulder with apathy and resentment. I can’t even continue arguing with myself with my ears assaulted by this oppressive buzzing. Shuffling shoes, ruffled fabric layered upon chuckles, giggles, and chatter to create a frequency designed to throw me off kilter. If I don’t get fresh air and solitude soon, I’m gonna lose it completely. I'm surprised I don’t have grey matter leaking out of my ears the way my head feels like it's melting…

How did I get here? 

Earlier that morning, the muggy heat of Landivar Campus radiated from a ground born from reclaimed swamp. The humidity was of the kind that made beads of sweat all too eager to permeate through the pores, and the lack of shade over most areas made the air stubbornly still. Only the darting dragonflies seemed intent on breaking up the monotony of the moist grassland. Focusing on the minutia of the scenery didn’t help distract the electrically charged ants crawling over every inch of my nervous system. Then again, there wasn’t a day when I wasn’t pestered by the pricking bug known as anxiety. But this day was one on which my second form class of 2B was to be herded to the chapel for mass, along with every cohort of Saint John’s College. 

I stood among the few students with whom I was close enough to consider friends as we gathered outside our homeroom waiting to be conducted like traffic by our teacher. As the gathering of students from the adjacent class of 2A poured out, there was a thrum of activity as friends across classes got to converse while others teased and joked with one another.

As my eyes ran across the classes, I saw a student I recognized going from person to person with a look of desperation in his eye. I didn’t know him well, but when he came to me, he asked if I could take his place in doing the first reading. I found myself consenting before I could even think of it. I had a church background, so it couldn’t be so difficult. 

We entered and took our places in the chapel. The air buzzed with the dozens of simultaneous conversations among students. Before long, it transitioned to passable silence as the mass began. 

As the mass proceeded, my resolve gradually wilted, continuing until I walked up the steps and onto to the stage with the other students assigned to the readings. At this point, I was in an altered state of consciousness, taking in the crowd of young men in white and blue uniforms who didn’t care about what I had to say. They were, no doubt, scrutinizing every detail about me for something to mock. It was moments like these in which one's will is tested; that is to say, you question whether your mental fortitude is enough to sustain a self-image that can endure the gaze of hundreds of your peers.

I stood before the shifting mob packed in the groaning wooden pews; it was hard to think of a setting in which I could feel more alien. Having a strong will was imperative as it was the only thing preventing my psyche from turning to wet clay, to be violated and squashed by those ill-willed around me. I read my piece, the first Scripture, followed by the responsorial Psalm. And all was well until I left the podium and, looking back, saw a surprised-looking student. 

I realized I had read his part by accident, as well as mine. I could feel my ears burn as the third student went ahead to complete his part. I was too stunned to even apologize for my slip-up. My motions were robotic as I made my way back to my seat, desperately hoping that the majority were too busy not paying attention to notice my mistake. 

By the time we arrived at the sharing of the Sign of Peace, I had begun to settle into a sense of calm, thinking the memory of my blunder had passed from everyone’s mind. However, as I turned to my right, I found a teacher smirking at me. The expression threw me off as I reached out to shake hands. The teacher spoke in a loud manner for all nearby to hear: “You only greedy true?” 

The remark earned a boisterous laugh from the row behind me as the teacher reached forward with that shark-like grin and shook my hand. It took me a second to process as all my embarrassment came crashing back. I pulled the corners of my mouth upward in the best approximation of a smile I could muster, narrowing my eyes to make the effect as close to a real smile as possible. I could feel the muscles in my cheeks quiver, and my eyes welled with moisture ready to deploy. Yet, I managed to hold it together. 

The buzz of the room continued on as I stood still, facing forward, not caring how my silence and immobility contrasted the actions of those around me as they shook hands to share the Sign of the Peace. The starched collar of my white shirt felt wilted, my sleeves chafed against my arms, my navy-blue Dickies pants felt all wrong. In that moment, surrounded by boys my age, of the same school, in the same uniform, I had never felt so set apart. My mind was a torrent of mixed thoughts: hatred aimed in all directions, sadness over my current circumstance, and weariness from defeat when trying to do the right thing. 

Some stories don’t have a moral, or sometimes the significance of an event isn’t seen until later on in life. But the only thing more upsetting than a day such as that is trying to retroactively put meaning to it. Was my mind toughened by the verbal abuse I suffered that day? Did my social muscles somehow break and repair themselves even stronger than before? I doubt this to a level of vehemence that startles even myself. 

But strong emotions are crucial when it comes to recollection: a heated day in a packed chapel with hundreds of bodies in the same uniform, all moving at varying speeds,  creating a blur in the peripheral, the overlapping chatter forming a buzz that robs spoken words, leaving only a whisper, and the admonishing authority figure setting me up for social slaughter. 

How could this have happened? A failed moral education system? Some form of toxic masculinity manifested? 

Or is this simply the raving of a thin-skinned worker bee, still stung by his time in the hive?  

_________________________

Erei Palacio is an English major at the University of Belize. He lives in Belmopan and enjoys reading fantasy novels and playing strategy video games.