I’d Rather Be Stung By a Bee
The cicadas chirping, birds singing, trees swaying in the gentle June breeze; the purple flowers bowing in the center of the town square; the Arkansas sun, the crusty window that reads “Lola Salon” with the tail of the “a” in Lola connecting to the start of the letter “S” in Salon; the dark, closed salon. People might say that it’s a gorgeous view, a classic, picturesque, small town, but honestly I’d rather be stung by a bee than witness it.
Maybe it’s because all the different sights and sounds in it make me list things, a quality of mine that I try to keep on the “down low”, or that it makes me want to run outside into the sun when I know I have to sit in the salon, but I know deep within myself that it’s because it reminds me that all this beauty might be taken away from me by tomorrow.
The Salon is pitch black, as it is after hours, and the only light is coming from the large window that bears the name of the salon. So, because I have nothing else to do, I list. I list the lists I’ve made before, remembering my first list, on the day Papa left us.
That day I listed my emotions, Mama’s emotions, and the green stems dancing lazily in the town square. Two weeks after that day, I listed looking out the window at school the morning Mama told me that she would have to get a job or we would be broke; there were only licks of purple seeping out of the buds of flowers in the town square. The day Aunt Laurie and Joe called saying that they would take me in for a while if Mama didn’t get a job was yesterday, and it looked just like today.
In the darkness of the salon lobby, I look over at Keani, hunched over with her eyes closed. She’s my best friend, but today things are different; today our mamas are going against each other for an open job as hair stylist at the salon. I reckon she’s just as nervous as I am. Sure, I think, staring at her new pink blouse and jean shorts, she’s got a load more money than Mama and I, and sure, her Papa didn’t just disappear with all their money, but she’s just the nervous type, and I’d be surprised if her stomach wasn’t pounding something awful.
The quiet of the room is disturbed by the creak of old wood, and I look up, only to be perplexed by a thin white line expanding on the wall. My eyes zone in on it in my dazed confusion, like flies drawn to a light. When the line is considerably large, I can hear the soft voice of Miss Lola, which reminds me of sweet honey and strawberries.
It takes me a split second to realize that the white line is the door opening, and my sweet honey thoughts are replaced by the terrible realization that the moment of truth has arrived.
“Now God bless y’all,” Miss Lola coos as she swings the door open so Mama and Mrs. Houston can march out.
When I see her face, I know. It isn’t her tear-stained cheeks or her wilted figure, but her eyes that really tell me the dreaded outcome. Her warm brown irises have turned cold and empty, and her usually confident gaze is dropped.
I run into Mama’s arms, and she presses her cheek against mine with a broken whisper.
“I didn’t get it baby.” And tears, from Mama and from me, the both of us sobbing, our tears melting together in a dance of despair.













I bite my lip, and it shakes like the “Earth Quaker 1000” at the county fair, but I know I won’t cry; I’m all cried out. Keani throws her arms around me, but I’m a stone. I don’t hug back, I just stand there, my arms straight, hating her purely. She took my life, she took my home, and she’s the reason I’m leaving.
After a painful eternity, her sloppy mess of curls is finally out of my face and her stupid tears aren’t ruining my shirt.
Over the noise of the train station, a new sound comes into my awareness, the sound of a horrible, screeching, train, barreling into the train station. My heart stops, and I’m stricken with the shocking realization that this is really going to happen.
“Jessie Mae Harris, you quit that darn shaking right now, folks are gonna be thinkin’ yer havin’ a seizure,” my mother lovingly scolds. “And git yer sorry self over here.”
I hadn’t even realized I was shaking until Mama said so, and I pull myself together enough to take a few steps and crumple into Mama’s arms. We just stay there, hugging, but not crying. Like I said, we don’t have it in us.
“Mama I just can’t go,” I whisper, “What will you do?”
“Baby, you know you have to leave,” Mama says with a sigh. “I need to get myself together, I need to get a job, and for some time, I won’t have enough money to support you. I love you so much baby, and I’ll call you every day. We can facetime, it won’t be for long; when I get enough money you’ll be coming right back down here.
We hug for a time that would be long for a normal hug, but in this situation it is much too short. Eventually, Mama takes a deep, stifled breath, and closes her eyes. “Baby, you gotta get on that train,” she says in a way that makes it sound painful.
We both straighten our clothes and sigh. Mrs. Houston pushes Keani forward and Keani gives me a rock. I frown. Seriously, a rock? But when I rub my eyes from my emotions, I realize that it is a silver friendship bracelet with the words “K+J=BFF”. “Oh Jesus,” I think, classic Keani, so cheesy: -10 for creativity. I can’t help it, I have to tell her.
“You don’t know how much you have,” I say, my voice shaking and changing in volume like a psychopath, “I’m actually glad I’m leaving you.” Keani’s jaw drops and all the hurt and pain that I can see in her face fuel me enough to face the train.
I clutch my bulky blue duffel bag: it is my friend, my companion, it carries all my memories of home. I look at the train: it is my enemy, it is taking me from everything that I love, destroying my world. Taking a last look at Mama, and holding tightly to my friend, I enter the enemy.
Inside the enemy, I throw myself against the faded red and blue seats, trying desperately to hurt it, to make it feel my pain, but it is no use. My enemy starts to move, becoming my worst enemy, my arch nemesis, as it takes me even further from home. Mama mouths “love you,” and the enemy charges into darkness.




















Tunnels, cement, and graffiti, all go by in a blur. The landscape transformed as I slept. Yesterday, it was sweet valleys, rolling hills, and apple blossoms, but now it’s “urban”. The old man who put holes in my ticket said that there were twenty minutes until we reached Philly, and that was about eighteen minutes ago. The blur for scenery becomes more visible and the train pulls into a station. A scratchy female voice announces that we are in Philadelphia, and thanks us for riding on Amtrak. I follow all the other passengers as they exit the train-car, a little part of me glad that the fourteen hour ride is done.
As the other passengers push and shove their way out the door I let them pass, giving myself a pep talk, telling myself that I’m a rough and tough citygirl. I hop off the step and freeze.
There are so many people, walking either too fast or too slow, and all of them so different and weird, but also special and unique. The building I’m in is so modern, and cold, and it’s not the temperature, it’s the feeling. Everything is so overwhelming and dizzying. People are bumping into me and not apologizing. No one cares about anyone, and everyone thinks they’re the most important person in the train station. I’m just about ready to crumble when I see them.
I see a petite lady with a slightly wrinkled face, and pursed lips. Her dyed brown hair makes her taller than what is probably her actual height, but still only up to the chin of the man standing next to her. His face isn’t as harsh. His wrinkles are smile lines, and his salt-and-pepper hair reminds me of the Papa I once knew. I stumble towards them and their sign that says “Welcome Jessie Mae,” trying not to notice how the lady who must be my Aunt Laurie seems embarrassed by the man who must be Joe holding it.
“You must be Jessie Mae,” says Aunt Laurie, her eyes looking me over, judging me, dissecting me.
“Yes” I say, and my apparent relatives give me hugs.















We don’t talk much in the car ride; they just tell me things that I need to know, like where we live, what the apartment number is, and what life will be like. Most of the time, I just list things that I see, or think about how funny their accents are.
We are sitting at a dinner table. I haven’t had a dinner this complete since Papa was around, and we only would eat as a family on Sunday nights.
Finally Joe breaks the silence. “So, Jessie Mae tell us about yourself. What do you want us to call you?”
“Um, just Jessie Mae is okay.” I stop for a moment to really think about it. I think about how this new life I’m going to have in Philadelphia is completely different from my old one. I think about how I have a chance to start over, and become a different, better person. “Actually,” I say, my voice wavering, but growing stronger, “you can call me Mae”.
Joe claps his hands and laughs. “There you are, we’ve finally got a chance to meet you!”

I laugh and smile but I still have a question I’ve been meaning to ask.





“Why do we call you Joe instead of Uncle Joe?”
Joe starts, “Well. . ”
Aunt Laurie quickly cuts in, her voice as serious as ever. “While Joseph and I have been married for many years, you must know that I believe in you not calling him your uncle because he is not related to you by blood, so you should not be giving him the title of uncle”.
“Oh,” is really all I can say to respond to it and my not uncle Joe and I share a teasing look.

















“Love you Mama,” are the words I use to end our facetime that night. In a weird way I kind of wish I hadn’t talked to Mama.
She just reminds me of everything I’ve lost, when in my heart, I know I should be celebrating the new things I’ve got. Like how I just had a nice sit-down meal, and how I had such a nice, easy conversation.
But who am I kidding, Arkansas is my home, and like Mama told me, the second you stop wanting something thats the second you’ll never get it. So if I stop wanting to go back to Arkansas I’ll never go back.
When Aunt Laurie comes in to say goodnight I pretend I’m asleep. Stop thinking about Philadelphia, I tell myself, stay true to yourself. I find myself drifting off, reciting my thoughts of hatred of Philadelphia, and love of my home.


















Joe and I are on the front steps of the house, looking at the cars and talking about what I want to do this summer. I try my best to block out his words, chanting in my head: I want to spend my summer in Arkansas, I love Arkansas, let me go home… .
A blue car and two trucks are passing by when three girls with meticulously braided hair pass by on the sidewalk.
After they pass, Joe speaks in a hushed tone. “Those girls are really nice Mae, you could be friends with them.”
I look down the street wondering what my life would be like if I took that step towards friendship. But I stop myself. “No, NO,” I say, raising my voice, “it doesn’t work like that, it’s not that easy.” God, why won’t he understand? I’m from Arkansas and that’s how it will stay!”
“But, Mae I. . .”
I slam the front door and run up the steps to my room.
What was he thinking? I don’t need any new friends. Warm tears slide down my cheeks and I allow myself to let out a whine. I put up the hood on my jacket and stuff my hands into my pockets. Inside my left pocket, I feel something soft and long. When I take it out I realize that it’s a bracelet. The one from Keani. See, I think, I have friends, and this bracelet proves it.
UGH: that’s all I think when I remember our fight, what she did to me. I sigh, I have nothing left. My other friends in Arkansas won’t bother to contact me, and I lost the only one that would.
When Keani and I were friends, our relationship was like a balloon firmly attached to a stick, all the fun of a normal balloon, but closer to you. Because I had to move, the stick became a cheap string, loosely connected to the balloon, but at the train station, I cut that string by being so rude. I kick the wall leaving a black skid mark, Oh Lord I’m so stupid.! I’ve lost all my friends, being either too angry and depressed to keep contact. I’m becoming one of those people whose only friend is their mom. My mind spins with thoughts of self-disgust, and disappointment, but one thing soon becomes clear; I can’t cut anymore strings.
















Joe and I are sitting on the steps again, and I have apologized to him for my behavior, an apology made mandatory by my strict but lovable Aunt Laurie. After I apologized yesterday Joe gave me his “famous tour of the city” that included the historical sights of the city, Joe’s favorite ice cream place, and a walk by the Schuykill river followed by a trip to the art museum.
Now, looking out on the city sidewalk, car watching and people watching, I make a list that is, for the first time, on a good day. I list the people, all of them so beautifully different, the remarkably old buildings, and marvelous new ones, the community basketball court, with its broken chain-link fence and cracked asphalt, beloved by so many, no matter how junky. I hear the cars honking and screeching. I see the girls with the braids in their hair, and muster up my courage as they approach.
“Hi y’all,” I say. “I’m new here; my name is Mae.”
“Hey,” two of the three chorus, but the one is staring at my ear, horrified. She elbows at her friends and whispers something in their ears.
Oh great. My mind is tumbling with what could be wrong.
Finally, she speaks. “STAY STILL,” she says in a loud, but steady voice.
“What is it?” I say, getting exasperated.
“There’s a bee on your ear.”
Thank God, I think, mentally rejoicing, it’s just a bee! I take a deep breath and with the speed and precision of a grasshopper, I whack it off my ear and on to the ground. I’d really rather not be stung by a bee.
“Whew,” I sigh. The girls with the braided hair laugh.