Grasshopper Love

by Melissa Nunez

There was nothing special about the grasshoppers. They were probably red-legged, a very common species. They can be considered crop hazards—pests. But they were sitting in the sand of the Sonic volleyball pit where our youth group was meeting that midsummer evening. A section of sediment made rectangle by high walls of chain-link fence that opened to covered patio and then asphalt. Path to further pavement as other fast-food chains flanked either side, and farther on, filled this whole mid-McAllen area. Maybe it appeared soft soil, ripe repository for fertile pods amid the strips of decorative green long since gone anemic. Flaccid fronds of palm littering shriveled sod. They could fly, but they wouldn't. And they were going to be crushed.

I spotted the first one by my foot. I scooped it up and ran, placing it near the sprigs of wild grasses sprouting from the cracks in the curb outside the fence between serves. The second one was directly below the net, narrowly avoiding being flattened by the players spiking and blocking. Right when I decided it was going to be more trouble than it was worth, that if they wanted to stay here, crushed to their deaths, I would let them, I heard someone from the sidelines call my name.

It was Jason, nephew of one of our youth leaders and my first kiss. We had gotten so close last summer as he joined our youth group services and then the out-of-town summer camp. Where even miles from the Valley, a few hours north, we were plucking buffelgrass burrs from shoelaces and climbing curving trunks and low-slung limbs of huisaches swayed sideways in search of sunlight, seeming cousins to the mesquites that stood sentry on our church lawn. I hadn’t expected him to be waiting for me in the fellowship hall of the empty church the night we returned home. A quick stopover as we waited for parents to pick everyone up. A few lights had been flicked on for those who needed to use the restroom, but the air conditioners remained silent. The accordion partition separating the small sanctuary from rows of rooms used for classes and this more open area for social gatherings was pulled shut. The most alone we ever would be. When his lips met mine, larger and softer than they felt pressed up to my ear (whispering worship), I felt evidence of anticipation or maybe just the heat in the beaded sweat filed on philtrum like dew drops on blade grass. But once the school year started up again, he was no longer available to attend meetings, and we evaporated. At pre-internet-age13, long distance relationships—even only a few towns over—were near impossible to maintain. 

I looked over to the bench meant for spectators or substitution spillover he had been sitting on to find him on his feet now, hands cupped before him and lifted in offering towards me: a grasshopper held in need of safe delivery. And I obliged.

After a few more rotations, attempting to set up some of my teammates for cut shots and power tips or any kind of hit that actually made it over the net, I heard my name again. This time it was Marc, my current crush. He had recently moved down to our South Texas town with his mom who plugged him into church right away as means to making friends and curbing some of the culture shock the shift from Chicago brought. In this place where nightlife means the chirping of chicharras, luminous lightning bugs, bonfires on receding ranches. We had exchanged phone numbers and began sitting in the same pew, arms bumping and knuckles grazing from time to time at the turn of opaque pages. Hands resting adjacent on crimson cushion, smallest of fingers adjoined. He was kneeling at the baseline where he was currently stationed, hands domed over the toe of his shoe. 

The night continued in this manner, both boys capturing and calling but not actually transporting the insects themselves. Me wondering what we were even helping. If grasshoppers are all that important. If whatever part they might play in the ecosystem aside from food source for others was worth the exchange of glances and words not quite whispered about my ping-pong predicament. Because of course this wasn’t the kind of fellowship to focus on or foster. 

Did you know that some grasshoppers turn locust? Not all of them transform in this manner, but they are all related and have the same devastating effect in swarms. And it is touch that does it. The density of population causing their bodies to brush. This increased interaction leads to an upsurge in the impulse to mate. To eat. Perpetuating a population of plague proportions. And I respect the hunger. A ravening that takes something simple, something common, making it reverent. And it all makes sense in a way when you consider their lifespan. If you only had a gathering of days on this earth—a moon cycle—wouldn’t you want to make your mark? Define your place? Wouldn’t you want to eat your weight of world? 

As I bustle from bench to fence to sandy court, from one set of cupped hands to the other, I feel the simmer. The bubbling urge to bare fearsome form. It wasn’t Jason or Marc or even the grasshoppers, really. It was those stridulations of tongue to teeth, susurrations making wing-worthy wind. And wondering what it would be like not to be so set apart, not examined in solitary spectacle but in solidarity with those whose hearts, once filled with tension, spring ready for release. To take that leap. Embracing the vivacity that warns away dissenters. Calling to others of our kind. Colliding into one desire. Burning bright together. Engulfing the earth.