Cicadas are everywhere in Southern Ohio now. When I step out into my front yard, I am literally dodging them.
I don’t mind them too much. They’re harmless, and they only come once every 17 years. I saw my first cicada brood in 1987, when I was 19. This year I turn 53. The next time the cicadas arrive, I will be in my 70s. And who knows how many cicada outbreaks I’ll see after that?
Cicadas make you aware of their presence while you’re driving, too. If you drive through a swarm, you may have the impression that it’s raining cicadas. (Cicada collisions with windshields can also be quite messy.)
There has been a lot of talk in the media of late about the upcoming emergence of Brood X, the next great wave of cicadas. And—in keeping with the spirit of these traumatized, triggered times—some people are now coping with severe cicada anxiety as they wait for the appearance of the red-eyed insects.
For me, any mention of cicadas takes me back to 1987. That was another major outbreak year. I was then 19 years old, and a student at the University of Cincinnati. As this contemporary article from the Los Angeles Times notes, Cincinnati was a major hotspot for the short-lived, unprepossessing bugs.
Cicadas were everywhere in Cincinnati that summer. They crawled on lawns, on the sidewalks of the inner city, on cars. The husks of the dead ones were everywhere, too.
The cicada mania of 1987 even inspired the song, “Snappy Cicada Pizza”.
Let’s return to the issue of cicada anxiety. I can’t say that I like cicadas, or that I would be pleased to come home and find a swarm of them inside my house. But they don’t cause me anxiety, either.
I sympathize, though, with the cicada-anxious. I have an extreme aversion toward wasps. My lifelong dislike of wasps even inspired a short story, “The Wasp”, which you can read here on the site.