Satire | Spotted lanternflies’ morality and mortality

Dear Alaina, 

I am writing you in the hopes that you can spread my message to the students of Pitt and, optimally, the world. As Oakland residents know, in the warmer months, swarms of lanternflies litter the air and streets with their disgusting existence. They’re annoying, they try to fly in my eyes and mouth every time I step outside and they’re invasive, so we’re supposed to kill them. Even God agrees that they are foul creatures that should never have graced the Earth. 

All too often, however, I see their would-be killers dancing around Forbes, struggling to catch their prey as they bound just out of the path of the shoes attempting to spell their destruction. And even when one is successful in this brutal murder, the carcass gets all over the shoe, it crunches, and personally, doing it makes me feel bad because being crushed to death sounds like the most painful death possible. Thus, as an inventor and engineering minor, I took it upon myself to find a less painful way to kill them. More humane, if you will — if there’s a humane way to kill another living being, that is. 

And so I set upon my quest. I assumed, initially, that a direct shot to the heart would, as with any other creature, immediately cease its existence. But upon researching, I gleaned that they do not, in fact, have hearts. Just another thing supporting my thinking that they are not one of God’s creatures. Instead, I’ve found that a diagonal shot through their head, entering the rest of the body, immediately stops them in their tracks. 

To figure this out, I had to trap 40 lanternflies, which took three days with how they jump around. I then tested different methods and insertion points until I found that they died fastest with this method. So, hypothetically, this should mean that they feel little to no pain. Or, at least, less than they do with the crushing technique. 

To test that hypothesis, I realized that the only way to gauge the pain felt by the creature was to ask it myself. But there’s no way to communicate with a lanternfly, so I thought it was over. I had failed. I had one lanternfly left from my testing, and I almost gave up. But as I attempted to release him, feeling too downtrodden to kill him, he stayed in the tank. I tipped it out outside, but he flew upwards, staying steadfastly inside the case. When I asked him why he wouldn’t leave, he shook his head. This creature, which I assumed lacked any intelligence, was communicating with me. All was not lost. 

We began an intense training period. I taught him everything I know. We started small. Being able to identify basic objects and materials, like they do with parrots. He couldn’t speak, obviously, but he could shake his head yes and no. I didn’t name him so I wouldn’t grow attached, but I couldn’t help but bear a fondness for him. We started with simple arithmetic, until he could do most calculus problems with ease. Same with English, science and finally, my goal from the beginning — philosophy. And a little bit of Shakespeare. To be or not to be, Julius Caesar’s friends stabbing him to death, all that crap I’ve never had patience for. 

By this point, he had mastered Morse code, so he was writing his own poems. Nothing incredible by any means, besides the fact that there was a bug writing haikus in my basement. My real goal at this point was to make sure the little guy knew what death was and what the consequences of that were so that he could fully understand pain and dying. He knew his purpose, and he was prepared to fulfill it. 

At this point, despite my best efforts, I had built a kinship with him. He was my little buddy and he saw me as a father/god figure. I began to mourn the loss of his friendship before he was gone, knowing what had to occur. Then, one day, I went to class and a girl noticed a bee sleeping in the corner. A few people freaked out, but she insisted on saving it. She put it in an old to-go cup with holes poked in it and fed it with stuff she just had in her backpack to help it get its strength back. I heard someone ask her after class if she was going to let it go yet, but she said that it would die if she did because it’s so cold out, so she was going to keep it in her car overnight, then let it go in the morning when it was warmer. 

I, like most people, generally believe in saving the bees and all that, but I’ve been stung too many times to not secretly be a bit scared of bees. But this heartwarming display made me see another world where the insects don’t attack us and instead exist as our friends. Humans are the most invasive species to exist — who are we to try to influence the going-ons of other creatures? 

I almost ended the project then and there. I told Nelson what happened. My spotted lanternfly told me that that was his name, so I’ve been calling him that. I thought that he would be enthusiastic about my suspension of the project which would, again, completely end his existence. But he put his little hand on mine and shook his head no. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, horrified. 

He tapped out his response. “Spotted lanternflies have a life cycle of only one year from egghood to adulthood. By the time I became truly conscious, I only had about three months left. My time is almost up. Please, let me do the greatest thing that a being as small and insignificant as me could do. Let me help with your experiment. To be a part of the science that put my species back where we belong, to finally end all this needless death and rebirth, cycling on and on with no end in sight. Let me help bring a less painful death to the poor souls that have to die for this cause. Please.” 

We then cried together, as I, of course, would grant him his only request. To be a part of something bigger than himself. 

Well, I think he cried. I don’t think insects can cry, so he did his best. The next day would be his last. 

That was it. Nelson’s death was unfortunately not as instantaneous as I was hoping. I asked him if it hurt as he died. He slowly shook his head no, but he seemed to be gritting his proverbial teeth. I think he was lying to make me feel better. It didn’t. But I couldn’t let his death be in vain. So after he passed and I had held a small funeral in his honor, I tried killing two more. They died much faster. Maybe the biodegradable needle got caught in his heart, the thing the other insects lacked. I don’t know. 

While I would say that the project was a success and that you can buy my invention — which targets spotted lanternflies, shoots them through the head with a biodegradable needle, killing them instantly — from me at the low low price of $4.99, I would argue that it costs much more than that. I felt a piece of my heart break off when I killed Nelson, and now I believe that every time you take a life, it takes another part of your soul. So I don’t kill spiders anymore. Mosquitos, fire ants, wasps, no matter how dangerous I perceive them, I don’t bother them. Because of Nelson. 

Poor, poor, Nelson. So, in his honor, help control the population of spotted lanternflies. Or don’t. I will not be participating in the destruction of another living being. Not deliberately, at least. And I would advise against you doing it either. I asked the girl the next week how the bee was. She told me it lived to the next morning, at which point she put it on her tree before it flew away. She lost track of it. But I like to think that it flew to heaven to hang out with Nelson. But also is still alive. If that makes sense. So, don’t kill bugs. They’re our friends. That is all. 

Cordially, 

Anonymous (no affiliation to the organization)

Alaina McCall writes things. They have a bug phobia. They are too scared to kill a bug bigger than a gnat. Please save them if a spider comes near. Mccallalaina@gmail.com