The Butterfly Effect (RC)

**Ordinary Sarah** · 11-20-2004, 11:43 PM

The Butterfly Effect
A Humorous Essay

It is so often common for girls to fall in love with something they will never understand. This quality began to develop in me at an early age. When I was in kindergarten, my classroom housed a beautiful butterfly farm. We kept those butterflies during the winter until they hatched and began growing lovely wings. I was fascinated with the colors, and the graceful way they fluttered from flower to flower. The blues, oranges, purples, and pinks seemed to swim amongst the miniature foliage. When we released our pets towards the end of March, I was amazed. It looked like flowers floating in the air and escaping in an imaginary breeze. I had never seen anything like it.

Needless to say, I feel in love with those beautiful butterflies. I began begging for butterfly toys, shoes, jewelry, and even underwear to go with my butterfly pajamas. I drooled over the butterfly pencils, paper, and envelopes. When I got the stationary, I drew butterflies all over my notes, and even pasted butterfly stickers on the newly decorated paper. I daydreamed about butterflies, and pretended to be a butterfly, graceful and gorgeous. I couldn’t seem to get enough of my obsession.

One afternoon in class, my teacher gave us supplies to draw our own butterflies, emerging from their cocoons after metamorphosis. I carefully took the right color of paper and an assortment of fat crayons to my desk. As I drew my butterfly, I was sure that it was the best in the class. The wings seemed perfectly constructed, and the graceful, slender body was uniquely curved. There were two curly, violet antennae placed just above the big round eyes. It was an epiphany of beauty! Never mind that my lines were not straight or that I had not yet learned to color inside the lines.

I looked over at the nearby “boys table”, an island famous for it’s blood and guts. They were mostly using colors that consisted of browns, blacks, and of course, red for the occasional blood in varying places. Those boys would do anything they could to turn such a beautiful creature into a ravaging, bloodsucking beast. They were laughing like maniacs, occasionally screaming, “Ahh!!! Die you evil monster!!” Didn’t they know that butterflies were the most beautiful things on earth? No, I suppose they didn’t.

Towards the end of April, I was spending the warm afternoon outside with my parents. I was, as always, on a butterfly search. I was chasing the tiny white ones that always seem a little bit anemic. My father was watering the lawn and admiring how immaculate it had turned out this year. My mother was reading a magazine and lounging in her favorite sun chair.

Suddenly, my dad called me over to look at something he had found. As I came closer, I saw that he had caught an enormous butterfly by the wing. It was amazing! I had never seen one this large and majestic. It’s wings were the most beautiful shade of violet-blue. It was gently flapping it’s wings to get away from my father’s grip. I stared in awe; what an amazing creature!

My father watched my wonder, and was apparently pleased with his daughter’s fearlessness, and her appreciation of such beauty. How many of the other fathers had a daughter who was so fascinated with something that most girls shriek at as though it were an ordinary bug? In his own excitement, he touched my shoulder, and exclaimed in triumph, “See, there isn’t anything to be afraid of. It’s only a worm with wings.”

In that instant, a million and one gruesome images popped into my little girl head. Firstly, this was a worm? Those brown wriggling things that crawled through the dirt in the clear experiment cups at school? The things that the little boys dug for in the school yard in order to dangle in front of their classmate’s faces? The things that birds pecked for in the early mornings, and then gobbled down their throats? What did he mean it was a worm? But with legs and antennae, and worst of all, wings! I was thoroughly convinced that any slimy thing that possessed a pair of wings was up to no good when it came to the human race.

I immediately broke into a fit of incessant screams. I ran as fast as I could into the arms of my mother. I sobbed on her shoulder while my father stood watching, wondering what he had done wrong, or how he had failed. Was it his fault? No, but I felt like another boy had crushed my hopes and trust in something beautiful. It was just like the boy’s pictures of warrior butterflies. I learned an important lesson that day, one that has followed me, even up into young womanhood. I learned to be cautious and judicious about things that I became interested in; whether it be boys, or butterflies.