Industry 07.28.2013

When I was a kid, we woke up one morning to find our pet birds, Peat and Repeat, had been eaten alive by ants. Bones wiped clean. The tree outside the nearby window swarmed with them, a sight not uncommon in the Philippines, where we had been living. Even as a child, I understood that Peat and Repeat were gone because the ants had rallied for a common goal: dinner. Individually, they were small and relatively harmless; together they were fatal. I had nightmares about the ants creeping through my parent's window, and leaving a bed full of bones.

Two decades later, I lived in Florida: a state with a climate that is ripe for fire ants. In the mornings, I'd sit on my porch and watch them build mounds on the sidewalk as I pushed my hashbrowns through the dregs of ketchup on my plate. I'd watch as they gathered still-sticky popsicle sticks, overripe cherry tomatoes from the garden, and oozing dead beetles to pull into the center of the mound with industrious precision.

By mid-afternoon, without fail, the humidity would peak and the sky would open, washing away the mound, scattering tomato seeds and beetle legs across the sidewalk.

By nightfall, they had rallied together for a common goal: home. Individually, they were small; together they were unstoppable.

Kind of like us.