When a U.S. Customs and Border Protection officer in Miami demanded to know whether my artisanal wooden chess set was “treated” (a process by which wood is infused with chemical preservatives to become insect-resistant), I recalled my chair in the Yale Peabody’s Entomology Division. I’d handled many invasive species during my time there and understood their danger, but my anger persisted because of the officer’s confrontational attitude. Take note: one year of expertise from working in an entomology lab makes no difference in these kinds of situations.
In the spirit of reviving my scientific interests, I had quickly accepted the job offer at the Peabody last September. During my post, I opened countless display boxes and assigned them unique identification numbers. Preparing specimens for exhibition required caution, and every display box came with an element of surprise: unique coloration and morphology, geographic diversity, and the occasional critter from the early eighteenth or nineteenth centuries. Between moments of surprise and excitement came occasional moments of unsettlement and revulsion, brought on by intense odors and insects longer than my hand.
11,000 specimens preserved and a handcrafted illustration gifted by a co-worker later, I decided to resign. Not to worry, there were no bridges burned: my boss would be un-bee-livably happy to know I am still a citizen-entomologist (someone able to distinguish insects from other arthropods).
Upon seeing the alluring polka dots and two-tone unfurling of lanternfly wings across New Haven, I hesitated more than a citizen-entomologist should to squash the invasive bug; the outsider almost had me fooled!
Between the Connecticut Agricultural Experiment Station (CAES) website and videos from U.S. Sen. Richard Blumenthal’s office, I have gathered that it is a moral imperative for everyone to reduce spotted lanternflies to mere particles. That is, only after you submit a photo and its corresponding location to the online CAES Invasive Pest Reporting form. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service provides the most thorough account of the creatures’ destructive nature, detailing the morbific mold growth lanternflies leave on host plants. While it is accurate that the pests largely prefer the invasive tree-of-heaven (we’re supposed to annihilate these, too), these planthoppers also destroy native trees, grapevines, and apple orchards. The ones we Yalies frequent with our rescos every Fall are so far unscathed, but perhaps not for long; go ahead and take those charming photos while you still can.
Variations of, “If you see it, kill it” have become a resounding motto for scientists, arborists, and citizen stompers during the late summer each year—the period when lanternflies are most active. “They’re taking over Science Hill,” my friend Javi Ramírez, SM ’28 insisted. The area has become an open mortuary for the bugs. Javi also hypothesized that the lanternflies are “messing with the YaleSecure router,” responsible for the spotty signal across campus.
Beyond lanternflies, the human instinct often strives to eliminate insects they deem unworthy. Ordinary encounters include kitchen cockroaches, bed bugs, restless flies that never quite go away, Northeast ticks associated with lyme disease, and now, hopefully, lanternflies.
Insectophobia has also made its way into literary tradition; an esteemed favorite is Horacio Quiroga’s The Feather Pillow, a short horror story that follows the quick decline of its protagonist, Alicia. After a series of days, her malady is revealed to be the product of an inflamed tick-like parasite that had been feeding on her blood.
Together, these ordinary encounters and Quiroga’s short story represent the hostile human-insect relationship. As such, perhaps we can make the spotted lanternfly the primary target of said antagonism, for the good of our ecosystem. Vineyards and orchards are under threat, with further concerns that lanternflies will hitch a ride to California and unleash damage similar to biblical locust swarms.
As the foliage of early autumn settles, spotted lanternflies begin producing egg masses—grey, plaster-like, and about an inch long—to prepare for another season of infestation. I’d like to think that (the impolite) Border Protection officer in Miami and I are now fighting the same enemy: the spotted lanternfly, Lycorma delicatula, the prey of science hill stompers, call them what you would like. The battle is far from over!
With nearly no natural predators, it is our civic duty to squish, stomp, and now scrape spotted lanternflies to near extinction; it is the only solution in sight. The animosity towards insects has always been unyielding and, for this reason, must be channeled to eradicate these pests.
And so I say: join the battle, beat the bug! (for the wine connoisseurs who want to save the California vineyards: save the grapes and unleash your wrath!)