By Brier Gunderson
“2024 is a big year for periodical cicadas in Illinois, where Broods XII and XIX will be emerging throughout much of the state at the same time. This simultaneous emergence is the first time since 1803 and will not happen again until 2245.”
Back home in Illinois, this is the summer of the cicada—where trillions will emerge after seventeen years of life underground. Every summer, cicadas have been a part of my life, and I’ve found them only more and more fascinating as I’ve spent less and less time in the Midwest.
When I think about how I would describe a summer in Illinois to someone, I think of my frizzy hair and the thick humid air that you could nearly catch into jars. I think of fireflies and dinners outside. There’s of course the mosquitos, and the longer days, and the dewy mornings. There’s ice cream and the fourth of July parade, and bike rides. But what makes it exceptional is the way that the Midwest canopy awakens, as the sun begins to go down and the cicadas begin to buzz. This buzzing is so loud it fills all the silence, making Illinois a tropical jungle-like forest, reminding us that we’re not alone.
Cicadas are giant bugs with wings and big—often red—eyes. If I hadn’t grown up constantly around them, I’m certain that they would terrify me. They spend most of their lives underground and come up to breed every thirteen to seventeen years. But for the hot months that they emerge, cicadas make themselves heard.
What makes this year so unique is that two broods are coming out at the same time, making it a potential superbrood. The last time this overlap occurred was 1803: Thomas Jefferson was president of the United States, it was the year of the Louisiana purchase, and Illinois wasn’t even a state. I wonder what a summer in the early 1800’s might look like. I wonder what I would have thought back then if I were around for that summer of the cicada.
The cicadas returning mark an important moment in my own history. Seventeen years later, I’m entering a new beginning: life post-grad. In 2007, I started school for the first time. I remember my mom let me get pink high-top Converse shoes to wear to kindergarten. They went along perfectly with my purple dragon fly backpack. It was a start to a new plethora of independence: I rode the yellow bus by myself, knew how to tie my shoes and zip up my coat on my own, and I learned how to write my name.
The newfound independence I’m about to endure looks a little different these days. Seventeen years later, I’m anticipating the closure of school: no more essays, presentations, or lectures. No more walks to school or rushing to finish an assignment I had procrastinated. There’s no more procrastinating walking across that stage to receive that fancy piece of paper. There’s no more procrastinating my life.
Seventeen years ago, I was five years old. I’d like to say that I remember this summer perfectly. I’d like to tell a story with crystal clear vision, but memory has a funny way of twisting and bending time—molding what really happened into what our mind chooses to tell us at the end of the day. So, for that Illinois summer in 2007, all I have are warped memories that continue to take on new shapes.
In April of 2007, my family scooped up our nine-week-old rescue puppy into a laundry basket to take him home. Otis was a half English pointer, half we’ll-never-know, but at first, he was a small white dog with black splotches all over him. He looked like the cartoon version of what dogs were supposed to look like. That summer, Otis had gone from puppy to true dog in rapid speed. My family still thinks that the cicada year had something to do with it. Otis would lap up cicadas and eat as many as he could. I’m convinced he ate hundreds.
In 2007, there were so many cicadas that you could scoop up handfuls of them. They’d buzz and cling onto your fingers with their legs. When they shed their exoskeletons, my brother, Bridger, and I would crunch their shells in our hands. Cicadas quickly became a part of our summer rituals, a part of our adventures.
The author offering her dog, Otis, a cicada snack in the summer of 2007.
We come from a family that climbs trees and rubs dirt in between our hands, exploring the little worlds that the earth provides. Older generations spent their summers almost entirely out of the house, only returning home for supper. While my brother and I certainly didn’t disappear until dinner, most of my memories about growing up in the summertime are littered with images and memories of roaming the neighborhood, and only returning when we heard our mom’s whistle telling us it was time to come home. I was always the younger sister in tow.
Together, Bridger and I took adventures big and small. Mostly, they were small adventures that turned into something big. At the time in 2007, we had large bushes that surrounded the brick of our house. Bridger and I were both so tiny that we could squeeze behind the bushes and go inside of them, like they were our own little caves. There, in our fortress, we would make up secret missions and devise plans.
These days, summers no longer consist of secret missions or hiding in bushes. Our neighborhood seems much smaller, and many of our childhood friends have moved away. But the magic and the history remain; they’ve taken on the shape of memories and photographs. The memories still come alive in the summer humidity. They come alive on an evening stroll when the fireflies begin to shine, and the cicadas start to buzz.
Today I feel just like the cicada. Today I feel like I’ve lived my entire life completely underground, and suddenly I’m expected to emerge into the bright light of day, and suddenly know how to do it all by myself.
I still have big questions.
I still don’t quite know who I’ll be in a few months. I’m not quite sure what kind of job I’ll have or where I’ll live or how I’ll feel.
I wonder if I was just as nervous and unsure back then, with my dragon fly backpack and pink shoes. I wonder if I felt the same big feelings but just didn’t yet have the words or mind to understand it. I wonder what that young girl would tell me today. I think she’d say it’s going to be alright. And then I think she’d tell me to go outside and catch some fireflies. She’d tell me to devise secret missions and take adventures big and small. She’d tell me to call Bridger up and go explore my backyard for a little while. She’d tell me to go by myself some pink shoes.
Seventeen years. In just seventeen years I’ve gone from little girl to independent woman; from prekindergarten to end of college. So much of my life has changed—my world is much bigger now. And yet, I still feel like that little girl. I’m still just as in awe of the world, I still dream big and love hard.
There are things I’m looking forward to as my emergence to the world is getting closer. I’m looking forward to taking a deep breath and letting go of the pressure I’ve put on myself throughout my academic years. I’m looking forward to returning home to Illinois to spend some time with family and old friends. I’m looking forward to the summer of the cicada.
Seventeen years. I wonder what it might feel like if we went through moments of time through the timeline of seventeen years. Maybe we wouldn’t need to feel like we were in such a hurry. Maybe we’d be patient enough to enjoy the time spent underground— before it’s our time to break through the surface.
The author and her mother at Midewin National Tallgrass Prairie in Will County, IL.
Brier Gunderson is the granddaughter of longtime TWI supporters and former board member Tom and Anne Rodhouse. She is a writer and graduate of Colorado State University.