The Ant, the Cicada and the Globalization

                                                

                                                        

                             Gilson Marcon de Souza

The hot sun of the last day of spring was a harbinger of a scorching summer, but that did not matter, because that was what Magy was expecting.

She got up early after spending all winter and part of spring retired as a contemplative nun, making plans and wondering how the summer was going to be like next year.

It was time to act, although rumors have it that the cicadas were not used to keep up hard work.

“Ready,” Magy said to herself, “now these lyrics are perfect and I can no longer wait to rehearse the new arrangement of Simone's wonderful song.

The melody part Magy liked the most and considered the most meaningful  one was the section that said ‘see, see, see, see, see...’ which she kept on singing all day long.

It was time to put the guy out and enjoy the summer:

“Enough of contemplation,” she ruled herself.

Hardly had she set foot out and she met her old friend: a stocky, short, but always active ant, always scouring around with her eyes, as if she were searching for someone or trying to escape from some call, as if hiding herself — which was not a lie at all.

“Hi, Anty, it has been a long time since we met; I haven't seen you for many months. Always running, right?” 

“Yeah, Magy, things are really rough in the anthill as the World Cup approaches; additionally, they are implementing a new network. They are implementing a Quality Assurance Certification System and the ant-managers don't stop picking on us. What about you, how are things getting along?”

“I’m doing what I have always done, Anty: singing, singing, singing... Someday I sing here, someday day I sing there, and that is how life goes...”

“But, Magy, tell me one thing,” she asked with her spiky antennas and an air of curiosity.

“Do you only sing or do you also work?”

Magy got a little upset with the question, but she did not thing her friend meant to offend her and decided to explain:

“Damn, Magy, singing is also working... I spent all winter long retired, contemplative, writing lyrics, composing... Now, nothing but fair than wishing to express my art and my work in the summertime.”

“Oh, sorry, Magy, but I was wondering if you have other activities on top of singing.”

“Well,” the cicada thought for a while, “I also like to dance. As a matter of fact, ​​I was going to invite you to spend the night out with me in a party.”

“I think it won't be possible,” she replied.

“Today we have to work overtime,” she said promptly, but her bright little eyes could not hide her desire to go. 

“Come on, Anty, today is Friday, things start later...” 

“I know, Magy, but I have a severe back pain and my whole arm is tingling. I carried a huge amount of heavy leaves today, but where will that be?”

“In a bar in Vila Madalena. My friend Cricket will play there. Why don't you come along with us? He is a DJ and is going to play some really nice songs there and teach us how to dance free step and psy trance.”

“It won't be possible, Magy; I need to be fit for the next week: the international auditors will make a wanton in the anthill and there will also be an inventory besides this audit.” 

“But, Magy, that Cricket friend of yours is a little too weird, isn’t he?”

“What do you mean, Anty?”

“Oh, you know, he's kind of stoned…”

“No, Anty, he is super cool, very fond of singing too; it is his way, because he is an emo.”

“Er, I really don’t know, Magy, will you be offended if I ask you a question?”

            “Go on, Magy,” answered the cicada bluntly, imagining, by that pitch of her friend's voice, the question was going to be related to the use of certain herbs or something like that.

“Don't you think that singing is bad? Aren't you afraid of singing around all the time? I've heard of a cicada that burst out of so much singing!”

“In my opinion singing just makes us feel good, Anty, both us and everybody else. And if that's the case, I want to die singing,” she said almost losing her patience and in a provocative tone: “see, see, see, see, see...”

“Sorry, Magy, I do not mean to offend you. Well, I guess I have to go...” 

“Would you like to have lunch with me?” 

“Where? In your place?”

“There is nothing to eat in my house, Anty, I got up a little late and there are only some withered leaves in my trunk, but we can eat something at MacBob's.”

“Not today, Magy, my boss doesn't allow us to have lunch outside the anthill.”

“Gosh, your boss is a deuche bag! Does the union know about that? Why don't you tell him to...?”

“He is no way a deuche bag, Magy.” Anty interrupted her friend with an air of indignation, “he is very fair with the employees. He has just been on pins and needles because of this policy change in these times of globalization. But he is very fair.

“And what is the new policy he intends to adopt?”

“A new management concept. He thinks the current system, Fordism, is outdated. Now he wants to implement a new system called Seven Beta.”

“Well,” said Anty excited, assuming a rather professorial posture, “in the Seven Beta System, the ants work towards the organization and the overall cleanliness of the anthill, aiming to avoid any waste whatsoever, focusing on production, quality control and the reduction of the leaves in the inventory... There will be only two shifts of twelve hours each, and the ants will remain in line and pass the leaves to each other as much as they can — all of them properly uniformed. It is going to be really nice,” the ant wrapped up, breathing deeply and turning her eyes to the sky.

“I can no longer wait to see this globalized system implemented, Magy, with the new network implemented, there will be cameras installed everywhere, and the ants from the international anthill will closely monitor the activity of each affiliate anthill. For example, the accountant-ant from the headquarters anthill will be constantly in touch with the accountant-ant of the affiliate anthill down here, as if the ant here were just an extension of the eyes, ears, hand and feet of the headquarters anthill ant there. Isn't that cool?” 

Magy was a little thoughtful, but was interested on how the uniform model was going to be like, since she felt that fashion was also an art, and everything related to art fascinated her: poetry, literature, music, sculpture, cinema, theater...

“How is the uniform model gonna be, Anty?”

“Gee, my boss is so brilliant and thought about that too! He created a dress and conduct code and sent an inter-anthill announcement letter stating that the ants must wear a sober navy blue dress to prevent the ants-workers, you know, the hard-hat ants, to harass them. So, nothing of sandals, low-cut blouses and other types of clothes that expose the ants’ body. He wants to protect them from sexual harassment. He thought about everything, even the type of perfume. Nothing of strong perfumes, because, since he is very smart, he is just trying to avoid the use of perfumes that emulate pheromones in order not to tease those pervert big ants.

“I think I wouldn't fit. With such transparent wings and almost naked underneath, your boss would shoo me.”

“He really would, Magy, I can even see your panties! At the end of the circular letter he said that in case of disobedience, the immediate boss of the ant would send her back home, without payment for lost time, and the ant in question would only return when properly dressed.”

“But, Anty, the weather is tropical in the anthill. With all those ant workers moving around, I imagine it must be very hot there; even I myself have to freshen up in a vented tree to escape this heat.”

“Yeah, Magy, but it is a sacrifice we have to make for the smooth progress of the work.”

“Anty, what about in the anthill headquarters, do they use the same uniform?”

“No, there the ants were shorts and tank top to work. Can you imagine that?

“But, Anty, why is it different there?” the cicada asked, rubbing her chin and trying to understand.

“Because it snows a lot there, so there is a very strong heating system, and they allow the worker ants to be more at ease; furthermore the headquarters is in the first world and they don't have this harassment issue over there.”

Magy rubbed her hands on her face, shook her head and hummed a little bit more:

“See, see, see, see, see... But, Anty, this business of Fordism, in which fashion is the new system of your boss different? Do you really think it will work out? I think the Brazilian ants are very versatile and creative. Do you really think the Brazilian ants would be able to work if they can't exercise their creativity? Do you really think they'd be content just being an extension of the ants of the headquarters anthill?”  

“You don't understand, Magy... Brazilian ants are lazy and corrupt. My boss only cares for number one. You know, once, at a meeting, he said the ants were to express their opinions and demonstrate their creativity without fear. He said the ants' ideas were an intellectual property of the company. But see how ethical he is: in order to avoid quarrels and frictions when the idea is good, he tells the CEO the idea is his. What wisdom! What a wise and righteous man! What ethics…” She sighed once more.

“Well, I think I gotta run, Magy, I don't want to be late.”

“I understand, Anty, I also need to go.”

“Will you sing some more?”

This time the cicada saw a bit of mockery, but kept her pose:

“No, Anty, today I won’t sing, but I will attend a meeting of writers and poets at the Writer's Circle. It is gonna be a poetic soiree about the influence of soccer on the Brazilian culture and I just can't miss it...”

“Er, poetic soiree!” The ant exclaimed, scratching her forehead and looking down. 

“Why doesn't the government give lectures on the Seven Beta System? My boss can help. Oh, and don't forget to sing a song for me, I love when you sing!”

“Never mind, Anty,” the cicada replied discouraged, not knowing whether it was still a mockery or just a request from her heart.”

After the meeting, Magy returned to her place up in the tree a little thoughtful. Deep inside she had a sort of admiration for the ant and began to wonder if ought she not to follow the example of such a dedicated and hardworking ant. She spent all week long meditating on the subject.

The following week, she met another ant, who abruptly informed her about the sudden death of her friend Anty: she had died of a fulminating syncope on the way to the warehouse, where the tenderest leaves were held in stock for the winter.

Magy was shaken; despite everything she loved her friend Anty when she explained her about the Seven Beta System.

Actually, she was too sad for the loss of her friend and decided to mourn in the most outstanding branch of the tallest tree, where she began to sing at the top of her voice:

  

"Because you asked me for a song to sing

On how the cicada burst out of so much

Light and fills the air with sound.

Because the ant is the cicada's best friend,

Roots of the same fable that she touches

Weaves and spreads in the air.

While it is still winter in our hearts,

This song is to sing

On how the cicada lights up the summer

And brightens up the air.

 See, see, see, see, see, see, see, see..."

Gilson Marcon de Souza

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