If you have ever had the luxury of living in a questionably up-to-code off-campus house surrounding Boston College, you have probably experienced the joy of dealing with rats.
Two summers ago, I moved into a house on Gerald Road that had many “endearing” features—including a broken dishwasher, no central AC, and a haunted basement (which I like to think added even more character to the home).
But it was from the safety of my porch—looking out over the vast landscape of a folding table and overgrown brush—that I realized the enemy was near. Of course, I was aware that off-campus houses have a bit of a rat problem, but I didn’t realize the problem was quite literally in my backyard.
Our Gerald house didn’t just have rats. We had a rat village, a rat community, a rat empire, if you will. Every night as I stood on the porch and enjoyed the sunset, I felt their presence grow, and my stomach would churn like Macbeth’s as he realized troops were nearing.
Thanks to the rats, my roommates and I lived in fear and took turns throwing out the trash each night. We had rat safety protocols that included standing next to the garbage can, kicking it with your foot, listening for rustling, and then opening the lid from the side to prevent direct attacks. The last step involved throwing the garbage away immediately and sprinting back up the porch steps as quickly as possible. No matter how hard we tried to keep the backyard clean and trash contained, the rats were persistent.
Eventually, the rats became just another less-than-desirable feature of my house. Like a leaky sink or a front door that always sticks, we came to accept them as a condition, not a problem. Despite their presence, I still spent each night on the porch before heading to bed. I would watch them dive into the brush and pop back out again, gray and black blurs swimming in vines. I looked on as they scurried home with food for the night or headed out once more in search of dinner. I could hear the rats squeaking to one another above the overture of crickets, and I imagined they were welcoming a friend or family member home.
The more time I spent watching the rats, the more I warmed up to them. I found myself enjoying their scenes of life like a live National Geographic documentary that would play out in our backyard each night. My disgust over the rats melted slowly into a kind of wondrous respect. My roommates all called me crazy when I told them that I thought the rats are very entertaining (from a distance). But it was true! I actually sympathized with how hard they worked to survive.
Unlike other animals in the rodent “order”—like hamsters, capybaras, and squirrels—rats have a terribly bad reputation. Rats are known as disease carriers that steal resources. Throughout history, the imagery of rats has been used to justify genocides, such as the Nazi comparison of the Jewish people to rats. When someone is disloyal or a traitor, they’re not a squirrel or a mouse, they’re a “rat.” To most people, rats are filthy, deadly thieves. They’re the pinnacle of evil animals.
Throughout my summer alongside these creatures, however, I realized how wrong this worldview is.
Similar to the cockroach, which is also widely disgusted, rats are incredibly resilient animals. Say what you will about rats, but they’re determined to live. If all forms of life have survival as a common goal, why is it that rats are so detested for their attempts at the shared quest for life?
I’m not here to answer this question, nor will I rattle off many more facts about rats (even if their ability to feel empathy and their other social inclinations are fascinating). Instead, I think rats serve as a great lesson in how we approach that or those which we do not understand—or perhaps even fear. So much of our lives consists of things we do not understand.
My roommates were disgusted by the rats because they never took the opportunity to get to know them. They let their fear win over. This fear wasn’t a general distrust of the entire rodent community—most people are unphased at the sight of a squirrel or chipmunk—it was the specific type of fear we feel toward things we can’t comprehend or that scare us. These feelings aren’t always bad, and it’s okay to be fearful. But sometimes as a result of fear, we avoid further interactions with what we don’t understand, failing ourselves and others.
If I had chosen fear over curiosity—if I had chosen to run away from the rats—I would have never come to appreciate the simple joy of watching the lives of my rodent neighbors unfold. On a grander scale, consider the consequences that can result from choosing fear over curiosity in far more important issues.
I urge you to choose curiosity, even if you are scared. There is so much more to gain when we seek understanding of the things that we fear.
