too. She flagged down a zookeeper, who said
that Morganetta had once been in local parades, and had done stunts like competing
against undergrads in a tug-o-war at a nearby school, but that she had gottenunpredictable and violent in her old age. She’d lashed out at visitors with her trunk
if they came too close to her cage. She had broken a caretaker’s wrist.
I started to cry.
My mother bundled me back to the car for the four-hour drive home, although we had
been at the zoo for only ten minutes.
“Can’t we help her?” I asked.
This is how, at age nine, I became an elephant advocate. After a trip to the library,
I sat down at my kitchen table, and I wrote to the mayor of Springfield, Massachusetts,
asking him to give Morganetta more space, and more freedom.
He didn’t just write me back. He sent his response to
The Boston Globe
, which published it, and then a reporter called to do a story on the nine-year-old
who had convinced the mayor to move Morganetta into the much larger buffalo enclosure
at the zoo. I was given a special Concerned Citizen award at my elementary school
assembly. I was invited back to the zoo for the grand opening to cut the red ribbon
with the mayor. Flashbulbs went off in my face, blinding me, as Morganetta roamed
behind us. This time, she looked at me with her good eye. And I knew, I just
knew
, she was still miserable. The things that had happened to her—the chains and the
shackles, the cage and the beatings, maybe even the memory of the moment she was taken
out of Africa—all that was still with her in that buffalo enclosure, and it took up
all the extra space.
For the record, Mayor Dimauro did continue to try to make life better for Morganetta.
In 1979, after the demise of Forest Park’s resident polar bear, the facility closed
and Morganetta was moved to the Los Angeles Zoo. Her home there was much bigger. It
had a pool, and toys, and two older elephants.
If I knew back then what I know now, I could have told the mayor that just sticking
elephants in proximity with others does not mean they will form friendships. Elephants
are as unique in their personalities as humans are, and just as you would not assume
that two random humans would become close friends, you should not assume that two
elephants will bond simply because they are both elephants. Morganetta continued to
spiral deeper into depression, losing weight and deteriorating. Approximately one
year after she arrived in L.A., she was found dead in the bottom of the enclosure’s
pool.
The moral of this story is that sometimes, you can attempt to make all thedifference in the world, and it still is like trying to stem the tide with a sieve.
The moral of this story is that no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want
it … some stories just don’t have a happy ending.
Jenna
When it comes to memory, I’m kind of a pro. I may be only thirteen, but I’ve studied
it the way other kids my age devour fashion magazines. There’s the kind of memory
you have about the world, like knowing that stoves are hot and that if you don’t wear
shoes outside in the winter you’ll get frostbite. There’s the kind you get from your
senses—that staring at the sun makes you squint and that worms aren’t the best choice
of meal. There are the dates you can recall from history class and spew back on your
final exam, because they matter (or so I’m told) in the grand scheme of the universe.
And there are personal details you remember, like the high spikes on a graph of your
own life, which matter to nobody but yourself. Last year at school, my science teacher
let me do a whole independent study on memory. Most of my teachers let me do independent
studies, because they know I get bored in class and, frankly, I think they’re a little
scared that I know more than they do and they don’t want to have to admit it.
My first memory is white at the edges,
that Morganetta had once been in local parades, and had done stunts like competing
against undergrads in a tug-o-war at a nearby school, but that she had gottenunpredictable and violent in her old age. She’d lashed out at visitors with her trunk
if they came too close to her cage. She had broken a caretaker’s wrist.
I started to cry.
My mother bundled me back to the car for the four-hour drive home, although we had
been at the zoo for only ten minutes.
“Can’t we help her?” I asked.
This is how, at age nine, I became an elephant advocate. After a trip to the library,
I sat down at my kitchen table, and I wrote to the mayor of Springfield, Massachusetts,
asking him to give Morganetta more space, and more freedom.
He didn’t just write me back. He sent his response to
The Boston Globe
, which published it, and then a reporter called to do a story on the nine-year-old
who had convinced the mayor to move Morganetta into the much larger buffalo enclosure
at the zoo. I was given a special Concerned Citizen award at my elementary school
assembly. I was invited back to the zoo for the grand opening to cut the red ribbon
with the mayor. Flashbulbs went off in my face, blinding me, as Morganetta roamed
behind us. This time, she looked at me with her good eye. And I knew, I just
knew
, she was still miserable. The things that had happened to her—the chains and the
shackles, the cage and the beatings, maybe even the memory of the moment she was taken
out of Africa—all that was still with her in that buffalo enclosure, and it took up
all the extra space.
For the record, Mayor Dimauro did continue to try to make life better for Morganetta.
In 1979, after the demise of Forest Park’s resident polar bear, the facility closed
and Morganetta was moved to the Los Angeles Zoo. Her home there was much bigger. It
had a pool, and toys, and two older elephants.
If I knew back then what I know now, I could have told the mayor that just sticking
elephants in proximity with others does not mean they will form friendships. Elephants
are as unique in their personalities as humans are, and just as you would not assume
that two random humans would become close friends, you should not assume that two
elephants will bond simply because they are both elephants. Morganetta continued to
spiral deeper into depression, losing weight and deteriorating. Approximately one
year after she arrived in L.A., she was found dead in the bottom of the enclosure’s
pool.
The moral of this story is that sometimes, you can attempt to make all thedifference in the world, and it still is like trying to stem the tide with a sieve.
The moral of this story is that no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want
it … some stories just don’t have a happy ending.
Jenna
When it comes to memory, I’m kind of a pro. I may be only thirteen, but I’ve studied
it the way other kids my age devour fashion magazines. There’s the kind of memory
you have about the world, like knowing that stoves are hot and that if you don’t wear
shoes outside in the winter you’ll get frostbite. There’s the kind you get from your
senses—that staring at the sun makes you squint and that worms aren’t the best choice
of meal. There are the dates you can recall from history class and spew back on your
final exam, because they matter (or so I’m told) in the grand scheme of the universe.
And there are personal details you remember, like the high spikes on a graph of your
own life, which matter to nobody but yourself. Last year at school, my science teacher
let me do a whole independent study on memory. Most of my teachers let me do independent
studies, because they know I get bored in class and, frankly, I think they’re a little
scared that I know more than they do and they don’t want to have to admit it.
My first memory is white at the edges,
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