Hope is Wild

I applied for an internship at the zoo in order to challenge my most pressing beliefs. Not with intention to change them; rather, to make them stronger. Any who knew my creed of freedom may have seen my working at a zoo as contradictory. Perhaps it is ironic that I wanted to work at the zoo because I pray to Freedom as the highest ideal of Nature and Divinity. But because I do, issues of freedom and captivity are paramount. In order to be a free conscious animal, I must understand what strives to keep me bound.
With both strong beliefs and an open mind in tact, I entered the gates of Point Defiance Zoo. I held the honest desire to meet human beings whose livelihood is in training marine mammals. Of course my motives were partially selfish. I was overwrought with desire to get close to the animals. I wanted to touch them and watch their every move. I wanted to learn from them, in an attempt to redeem the plights that humans - in spite of nature - had chosen for them.
* * *
I consider myself to be an activist, although not one who employs so-called "front line" tactics. I am not the one in between the gun and the fur. I am not the one in between the whale and the harpoon. I am not one to hate or blame another for having views that oppose my own. I get angry and sometimes self-righteous. But fundamentally, I realize that these emotions do not fuel the light of positive change. In that movement, I wish to be the one between the match and the candle, inspiring fire to shed new light in minds.
I believe that true activist movements happen when human beings are moved from an emotional place within. This movement then directs itself outward, in the form of actions by the individual that proclaim the motivating ethic of self-responsibility. Prior to working at a zoo, it would have been too easy for me, as an activist "on the side of freedom", to claim that zoos are in opposition to freedom and that, by the law of dual logic, "zoo keepers" are the jailers and the enemies. However, what I truly oppose is this sort of bipolar thinking, which lends itself to a paralysis of forward movement; invariably, it is the opponent of change. I could have adopted the opposing way of thought, and added the fictional genre of zoo keepers to the list of opponents against whom I should spend my life fighting. But what kind of life would that be? It would be a dishonest life, because I had yet to meet a zookeeper in the flesh. And furthermore, because of my born humanness, I am by nature a trapper of wilderness. The understanding of one’s own mortality, set against the background of infinite time, makes an animal afraid. It is what makes the human animal mind a kind of locked chamber of its own.
Zoo keepers were a construct in my mind, as were zoos; the products of stereotypes based on ignorance. How could I have rightfully claimed that this imagined group of characters were the enemies to "my" cause. This would have been yet another convenient way of pushing responsibility onto some other proverbial person's plate, in blame, and denying my own place in this plight that belongs to all of us and each of us. Not only some; not only others.
* * *
The difficulty I encountered when I started the internship surprised me. It was not hard to become comfortable within the confinement of the zoo. It was instead hard to resist the appeal of this "controlled environment", where it was easy and felt safe. The animals were fed on a schedule, and were played with x-amount of times daily. The uncertainty of events extended to which toys we decided to throw into the whale or walrus pool on a given day; to the occasional mixing-up of the feeding and training schedules; and to the choice of enrichment items we would scatter in the animals' exhibits. These might be honey or fruit to activate the animals' olfactory senses; or something new to chew on; sometimes fish frozen in ice for the polar bears. These means of variation were to stimulate the animals, and supposedly assure that their awareness would not atrophy in the absence of Nature's amorphous obstacles.
The conflict I faced, dueling between the comfort of predictability and the challenge of what's wild, was in essence a microcosm of the bigger conflict we face being human animals. We are creatures of nature that think the way humans think. Our minds of logic seek the comfort of control; while the innate know-how of our cells and senses mimic the more fluid dynamic of nature, and a surrendering to what flows. In the natural world, change is an ever-present opponent. And the outcome of every battle an animal fights for its survival is uncertain.
* * *
My interest in whales and dolphins originated as the result of dreams, in which the animals and I coexisted in graceful underwater flight. In these dreams, I experienced a sensation of freedom I have never known in the waking world. I was weightless and gigantic in the same breath. Since the dreams have tapered, I figure that my challenge is to manifest the dreams' intangible intricacies in the actions of my "real" life. I must learn to be weightless in my own body. Transcend the bearing down of gravity. I feel it is my responsibility, as a human being with a free mind, and as an animal who is blessed enough to live a free life, to communicate the importance of freedom to others. The dreams continue to inform me, with every word I speak; behind every act of humanness. Before the beginning of anything.
* * *
During my interview with J., the head trainer at "Rocky Shores" marine mammal habitats, I espoused pieces of my philosophy in response to her questions. I was honest when she asked about my thoughts regarding animals in captivity. "I do not stand on one side of the battle line or the other." I said. "I have had experience at the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor, watching killer whales in their natural habitat, and working among some well known scientists in the field of behavioral ecology. Some may see this field as one side of a coin, while captive facilities represent the other side. I agree to an extent. Though I look at both as realistic halves to a whole dynamic. They both exist, as does every shade of gray between them. And I want to understand the whole, not fragments. I want to see the connection between the halves, in order to better understand the tension at their interface. Mostly, I refuse to follow behind the blind lead of misinformed bias."
J. then revealed one of her own beliefs which saddened me. She said , "I don't believe that any true wild exists anymore". I could, of course, understand her reasoning. After all, who has yet to hear that the natural world is under the auspices of human evil, and will soon perish into final extinction? I knew what she was saying all too well. But I had at some point decided that at the root of all human conflict from which destruction emerges was the loss of hope. J.'s comment, to me, translated as a loss of hope. If there was no wild left -- truly, none left in J.'s mind or heart -- what was left to fight for? Might as well live with the locked cage doors and cement walls, night after night, and go home believing "that's just the way it is, and the way it has to be and so will be."
* * *
Hope is the wilderness of the human heart. To hope is to stray from the logic of what appears imminent. Staying locked up behind the belief that all is lost is easier, certainly, than living a wild life -- a life of hope. This life is a challenge. Its challenge is purposeful. And contending with its weight is overwhelming; at times excruciatingly so.
I watched the animals on a daily basis. I saw how genuinely they were cared for. I saw how well they were trained to behave in response to positive reinforcement. Particularly, I watched the whales.
A Skinner Box was filled with saltwater from the Puget Sound, and inside it, two captive-born belugas lived out their days and nights. I wasn't allowed to touch them for the first six weeks of my internship, as touching the body of the whales was to the intern what a big, juicy mackerel was to the whales. It was the greatest reward; the highest form of positive reinforcement. I had many other tasks to work through on the intern checklist before I was allowed to conduct timed play sessions, in which I could throw certain plastic toys into the water for the whales to bring back. I would spend weeks hosing and cleaning exhibits before I was allowed "contact". It was effective training. I behaved the way I knew I had to in order to get what I wanted. And just as Skinner promised, my behavior predicted my reward.
* * *
T. was another keeper at Rocky Shores. One day, T. and I were cleaning out the polar bear dens, when again, the issue of freedom came up in conversation. T. explained to me that she believes both freedom and captivity are human concepts, and concepts alone. This implies that there are not actualities behind the conceptualizations.
I looked around at the dens. They were cold, square, cement cells, each with its fourth wall made of steel bars. Because freedom and captivity are merely human ideas, T. said, animals could not "have", or be had, by either. She also said that, assuming animals did know the difference between their freedom or captivity, and if given a choice between the two, they would choose the latter.
"As humans," she said, "We think in human terms...Sure, if I were an eagle, the sky wouldn't be big enough! If I were a whale, the ocean wouldn't be deep enough! But animals," she said, "are opportunistic. Animals don't want to deal with the hardships of a free life! Not when living enclosed, within a set of simple rules for behavior and subsequent reward is easier. Give an animal all it needs to survive: food (hand-fed), shelter, and a clean, safe enclosure, the animal will be happy. Safe, satiated, and happy."
"The ocean"...she continued. "We idealize the ocean and all the beauty it inspires. But the ocean is a dangerous place! Like a dream, like life, you never know what's going to happen next, or what might be lurking around every corner. We imagine whales and dolphins playing all day long, when truly, they are fighting to stay alive in the unruly underside of the free world."
I could see what she meant; so clearly, in fact, that I almost had trouble forming a rebuttal. Was I beginning to believe in the righteousness of captivity? I couldn't be. Because I had never believed that a life of freedom was easy. Instead I had decided that challenge is what made life an ongoing opportunity for growth. And indeed, what made it worth living.
Without struggling for survival, how is one to grow or evolve to become more efficient a soul? Without trudging through the misshapen terrain nature has laid before us, how are we to take the paths that are rightfully ours to tread? We must pay the price, taking action that will benefit us later with rewards.
Certainly, an animal's life is easier in captivity. And it is easier to justify this belief rather than facing the hardship that accompanies -- rather, defines -- freedom. It is also easier to justify the idea that zoos are the last refuge and hope for the survival of wild animals, in lieu of giving up on saving natural resources and habitats through the promotion of hope in wildness. But putting an animal in a cage is like putting a child in his bedroom with a big-screen t.v., a VCR, a video game system, and the biggest tub of ice cream available at the convenience store. There, he is safe, satiated, and happy. But he has no recognition of his divine gift as a unique biological creation, born to evolve the life and body granted to him. He is left to believe that a sedentary, unhealthy life is enough. Though actually, he grows sick and fat on this diet of gluttonous, commercial feed. And sadly, he is missing out on fulfilling his true potential, as a motivated, creative, unique thinker and person. He is stimulated only by the narrow range of changes in video game levels. He is exposed to thousands of bits per second of subliminal advertising. He is possessed by corporate industry. And throughout his life, he will buy their unnecessary products at ludicrous prices, believing that every next purchase will be the one to finally fill in the void of creative and spiritual emptiness, left behind when his critical thinking skills vacated with the arrival of the technological baby-sitter. In the captive environments of this child’s isolated bedroom and numbed out brain, he forfeits his gifts. He submerges ever-deeper into the depression and boredom of physical and mental stagnancy. He is nervous and may pace back and forth across his room’s floor. He looks out the window and sees other children playing; but is unable to venture outside his enclosure for fear of the unknown. From within the confinement of regret, this child grows up having cultivated a loss of hope that seems virtually irreversible.
* * *
Animals -- every single one of us -- are born to struggle through our existence. In doing so, our particular physical and mental adaptations, designed specifically for the muse of our collective evolutionary purpose, allow us the opportunity to facilitate the forward movement of life, to the very brink of our ability and beyond. Reaching beyond what feels comfortable is what enables our growth and the fulfillment of our great potential. Every single animal deserves the chance to utilize its own body, and realize its strength through weathering the unpredictable demands of freedom.
* * *
The concept of freedom is a mental construct that exists in reference to, and because of, the actuality of Freedom. Meaning, freedom and captivity are concepts of actual states of reality.
If animals were given the choice between the ocean and a cement enclosure, then to hypothesize about their choice between the two would hold validity. But they aren't given a choice. We humans are given the choice, and because we can't find hope in the wilderness of our own hearts, we choose to build cages around what stirs wild and disorderly inside of us.
Regardless of what any animal might choose if given a choice, the hypothetical is irrelevant. If an eagle or a whale had the kind of mind that chose one over the other, they would no longer be the kind of animals they in fact are. Rather, they would be thinking animals. By definition, they would be human. We are the ones with the freedom to choose. And we will continue to restrict animals' freedom until we surrender to our own, and choose to live in accordance with the Free will of Nature itself.
* * *
Still, the zoo keepers at Point Defiance are not my enemies. They are my friends. Loss of hope is the enemy.
Several weeks into my internship, still before I was allowed to touch the whales, I was alone with them for a half an hour in the evening while the other keepers were shifting the polar bears into their dens for the night. I sat by the side of the holding pool, wishing I could run my hands across the smooth surface of their rubbery blubber. Whether they were in the mood to pay attention to me remained a mystery. I was not yet the one to feed them a herring or blow a whistle as a behavioral bridge relaying a message of positive reinforcement.
I stood on the sidewalk, peering over the pool wall at Beethoven, who bobbed slightly up and down on the other side. He looked into my eyes. We didn't speak, but exchanged volumes of wordless emotional information.
I ducked down far enough so that Beethoven lost sight of me. Then I popped back up to find the young male whale looking up at me with an expression of readiness for play. I ducked again, then returned. He stared, captivated, catching onto my game. He appeared to be smiling. I may be anthropomorphizing to say so. But there are evolutionary benefits to each and every physical feature on an animal. A color or shape may be part of a system of defense. One color may attract mates while another deters predators. So why not theorize that the way a whale wears what humans conceptualize as a smile, isn't to their evolutionary advantage? It allows for connective gestures between their species and ours. And if humans feel more connected to a species, they are more likely to try and salvage what's left of it, right?
The third time I ducked, Beethoven did too. He sunk below the surface, down into the pool, then met me where we had begun, face to face. Both of us submerged below the pool's edge for a fourth time, then popped up to meet again. This time, Beethoven arched forward, reaching over the top of the wall with his whole upper body. And on his next ascension, he emerged further still from the water. As we met in the middle, Beethoven's big, rubbery melon gently bumped my forehead. The next couple of times, he touched his head lightly to each side of my face. He had initiated touch, perhaps hearing from my heart that I wished so badly for it, but couldn’t rightfully initiate it myself.
I was too deeply engaged in our communing to realize that S., a work study student my age, had come back into the Rocky Shores area and was watching us. She admitted that she was exhilarated by what she was witnessing. "But be careful," she warned with a hint of disappointment in her voice. "If the keepers see you, you might get in trouble", she said. "I know," I said. "Thanks."
* * *
Beethoven and I communicated that day, and every day we saw one another thereafter. We exchanged cryptic messages with timeless worth and deeply chiseled meaning. And we did it regardless of the rules that said we were supposed to remain separated. We did it regardless of the boundaries that exist between animals and their keepers. Regardless of the perceived opposition between people and other people. Regardless of what logical concepts stand between people and their own internal set of fins or wings.
That whale and I swam together in a dream of freedom. We did it in a sea we made ourselves.