Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen

Written by Sara Gruen and published in 2006, Water for Elephants (which I keep trying to call Hotel for Elephants) has been on my list of books to read for a long time, and I finally got around to it this summer. A young man, Jacob Janokowski, is in vet school at Cornell when he learns that his parents have both been killed in a car crash. In the aftermath, he runs away and joins the circus, becoming the resident veterinarian. The book is narrated by a much older Jacob who now lives in an assisted-living home. In between meal times and conversations with his nurses, he recalls his time in the circus. Unfortunately, it’s a pretty obvious plot line - the book jacket tells you that it’s a book about a bond between Jacob, Marlena, and the elephant Rosie – I enjoyed the book immensely. Gruen paints a realistic setting filled with circus characters who come to life as they struggle through the Great Depression.

One passage stood out in particular. It’s on page 109 (at least in my copy) and occurs when old Jacob is talking about both the betrayal he felt when his children sent him to an assisted-living home and how his children rarely keep him up-to-date on their events. The passage is:

And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don't mention because they don't want to upset me. I've caught wind of several, but when I ask questions they clam right up. Mustn't upset Grandpa, you know.

Why? That's what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don't know what's going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?

I've decided it's not about me at all. It's a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home. When Simon [his son] turned sixteen and got belligerent, I thought it was just him. By the time Dinah [a daughter] go there, I knew it wasn't her fault - it was programmed into her.”

My grandfather has memory problems these days, and when I call him (we’re too far away to see each other more than once or twice a year), I often find myself unsure how much to share. Do I tell him when life is boring, work is frustrating, and I’m unhappy, or do I present things in a cheerful fashion so that he doesn’t worry about me? If I tell him, he might worry. And I’d be okay with that (after all, isn’t worrying about each other part of what makes us family?), but he’ll probably forget the details in a few days. When he forgets about it, his worrying has been for naught. But then again, when he forgets, he won’t remember that he was worried. Do I tell him about the trips I take or do I leave those out, because I know he rarely leaves the house for anything other than doctor’s appointments. I’m left with the best balance I can manage. I mention minor frustrations (“work is boring”) and leave out the bigger ones (“I don’t know what I want to do with my life”). I do not, however, think it’s a protective mechanism, at least for me. It’s looking for the best solution when no such path exists.

I was also struck by the comments about teenagers being programmed to be belligerent. It reminded me of a comment that one of my professors made in graduate school. It was an off-the-cuff remark, and went something like “Oh, and that idea that teenagers are programmed to rebel? It’s not universal.” (Of course, my professor was much more eloquent in her phrasing.) She meant that teenagers in other parts of the world don’t rebel, and that’s in an American (or at least Western)-specific experience. I didn’t ask her to elaborate and frequently regret it. Are teenagers programmed to be difficult? I lean towards no, but I have no evidence to back it up.

Since the end of the book mentions Edison’s electrocution of an elephant, it’s worth referring to one of my favorite comics.

On a semi-related note, the New York Times has started a series of articles about the poaching of African elephants. The first one is here. It makes me feel both sick and powerless. Sick that a whole animal dies for just their tusks, sick that there’s still a market for ivory, and sick that anyone would do this. Powerless because I can’t make people stop shooting elephants or buying ivory. I don’t care how poor you are, killing an elephant for its tusks should be a ticket straight to hell – and yes, I say this as I type on my laptop, secure in the knowledge that no one in my family will go hungry tonight.