Four days before departure
To Whom It May Concern:
I know we can’t understand each other or speak the same language, but I’ll try to communicate anyway. Through my movements, my gestures. Here goes.
They’re not taking me from my home. They’re not, they’re just not.
The first time I said this, it was in denial. I loved the zookeeper, an older man who felt like a grandfather. I loved my siblings, my habitat. I liked the children too, even the ones who rapped against the glass. If I recognized them, I’d pad slowly up to the glass or roll over in the grass so they’d giggle. I’d watch them with slowly blinking eyes, trying to convey the love and gratitude that I felt for them.
My grandfather is the one who makes it all collapse. “Four days until she leaves,” he murmurs.
Mouth full of bamboo, I stare at him in shock, then at the people passing by my enclosure. Do they know? Will another panda come to take my place afterward? Would they even notice the difference? They all sigh when they see me, but they don’t know me like how I know them. For years, I’ve memorized each face when they pass by. I know most aren’t doing the same. When they look at me, they see a bear, a wild animal. A thing with spots. To most, I’m just a passing attraction.
They’ll sit down on their stumps and eat their eucalyptus – or whatever the human equivalent is – recount meeting me.
I saw a panda today, Mom! one of the kids will say. “That’s great, sweetie,” will be the response.
End of discussion.
But, no matter how they look at me, I still care for all of them. I’m an animal in a zoo – it is my job to be looked at, my job to bear it with dignity. They named me Fu Bao, after all, which means lucky treasure in English. It fits me—both an object, something to be kept, but also something to spread joy. People come to the zoo for escape and wonder. It’s my job to give them that. I love my job.
Please let me keep doing it.
Fu Bao
Two days before departure
To Whom It May Concern:
If you see me gesturing or blinking at you, I’m trying to tell you something. I hope you’ll try to understand. I don’t have much time left.
Recap: They want to move me. And they’re not taking me from my home, they’re just not.
The second time I think this, it’s with anger. Yes, they can – but why must they? Do they not appreciate what I’ve done?
The days tick by. Three, then two. I start to wonder if there’s a finite expression of smiles I can conjure. I hope there isn’t.
If you’re reading this, if you work at the zoo, I’d like to stay. Please. My parents are here, my siblings, too, along with the millions of faces I’ve memorized. My world is here.
I hope they know that. And the rage is back again.
Outside my enclosure, there is a little boy with an ice cream cone. As I watch, he stumbles forward and drops it. He begins to cry.
You see? I want to shout. He gets it. Why can’t you?
Fu Bao
Departure day
To Whom It May Concern:
I don’t know if anyone understands. But I’m here to give hope, so I give a little to myself.
Maybe someone’s reading. If so, I’d like to share a dramatic realization: They’re not taking me from my home. They’re just not.
I’ve sat in front of my enclosure for hours, trying to take in every last face.
Eventually, it’s time to go. I’m led, gently, into a big crate, filled with bamboo and butternut squash. I turn around, trying to get one last look, and manage to lock onto a little girl’s face. She smiles. Waves goodbye, not a tear on her face. I recognize her expression: it’s my own.
She’s doing what I did. Spreading joy.
I memorize her face, adding it to my treasure trove. She’s one of the good ones.
I let them lock the door behind me and peer out through all of the tiny holes. They load the crate into a truck, but there are holes in that, too – big glass-covered ones – so if I line things up, I can still see out.
The truck rumbles to life, and we begin to move. I watch as we move through the zoo, then through the crowded streets. There are people everywhere.
And they’re all silent. I wonder why, until a mother shushes a child who’s begun to shout.
“Shh!” she murmurs. “Be quiet, for the panda.”
I understand immediately. It’s a gesture of respect. A goodbye.
And this is when I realize: they’re not taking me from my home. They’re just not. They can’t, not when I recognize so many faces as we walk by.
There are people who I have met. People I have looked in the eyes. People who bothered to come out to watch me go.
They do care for me, I think. Maybe they won’t recognize me, but they’ll know me.
They’ll know that I am their panda. They will carry me in their hearts, and I will carry them in mine.
Each face. Each imagined story. Each little bit of joy, a gift given freely. Wherever I go, they will come with me – in my memory, in my eyes, in my smile. They’re not taking me from my home. Wherever I go, I will bring it with me.
I press my nose into the edge of the crate as I stare at all of the people. I try to send my last letter to them:
Departure
To Whom It May Concern:
Thank you. For coming today, for caring. For letting me meet you. I love you; I love you all.
Goodbye.
Fu Bao
Story written by Celestine from New York
Illustration by CB from New York
