Must the show go on?
by Eric Mills for Our Town Magazine
Every autumn, the leaves lose their green and fall off the trees, coating the ground like an auburn snowfall. The air turns cold and the smog hanging over the cities picks up an extra thickness, as if crackers had been added to soup. And every fall, the circus makes its annual stop in East Rutherford. The annual tradition had delighted countless children and their parents over the years, but it has upset almost as many protestors who allege that the circus' mistreatment of animals warrants shutting the show down.
I wanted to understand, how? How could something that brought such unmitigated joy to such a large number of people be cruel? Surely the debasement of animals was a small price to pay to bring humans joy. Was the circus really a place where animals were stolen from their natural habitats and abused for the amusement of yokels whose idea of high art is Thomas Kinkade prints from Wal-Mart and self-hating yuppies who sold their idealism decades ago for a high paying job in the city? Or is it something more than that?
___
I decided the first person I needed to talk to was Terrance Grimsley, the director of the New Jersey chapter of Concerned Citizens Against the Exploitation of Show Animals (CCAESA). Terrance is a short man with simian features and short black hair that forms a knot of tangled curls at the top of his head. From his small office in suburban Kenilworth, he coordinates the protests every year.
"It's a crying shame what's happening to these animals," he told me. His desk is decorated with a number of elephants, which he told me were his favorite. "They're poached from their natural habitats and thrown into cages and whipped and abused until they're trained to perform stupid stunts for our amusement. These animals have dignity, they have feelings, they have needs and they are going ignored and being exploited for profit."
I asked Grimsley what he made of the joy these animals brought others. He shook his head, obstinate. "That's no excuse," he said. "That's no reason for these wonderful creatures to be snatched from their homes or wildlife preserves where we should be keeping them so they can have the best chance of living a fulfilled life."
___
My natural inclination was to label Grimsley a spoilsport, so I went to someone who could confirm my inclinations. Paulie Underwood has been running the circus here for almost two years. He is tall with long legs and broad shoulders. He perpetually sports a confident grin as if his life is perfect and he is completely confident that nothing could ever go wrong. His attitude is contagious, especially around the clowns, animals and entertainers with whom he surrounds himself.
"The animals love it," he assured me. "To suggest otherwise is simply ludicrous. Look at how happy they are!" He pointed to a tiger, who paced in a circle inside a cage about the size of my bedroom. She grabbed at the bars with her claws, playfully, and let out a little snarl of friendliness.
I saw more of the same on the tour Underwood gave me of the facility. A great bear, playing a kind of peek-a-boo in which a trainer stood in front of its cub and obscured it from view, jumped up on two paws, delighted to see its child inexplicably disappear, swatting at the trainer genially as if to offer him a high five. A group of horses stood defecating on each other, apparently too enamored with the atmosphere of the circus to notice or care. An elephant--Terrance Grimsley's favorite animal--was touched by a trainer with some kind of stick that emitted a low buzzing followed by a sharp crackling, causing him to dance up and down, trumpeting majestically in the crisp October night.
The tour wrapped up in front of the dressing rooms. I shook Underwood's hand and was speechless. The magic of the circus was undeniable. A clown walked out of one of the dressing rooms past a trapeze artist entering the other way. "Don't mess up tonight, faggot," the trapeze artist called. The clown sulked past.
Underwood left me alone and I walked by myself back to my car. But on the way, I stopped by the elephant. It was a male, and a glorious male at that. He was sleeping, so I put my head up to its belly. I could feel the animal's power with every gigantic breath it took and I found it difficult to breathe for myself in its presence. I walked up to its comically large ear and lifted it as I had seen in so many cartoons before. "Are you happy?" I asked. A question so many of us have had to consider for ourselves. Can any of us answer? If someone had asked me, I don't know that I would have been able to give a satisfactory response.
But the elephant stirred. His great eye opened and he saw me. He leapt to his feet and sounded a great alarm with his trunk. He began stomping around wildly, in a kind of frenzy. "Look at me!" he seemed to be saying. "I want your attention! I crave your approval! I am a performer!"
___
I decided to watch the circus for myself to see if I could find any evidence of animal abuse during the show. I found a comfortable seat in the third row and sat down with a grape snow cone, ready to be dazzled. The show began with some impressive motorcycle tricks, followed by some subpar clownery that seemed to stretch on forever. The audience's energy was being sapped. By the time the acrobats took their turn, we were exhausted.
Then the tent shook and my elephant friend made his grand entrance. A buzz rippled through the stands as he moved into the center ring and stood up on his back legs on command. We cheered ecstatically. And then it seemed obvious. What living creature doesn't want to please a tent full of people? I realized that I would trade all my credentials as a reporter in an instant for the chance to be paraded around a ring by a rope with a sheet on my back so I could make these people stand and cheer and understand the sheer brute force and animal beauty of nature. This elephant was not being mistreated. It was living a dream.
After the show, I walked backstage to look for Aaron to thank him for the experience. I would never find him. Instead, I passed the dressing room where I saw an acrobat hassling the same clown I had seen the night before, blaming him for the deadness of the crowd by the time it was their turn to perform. When the acrobat was finished berating him, the clown dashed into the dressing room. Curious, I followed him through the maze of lockers and toilets. I finally caught up with him in the far corner and I stopped in my tracks. He looked up at me and I noticed his makeup was running. He was crying. The irony was unbearable and I began to tear up myself. It was then I realized that Terrance and his supporters were fighting the wrong fight. The animals of the circus had it made. It was this crying clown who had been left behind.
by Eric Mills for Our Town Magazine
Every autumn, the leaves lose their green and fall off the trees, coating the ground like an auburn snowfall. The air turns cold and the smog hanging over the cities picks up an extra thickness, as if crackers had been added to soup. And every fall, the circus makes its annual stop in East Rutherford. The annual tradition had delighted countless children and their parents over the years, but it has upset almost as many protestors who allege that the circus' mistreatment of animals warrants shutting the show down.I wanted to understand, how? How could something that brought such unmitigated joy to such a large number of people be cruel? Surely the debasement of animals was a small price to pay to bring humans joy. Was the circus really a place where animals were stolen from their natural habitats and abused for the amusement of yokels whose idea of high art is Thomas Kinkade prints from Wal-Mart and self-hating yuppies who sold their idealism decades ago for a high paying job in the city? Or is it something more than that?
___
I decided the first person I needed to talk to was Terrance Grimsley, the director of the New Jersey chapter of Concerned Citizens Against the Exploitation of Show Animals (CCAESA). Terrance is a short man with simian features and short black hair that forms a knot of tangled curls at the top of his head. From his small office in suburban Kenilworth, he coordinates the protests every year.
"It's a crying shame what's happening to these animals," he told me. His desk is decorated with a number of elephants, which he told me were his favorite. "They're poached from their natural habitats and thrown into cages and whipped and abused until they're trained to perform stupid stunts for our amusement. These animals have dignity, they have feelings, they have needs and they are going ignored and being exploited for profit."
I asked Grimsley what he made of the joy these animals brought others. He shook his head, obstinate. "That's no excuse," he said. "That's no reason for these wonderful creatures to be snatched from their homes or wildlife preserves where we should be keeping them so they can have the best chance of living a fulfilled life."
___
My natural inclination was to label Grimsley a spoilsport, so I went to someone who could confirm my inclinations. Paulie Underwood has been running the circus here for almost two years. He is tall with long legs and broad shoulders. He perpetually sports a confident grin as if his life is perfect and he is completely confident that nothing could ever go wrong. His attitude is contagious, especially around the clowns, animals and entertainers with whom he surrounds himself.
"The animals love it," he assured me. "To suggest otherwise is simply ludicrous. Look at how happy they are!" He pointed to a tiger, who paced in a circle inside a cage about the size of my bedroom. She grabbed at the bars with her claws, playfully, and let out a little snarl of friendliness.
I saw more of the same on the tour Underwood gave me of the facility. A great bear, playing a kind of peek-a-boo in which a trainer stood in front of its cub and obscured it from view, jumped up on two paws, delighted to see its child inexplicably disappear, swatting at the trainer genially as if to offer him a high five. A group of horses stood defecating on each other, apparently too enamored with the atmosphere of the circus to notice or care. An elephant--Terrance Grimsley's favorite animal--was touched by a trainer with some kind of stick that emitted a low buzzing followed by a sharp crackling, causing him to dance up and down, trumpeting majestically in the crisp October night.
The tour wrapped up in front of the dressing rooms. I shook Underwood's hand and was speechless. The magic of the circus was undeniable. A clown walked out of one of the dressing rooms past a trapeze artist entering the other way. "Don't mess up tonight, faggot," the trapeze artist called. The clown sulked past.
Underwood left me alone and I walked by myself back to my car. But on the way, I stopped by the elephant. It was a male, and a glorious male at that. He was sleeping, so I put my head up to its belly. I could feel the animal's power with every gigantic breath it took and I found it difficult to breathe for myself in its presence. I walked up to its comically large ear and lifted it as I had seen in so many cartoons before. "Are you happy?" I asked. A question so many of us have had to consider for ourselves. Can any of us answer? If someone had asked me, I don't know that I would have been able to give a satisfactory response.
But the elephant stirred. His great eye opened and he saw me. He leapt to his feet and sounded a great alarm with his trunk. He began stomping around wildly, in a kind of frenzy. "Look at me!" he seemed to be saying. "I want your attention! I crave your approval! I am a performer!"
___
I decided to watch the circus for myself to see if I could find any evidence of animal abuse during the show. I found a comfortable seat in the third row and sat down with a grape snow cone, ready to be dazzled. The show began with some impressive motorcycle tricks, followed by some subpar clownery that seemed to stretch on forever. The audience's energy was being sapped. By the time the acrobats took their turn, we were exhausted.
Then the tent shook and my elephant friend made his grand entrance. A buzz rippled through the stands as he moved into the center ring and stood up on his back legs on command. We cheered ecstatically. And then it seemed obvious. What living creature doesn't want to please a tent full of people? I realized that I would trade all my credentials as a reporter in an instant for the chance to be paraded around a ring by a rope with a sheet on my back so I could make these people stand and cheer and understand the sheer brute force and animal beauty of nature. This elephant was not being mistreated. It was living a dream.
After the show, I walked backstage to look for Aaron to thank him for the experience. I would never find him. Instead, I passed the dressing room where I saw an acrobat hassling the same clown I had seen the night before, blaming him for the deadness of the crowd by the time it was their turn to perform. When the acrobat was finished berating him, the clown dashed into the dressing room. Curious, I followed him through the maze of lockers and toilets. I finally caught up with him in the far corner and I stopped in my tracks. He looked up at me and I noticed his makeup was running. He was crying. The irony was unbearable and I began to tear up myself. It was then I realized that Terrance and his supporters were fighting the wrong fight. The animals of the circus had it made. It was this crying clown who had been left behind.
