Topsy's Voice Part Four

Imagining What Topsy Would Say

We’re entirely at your mercy. You decide everything: What we do, where we go, what we eat and drink. And when. You decide. We live in fear of you. We live under your constant threat of violence with the bullhook, your weapon of choice to control us. You make sure everyone can’t always see the bullhooks you carry by hiding them up your sleeves. Your pent-up frustration and anger with us license you to use the bullhook against us. You love the feeling of power and control you believe you have over us. I’ve experienced, all too often, the stabbing pain of the bullhook on the inside of my legs. Or the sharp ends of its hook digging into my ears and pulling the sensitive skin inside them to make me walk in the direction you want me to go. All you must do is make sure we know you’re carrying your bullhooks. And we obey. That is, until we resist.

Your attempts to control me with chains are more about your need to impress everyone than keeping you safe from me. But let’s be honest. A thrill for many of you attending the circus is the anticipation of something going wrong. One of us is running from the circus ring and charging the crowd. Or a tiger killing her keeper, escaping from the cage, and attacking the ringmaster. Or an acrobat falling from the trapeze, crashing to their death as they hit the ground. You want to be there when it happens. You want to be a witness. You love it!

You make us stand in a line away from the train. You make us wait. You’re busy fussing over something to do with our freight cars. I’m nervous. I feel debilitated. Anxious. Humiliated. On edge. I’m fed up with standing in the freight car all night. The confinement. I’m impatient to start walking again. Why aren’t we moving on? I’m feeling unsafe with so many of you surrounding us. I feel your eyes staring at me.

Look! There’s Topsy the man killer! You want to touch me, provoke me, stab me with a bullhook to see if I bleed. Do you want to tease me with some food or wave a glass of whisky out of reach for my trunk to take from you?

Then, I notice a young man approach me carrying a large stick. I panic. He’s got a bullhook. He’s coming to hit me. Or stab me with it. I don’t like the look in his eyes. The way he’s walking toward me, holding the bullhook high above him. I grab him with my trunk. I must protect myself. Damn the harness and chains! He’s screaming now as I hold him up in the air. Then, I feel the stabbing pain of your bullhook in my ear and your yells ordering me to put him on the ground. I take a few steps back and watch him stand up, brush dust from his jacket, and walk shakily away from me. He forgets the stick, which I now see wasn’t a bullhook. He leaves it lying on the ground as he disappears into the crowd. Everyone is screaming now. Fleeing from me.