art by Dana ellyn
Manny
Every chimpanzee I had the honor of meeting and caring for was special in their own way. Manny, a chimpanzee who was most likely taken from his mother in Africa as a baby in the 1960s, had been living in research labs for decades. He went from language studies to rigorous hepatitis studies. Despite all that horror, he was so very gentle and giving in every sense of the word.
I worked at the facility that conducted hepatitis research for five years. During my last six months there, I worked alone on the evening shift. I would work quickly so that I could go around and visit the chimpanzees and monkeys. I got to know Manny who was always so glad and grateful to see me, especially since he, like all the other adult chimps and monkeys, was caged alone and desperate for attention and contact since he could only see and hear the nine other chimps housed in his “unit.” The “units” were rooms with white walls, concrete floors and no windows. We would play chase, I would tickle his feet, rub his back and neck, and just visit.
But what was so moving about Manny was that instead of him wanting something from me every time I saw him; HE would give ME a gift. And I’m not talking about just the gift of his kindness and undying spirit despite the horrendous deprived life he lived. No, he insisted on giving me something even though he really had nothing to give.
He lived in a 5’ x 5’ x 7’ cage with a tire suspended on chains, maybe a heavy plastic item like a milk crate or a piece of PVC pipe and/or some paper or cardboard for “psychological enrichment.” During our visits, he would clearly scrounge around for something to hand to me either through the cage bars or through the feeder on his cage. Sometimes, if he had nothing to give, he would pick up a primate chow biscuit and give it to me. I had to pretend that I was eating it so as not to insult him.
One evening I was going around to check on everyone and say a quick hello. It was late so I didn’t want to wake everyone by putting on the lights. When I got to Manny’s cage, he quickly came down from his tire where he had been sleeping and looked around his cage for a “gift” to give me.
He picked up two pieces of torn cardboard that had been given out as enrichment and he passed them to me through his feeder. I was speechless. The whole thing seemed so deliberate and gentle. He got out of bed to gift me the only thing he had.
During his time at the lab, Manny had 318 liver biopsies, among other invasive procedures, done to him mostly for hepatitis research. That meant even more than 318 anesthetizations with Ketamine filled darts shot at him. Each anesthetization took three darts since one dart couldn’t hold enough of a dose. Do the math. His liver likely looked like swiss cheese after so many biopsies. Yet he still had a soft expression with loving eyes framed by graying hair.
When the lab closed, Manny was sent to another biomedical research lab. I don’t know what he had to endure there. After a record number of animal welfare violations and years of neglect, the National Institutes of Health (NIH) seized ownership of 300 of the 600 chimpanzees that lab had at their two sites. But that just meant that those chimpanzees became stuck within the system. Though no biomedical research was to be done at that site, the chimps could be sent to any other lab in the country for research.
After advocating for primates from inside two labs over the course of nine years, I couldn’t do it any longer. I was broken. I was drowning the gamut of emotions ranging from complete rage to utter despair. Though I will never “recover” from witnessing what they went through, I committed to fighting for them from the outside. I wanted to give a gift to Manny. Maybe a new liver and life-–freedom in a sanctuary to live out the few years he had left.
Eventually, the NIH started sending the chimps in small groups to Chimp Haven, a sanctuary. With every group, I tried to find out which chimps arrived at the sanctuary and who was still at that lab. But we would only get lists from the lab through FOIA requests and they didn’t always list everyone’s name.
Then I saw a list entry stating Manny had died of an intestinal mass. I was beyond devastated and angry that he didn’t make it out. Manny died before getting his gift—retirement to sanctuary.
Artist Statement
dana ellyn
Manny lived for decades inside research labs, and out of that deprivation he still insisted on giving — a food biscuit, two torn scraps of cardboard, the only things he had. This painting refuses to let that gift be small. The cardboard becomes a crown, gilded into what it always was to the person who received it: an act of grace that no cage could take from him. The figure holding it is drowning — in rage, in grief, in the impossibility of repaying what was given — yet keeps the gift above the water as the one thing they will not let go under. It is a portrait of what survives when nothing else does, and of a debt that can never be settled because Manny died still waiting on the gift owed back to him: freedom.
Seeing the painting and reading the artist’s statement moved me to tears. I love how deep the artist’s interpretation was of Manny’s story. Making the cardboard into a crown and having me keep it above water was a beautiful way to convey how “big” and enduring Manny’s gifts were and what they meant to me, especially given his impoverished life. I couldn’t save or free Manny and I nearly drowned in my feelings of rage and grief for what he went through. But nothing could take away Manny’s giving nature or the impact it continues to have on me. Thank you for honoring Manny with your artistic talent.
AUTHOR OF MANNY