All Because He Was Afraid of Penguins

Aptenodytes forsteri -- vile creatures.

Jonathan lived with his parents in the annex to the state zoo in Apple Valley, a few miles from Minneapolis. His father was the zookeeper. His family was poor, but he and his parents were industrious, which kept them afloat with odd jobs. 

“Zookeepers have a disproportionately high number of doctoral degrees per capita,” his mother always said, and she wasn’t exaggerating. 

“It’s your father’s calling.” 

Only seven years old, Jonathan didn’t yet know what “per capita” meant or “doctoral” degrees were, but that was fine. He wanted to be a zookeeper just like his dad. 

“I’m going to get a doctorate, too,” he exclaimed.

“You’ll have to earn it,” his mother responded.

“Always be humble.”

His mother was kind but firm. 

Living at the zoo, Jonathan had friends everywhere he turned. He named them all. Lawrence perked up whenever he saw Jonathan approach. The boy’s warmth allowed the lion to remember life before captivity. Jonathan never realized he had this gift. He just knew that Lawrence was kind to him, even inviting Jonathan to roll in his grass. There were lemurs, giraffes, hippos, peacocks, and reptiles. He knew them all and they knew him. He loved snakes the most, even if God had damned them. What right did God have anyway? He could never reconcile that banishment with his own faith. 

By the age of 10, Jonathan guided visitors through his sanctuary. He knew every scientific classification—kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, and, genus—represented among his friends. His favorite was Naja naja, the Indian spectacled cobra. He named showed her off to everyone who came. She obliged.  

Among the array of animals, there was one species he truly disliked. He tried to hide his face when he cringed during tours, as visitors all thought the beasts were “so cute”. He knew better. Common emperor penguins, Aptenodytes forsteri, were vile creatures. There are 18 species of penguins, but seeing one daily was enough to give Jonathan hives.

God should have cast them from the Garden of Eden, he thought. He knew they were never in the garden from the start, so he turned to Noah for help. Please, Noah, abandon them without regret. They can swim, but not for 40 days and nights. 

“Just look at them,” he told his mother. “They’re rats with silly wings.” 

Jonathan hated the way they walked. Their pack mentality offended him – its beauty was lost on this only child. When he fed them as part of his chores, they were so ravenous that he often barely had time to toss in their fish and then run for it. Never call a penguin meek. 

“I’ll sooner sleep with Bartholomew than subject myself to that horde.” Bartholomew was the zoo’s boa constrictor, Boidae, and one of Jonathan’s best friends.  

By this junior year in high school, Jonathan had reaffirmed that he, too, was called to be a zookeeper. His interest in colleges was limited to those schools that would further his dream and keep him close to home. The list was short. The University of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, and the University of Chicago, his top choice. He loved the fact that Wisconsin had chosen the badger (Meles meles) as its mascot, whose scientific name was almost as cool as Naja naja. That alone might have sealed the deal. His eyes lit up when he received his application materials. As much as he loved home, college represented a great world he had never seen. 

Yet something was amiss. He scoured the materials closely. Each school offered a major in zoology. That was good. But the fine print was less good. The materials all said something to this effect:

Zoology majors are expected to demonstrate excellence in aviary studies, including observation of veterinary procedures administered to and hands-on examination of penguins. 

What? For the first time in Jonathan’s life, his language turned salty. 

“What is this baloney? Who wrote this? I’d might as well major in Penguinology.” 

He was sure such a field of study existed simply to spite him. He asked his parents. They knew best.

“Well Jonathan, you know you can’t be a zoologist without studying penguins. They are the most important bird species on both the North and South poles.”

“When am I going to either?” he protested.

“You may not,” his father responded. “But you’ll go to a zoo and they will come to you. You can always major in biology and tackle penguins later. There’s no shame in that.” 

Jonathan did not hear the advice as the reassurance his father intended. He completed his applications with a new, crass goal – avoid penguins. Biology was mostly memory, and he knew it all, or so he thought. The University of Chicago offered him a full scholarship, a blessing. His parents were proud. But Jonathan realized that U of C was close to Lake Michigan, which meant there might be . . . . He dispelled this fear by calling the curator of the renowned Field Museum, which sits on the lake’s edge.

“Oh, no,” she said, “we’ve never seen penguins anywhere on Lake Michigan. We do have a few penguin skeletons. I’d be happy to show them to you. We don’t get callers with such interest in our birds.” 

Just where they belong, he thought. And so the University of Chicago was safe and not too close to Lake Michigan in case evolution began to act in strange ways. In other words, a penguin invasion.

College was hard – very hard. His fellow students were wicked smart and worked around the clock. He didn’t know everything at all. Worse still, he missed his friends at home. He often wondered what Bartholomew was up to. Bartholomew thought about him, too.  

“I can’t compete in biology,” he told his parents by phone.

His dad spoke.

“Biology is about small things within big things. Your lab microscope is just like the magnifying glass you use at home to watch ants work. Only more powerful. There’s no topic you can’t excel in. We know that.” 

“Biology is interesting, but it isn’t zoology,” Jonathan stammered. He cried. He wasn’t a crier. 

“Well,” his father said, “you know what the issue is. I have an idea, but I’ll need you to come home one weekend. It’s something we should have done long ago.”

And so Jonathan returned to Apple Valley as a proud U of C student who had made it to the midterm mark of his first semester. His mother had given him a little extra money for an elegant maroon sweatshirt. CHICAGO, it announced boldly. 

His father walked him to the aviary and they stood behind the glass that separated them from the penguins. His father saw beauty in motion. Jonathan saw a regimented division moving in unison with a lockstep waddle and flapping wings. He had seen the exact same thing for years. Penguins in a nutshell.

His father piped up. 

“You’ve always looked at penguins as dirty birds, much as many people view Bartholomew and our spiders as unpleasant. But you know better. Think about it. Why is our boa named Bartholomew? Because big snakes can be scary. Some visitors might otherwise not visit him. You probably don’t remember this, but you named him as you were beginning to walk. Before that, he was just ‘the boa’. He knew the gift you gave him. Bartholomew has always trusted you, and that trust is mutual. It’s called love. He is a wonderful ambassador for our zoo. People want to get to know Bartholomew. They are much less interested in a nameless boa.”

And so it was with penguins. 

“I think it’s time to befriend some,” his father said.

“What do you see here?” he asked Jonathan.

“Penguins,” he responded matter-of-factly.  

“Whom do you see? Like Bartholomew.” 

“Penguins” Jonathan responded. 

“Well let me introduce you. That’s Penelope, the matriarch. She never leaves her mate, as her name suggests. That little one is Picadilly, because he’s always having fun, as though in a circus. Then we have Prometheus, Peanut, Prickly, and Pavlov. We have 20. I know them all, and they know me. They are family, and among the kindest animals we have.” 

All of this was new to Jonathan, who bowed his head. He was beside himself. How could he have missed this for so long? How could he have been so snide? 

“Don’t be too harsh on yourself,” his father offered, knowing full well what his son was thinking. “You’re old enough now not to be afraid of the unknown. Fear will quash your curiosity. You can’t ever lose that as a zookeeper.”  

Jonathan walked to the door that separated them from the penguins’ enclosure. He knew its fishy smell. He could feel his pulse race, his nerves twitch, and yet also a sense of calm, all jumbled in no discernible order. He did not understand the penguins the way his father did. He did not understand them at all. It didn’t matter. They waddled happily to him as if they had been waiting for him all along. Indeed they had been. Some came forward. Others just watched. They needed to trust him, and he knew that would take time. He had time. 

When he returned to school, he waited a few days before going to see his academic dean. He was worried he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted, that he wouldn’t know how to phrase his question, or that he might even lose his scholarship. His dean listened and counseled. 

“Of course, Jonathan, you can still major in zoology. You have until the end of your sophomore year to decide, and this term’s biology classes should all count in your favor. But don’t rush.”

“Thank you, Sir, but I know my path.”

They spoke at length. The dean was an amateur botanist who was all too happy to discuss his own passion. Jonathan listened politely and asked questions.

“You know, Jonathan, you’re an interesting bird. You’re going to do very well here.” 

After the boy had left, the dean laughed heartily. His assistant opened his door to inquire. 

“You wouldn’t believe this fellow, all of 18, a freshman. He grew up in a zoo with snakes and was raised by wolves or something of the sort. A Minnesotan. That may explain it. Wants to change his major to zoology.”

“Why didn’t he just declare zoology to begin with?” 

“Silliest thing, the dean said. “All because he was afraid of penguins.”  

Photo by Tam Minton on Unsplash

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