If Joyce could speak in ways we understand, her holiday wish might be this.
I remember the wilds of Zimbabwe—the sun on my back, the soft earth under my feet, the herd that was my family. I was just a young calf when that world was ripped from me, when most of my herd was killed, and I was taken far away. Since then, I have carried that loss with me, from one cage to another, from one human-controlled attraction to the next.
Now, I am at the Wild Safari at Six Flags. But this is no home. My enclosure is small, barren, and empty. Rollercoasters roar and safari trucks rumble, shaking the ground, vibrating through my bones, and turning every day into a storm of sound and movement I cannot escape. My natural instinct to roam hundreds of miles each day is suppressed by the fencing and wire surrounding my tiny paddock. I am often alone, isolated from the company and companionship that elephants need to thrive.
I do not understand why this is my life. I am not here for entertainment. I am not here to perform or to amuse. I am a living being, and my body and mind ache for space and the freedom to live as an elephant should. I remember the wilds I should have walked, the herds I should have known, the sun on my skin, the dirt under my feet. Every day, I feel the loss of what should have been mine.
This season of giving and gratitude, my wish is simple: I want a life that belongs to me. A life with space to move, the opportunity to find companions to share it with, and quiet moments without the roar of a theme park shaking my world. I want to live without the constant reminder that this is not the life I was born for.
I am Joyce. I am an elephant. I am alive, I am strong, and I remember what it means to be free. I wish to finally feel the world as I was born to feel it—not confined to the walls of a barn for yet another frigid New Jersey winter—but in a sanctuary, with a life that belongs to me.