Punch: The Baby Macaque

The internet—and by default—the world has fallen in love with Punch, the baby macaque who was abandoned by his mother and bullied by his peers. Social media is overrun with pictures and videos of the little guy clinging—amidst his loneliness—to his plushie toy, his only source of comfort and safety. The picture that broke me most is the one where he is sitting on his plushie, head and shoulders slumped forward in a pose of pure dejection. That one picture, more than any other, seemed to depict his spirit crumbling. Perhaps it’s because I know that feeling too well. The extreme isolation. The inability to connect with peers. The moment when you push the world away, accepting that it will never accept you. The crushing sadness that comes when you want to give up and you hang your head because it seems nothing you do will ever matter, ever make a difference. 

I have cried watching Punch run from his tormentors. Where others have seen cuteness in the way he hugs his plushie, I see only sorrow. The emptiness inside him is so vast that when he clings to the plushie it’s as if he is trying to prevent himself from disappearing. To me, there is nothing cute about being despondent, about lying, as if half dead, body draped almost lifelessly across an inanimate object. The dejected, hopeless look in his eyes, as if he knew he didn’t matter to anyone and never would, nearly broke me. I have always been empathetic, almost to a fault. Without meaning to or trying, I feel other people’s—animals even more so—pain, suffering, and loneliness. What fails me, always, is not knowing how to respond. I never know what to say to someone who is hurting and so I say nothing. I know that’s not right, that I should say some words of comfort, but my brain gets numb and the words that sound stupid in my head get stuck in my throat. The perception of others is often that I don’t care. My face tends to b a mask, unable to correctly convey my emotions, and my lack of a response registers as an aloofness. Both of these measures are inaccurate. 

Instead, I would argue that I care too much, that I absorb the sorrows of others until those sorrows completely overwhelm me. Sometimes, they get too heavy, and I have to put them down because carting them around is exhausting and I can only take on so much. I am the person who cries watching a commercial about an animal shelter or a commercial warning of the dangers of leaving a pet outside in extreme temperatures. I cry reading books to the point that I will be walking down a street in my neighborhood—yes, I read while walking, all the time; it's one of my superpowers—and openly sobbing. Similarly, my son often comments about my tears during a movie. Watching or reading the news is often difficult for me, especially if the news is conveying a story about death—particularly the death or suffering of children. At times, I have to walk away or put the newspaper down because the weight of it is crushing. But just because I walk away doesn’t mean I forget, or push it out of my consciousness. It will often stay with me for days or longer, haunting truths that continuously return to me.

Like the story of Punch. And yes, I know there is pain and misery all around the globe. Children are dying in war torn areas of the world. They are starving and suffering in ways I can’t even imagine. And yes, I’ve wondered why Punch is drawing so much attention when these children aren’t, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because Punch isn’t political. He's a tiny monkey, orphaned and alone, and both liberals and conservatives can love him because his situation doesn’t force us to take sides. We love Punch because he doesn’t challenge us to embrace policies we despise. He’s not an immigrant, or black, or queer, or Muslim, or handicapped. He’s an adorable animal and because of that, because he is free of political ideology, we are free to love and embrace him. Sure, there are the bullies in his story, and perhaps those bullies should make us look a little closer at our own actions, the way in which humans bully each other—and cause immense emotional and physical pain—more so than the monkeys bully Punch. But people tend not to look that closely at their own actions. No one—at least not openly—will admit to relating to the mean monkeys. It’s with Punch that everyone claims to feel a sense of emotional kinship. Punch, a cute and lonely little guy, reminds everyone of the moments in their lives when they too have felt hopeless and alone.

However, I don’t think I would be wrong to say that autistic people relate to him, perhaps a little more, than neurotypical people. His emotions that are on display feel personal to me, as I’m sure they do to other people on the spectrum. So many of us, especially those of us who were diagnosed much later in life, have spent a lifetime of being bullied, ostracized, and confused as to why we are unable to make meaningful connections with our peers. All too often, like Punch, we end up alone, chins tucked into our chests, deflated because our otherness has set us apart, making us feel unloved and unwanted. We watch others play, interact, and engage with each other in meaningful ways, laughing and enjoying each other’s company, but being different, quiet, and uncertain of the social rules that dictate relationships, we are denied entrance to the inner circles of the friendships that blossom around us. Like Punch, we hold on tight to the objects that center us, that create a sense of safety, and provide comfort when the world makes us feel unwelcomed and unloved. Books are my plushie, which is why I never go anywhere—certainly not into the heart of a social situation—without one. At the very least, if things go poorly or if I get overwhelmed by the crowds and the chaos or if I begin to panic, unable to approach anyone yet aware that I am the only one standing alone, I can retreat to a quiet space to read and recalibrate. 

According to the internet, Punch is now being accepted. A picture of an adult macaque hugging him has gone viral. Seeing it, the world applauded, happy to see the little guy embraced. But is being hugged enough? Other videos and commentary claim that he is still being bullied. It’s hard to know what is real when it’s the media that is creating the narrative and selling the story. Always, there is a bias, an angle to transform clicks into cash. Perhaps that’s the real tragedy here, knowing someone somewhere is making money as a result of Punch’s pain. That, and the reality that some animals grow up confined in zoos that are not much more than glorified prisons where animals are on display and gawked at by humans all day. Shouldn’t all animals be free and living in spaces akin to their natural environments, not concrete cells?

Regardless of the outcome, regardless of the love Punch might be receiving now, his early experiences will undoubtedly stay with him. The trauma of being an outsider, of being tormented by peers never leaves. It remains, forever, a part of us. Growing up, I was taunted, bullied, and brushed aside all the time. I was made to believe I was broken. I still believe it much of the time. The past informs the present, and no matter how hard one tries to leave their pain in the past, it isn’t possible. We can heal, but healing is not synonymous with forgetting or moving on completely. I hope Punch finds a sense of belonging, and that in time he can leave his plushie behind or trade it in for meaningful connections with his peers. I wish for him less loneliness that I have experienced throughout much of my life.