
Photograph by Getty Images
Back when I was a freelance writer, I got called into the office for a meeting. “We’ve got a fantastic story idea, and you’re the only person who can write it,” I was told. Okay, flattery is always a good start.
My editors explained they wanted a story about Willie B., the iconic gorilla at Zoo Atlanta, who was about to reach the age of 40. “We want it written in his voice,” one of them said. “You can make it funny. Have him go to the Cheetah Lounge thinking he can pick up female gorillas.”
Willie B. became a national celebrity after he starred in a television commercial to demonstrate the durability of a particular brand of luggage; they tossed a suitcase into his cage and filmed him trying to destroy it. Brilliant marketing.
I remembered Willie B. from a school field trip to the zoo when I was seven. I’d never seen such a majestic and dangerous creature. But he lived in a concrete bunker with thick plexiglass on three sides for viewing. His entertainment was a tire swing and a black-and-white television. I inherently knew there was something wrong about that.
In the years since I’d last seen him, the zoo had finally done right by Willie B. They created an outdoor habitat and populated it with more than a dozen gorillas. After nearly three decades in solitude, Willie B. was now leading a robust life, even siring several children.
For two weeks, I shadowed him and spent time “backstage” where the gorillas were fed and slept. On my first few visits, Willie B. took every opportunity to frighten me by loudly banging on the bars of his sleeping cage whenever I was near.
During one visit, a female gorilla pulled a seat over next to her cage bars and motioned for me to come over. “Go ahead,” the gorilla keeper said. “That’s Kinyani. She’s a flirt. She wants to play.”
I walked up to her, and Kinyani reached through the bars and held my hand. I was awestruck, then mesmerized by how similar her fingers were to mine. With a quickness that startled me, she let go and grabbed my elbow with a powerful grip and tried to pull me into her cage. At the last moment, she let go. She hopped up and down with glee at her prank.
Every afternoon, I sat on the roof of the building that overlooks the habitat and observed Willie B. and his clan of gorillas. Then I’d go home at night and try to write. I had a lot of information, but I didn’t have a story to tell. I couldn’t imagine what Willie B. would want to say.
On my final day at the zoo, I spent the afternoon in the empty habitat next to the one Willie B. used. The gorilla habitats are separated by a deep concrete moat, and
I sat at the edge of it. After a while, Willie B. stood and stretched, then began to walk toward me. When he reached the moat, he sat at the edge.
We spent over an hour sitting less than 10 feet apart. It was the holiest moment of my life. I could hear each breath he took.
I could see ancient wisdom in his eyes. I could feel his essence. During that hour, Willie B. and I had a long, silent conversation, and by the time he stood and walked away, I knew exactly what I was going to write.
Willie B. died two years later, at age 42; Andrew Young spoke at his memorial service in front of several thousand people who came to say goodbye.
As we considered this month’s cover story, I thought of my old friend and the serenity I felt as I communed with the gorillas. We live in trying times, and it’s important to sometimes step outside the turmoil and just be: go into nature to rediscover our sense of self, feed our soul, and let our spirit dance to the beat of a different drum.
Willie B. gave me that gift—an understanding that for us to thrive, it’s important to stay in touch with the natural world. It remains our true home even though we spend much of our lives inside our own versions of concrete bunkers.
This article appears in our January 2025 issue.