The worst feeling here is that I’m not the scientist. I’m the subject. Jane’s observations on her Instagram and Bette’s decisions about my habitat will determine my fate. Someone else will get to name me and define me. I don’t want their pity, and I can’t stand the way life just keeps happening to me and I have no control. I am not an experiment. I’m not one of the chimps. I’m Dr. Jane fucking Goodall. And this is the only way I can prove it.
