Horse Girls

by Halimah Marcus

  Dedication

  For the women who taught me to ride

  Epigraph

  She had some horses she loved.

  She had some horses she hated.

  These were the same horses.

  —JOY HARJO

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  I Don’t Love Horses × T Kira Madden

  Do the horses do all the work?

  Horse Girl: An Inquiry × Carmen Maria Machado

  A wannabe rider without a horse

  BreyerFest or Bust × Laura Maylene Walter

  Visiting the nation’s largest plastic horse convention

  Hungry and Carefree × Alex Marzano-Lesnevich

  Dreams of a queer frontier

  Playing Safe × Courtney Maum

  Fear and doubt turned loose in Mexico

  The Shrinking Mountain × Nur Nasreen Ibrahim

  Reckoning with colonial legacies in Nathiagali, Pakistan

  Turnout × C. Morgan Babst

  Breaking the cycle of pain and beauty

  What Will Leave You × Adrienne Celt

  Sacrifices on the path to adulthood

  A Racer Without a Pedigree × Sarah Enelow-Snyder

  Growing up as a Black barrel racer in Texas

  No Regrets × Jane Smiley

  How well can you know a horse?

  Daredevils × Maggie Shipstead

  Galloping away from a domestic life

  Unconquered × Braudie Blais-Billie

  Horses connect a Seminole rider to her heritage

  For the Roses × Allie Rowbottom

  Cultivating the mind of a winner

  We Aren’t Close to Anywhere × Rosebud Ben-Oni

  The poetic resonance of Icelandic horses

  Contributors

  Acknowledgments

  About the Editor

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  Halimah Marcus

  This past January, as my New Year’s resolution, I started taking riding lessons again. The farm I’ve chosen is on a winding country road tracked with red clay from the unpaved driveways. There, I am given a tour and instructions to tack up Woody, the seventeen-hand paint I will ride in my lesson. I’m shown the tack room, with hooks for cleaning bridles, saddle pads stacked a dozen high, and the office, walls lined with faded ribbons and dusty trophies. Every barn I’ve been to has some version of these spaces, each unique in its particulars, but sensorially the same.

  In one hand I carry the green plastic tack box I got for my eleventh birthday, and under my arm is the brimless crash helmet I wore when I galloped cross-country as a teenager. It has been fifteen years since I’ve ridden regularly, ten since my last lesson, but the routines return to me easily. There’s a hierarchy at all barns: the trainer (Debbie, in this case) is at the top, followed by the most dedicated riders, who tend to have the most expensive horses. Riders who neither lease nor own a horse are near the bottom. These are the riders who mount “lesson horses,” which are usually some combination of old, fat, and slow. A riding friend of mine used to say these horses were “dead to the world,” because nothing startles them. They are dependable, they won’t shy at an open door, they’ll let you touch their faces and ears and girth. Often, there are stories about these horses’ glory days. Woody, the horse I’m riding, is twenty-one but used to be a star show jumper, I’m told. Now he leads an easier life carrying inexperienced—or, in my case, formerly experienced—riders around the indoor ring.

  At my first lesson it’s very important to me that I let everyone know how long it’s been, exactly how good I used to be. I did the whole thing: competitions every weekend; three-foot-six fences, ditches, drops, and water jumps; polished leather and pressed stock ties; dressage tests and leg yields. I still have my seat—straight spine, loose hips, shoulders square—but the obscure muscles on the insides of my thighs haven’t been properly exercised in years. I struggle to make Woody go. Our trot has no impulsion; he breaks from the canter. Debbie’s firm commands are comforting in their familiarity. Hands higher, softer. Toes in, heels down. She identifies the bad habits that used to plague me in my eventing days—a hip that tilts in around turns, a seat that drives when it should be light. Debbie self-describes as tough. “I don’t baby people,” she tells me, but I wouldn’t have wanted her to. Fifteen minutes in and already I feel myself returning to the star pupil I used to be, lengthening my spine, answering yes instead of yeah. “Am I boring you?” my former trainer used to say if I ever yawned in her presence, even when we gathered at the barn in the purple predawn the morning of a show.

  I know how to elicit and appreciate love from women like this. Strong, independent businesswomen who demonstrate affection by raising jumps and taking away your stirrups. By inviting you to ride in the truck with them or giving you a private lesson during an unexpectedly free hour. By pushing you, which, if you speak their language, means they believe in you. By keeping expectations always one notch higher than the level where you are.

  After the lesson, I groom Woody on the cross ties as teenage riders dart around—horse girls, one might call them, because they ride horses and they are girls. I recognize myself in them right away. They are in their element, laughing and joking, unburdened by whoever they are at home or at school.

  I easily identify the top ranking among them, who has curried the coat of her black Thoroughbred to gleam. She gets her friend to record a TikTok and lifts her horse’s upper lip so the pink, glossy underside is revealed, the place where off-track Thoroughbreds hide their racing tattoos, and makes him talk, doing his voice. My horse friends and I used to carry disposable cameras to the barn, purchased expensive prints from the show photographers for our carefully curated photo albums, or sometimes, settled for the wallet-size proofs with their watermarks and punched holes. I want to tell her this, but I know she won’t care. I am twice her age, and I am riding a lesson horse.

  I was once a horse girl, but I never became a horsewoman. Horsewomen are tough, no nonsense, fit but weathered, usually with a bad knee or some old injury acting up, but still always up early, riding every day—birthdays, New Year’s, in snowstorms, and on Christmas. Unsentimental about horses but devoted to them for life. Women like Debbie. But not me. Like many of the writers in this anthology, I stopped riding when I went to college, quitting the sport at the final edge of girlhood. I look back on it now as inevitable, the forces of money, time, and education conspiring against me, but then it felt like a crossroads. I could either attend a local school, maybe even major in equine studies at one of the rural institutions, or I could pursue a liberal arts degree at a more demanding and prestigious university. The former option would have allowed me to live at home and continue to ride competitively, working toward a professional career. The latter would be the first step on a path to pursue my quieter dream to become a writer.

  In her essay “I Don’t Love Horses,” T Kira Madden writes cannily how, because she is a writer, people often mishear her recounting of a riding accident as writing accident. It’s funny to imagine a writing accident that would land someone in a neck brace, but the cognitive dissonance of their reactions also shows how rarely these two worlds overlap. As I approached the end of high school, I believed that if I became a rider, I would never be a writer. Both because I wouldn’t be educated as a writer, and because the world of horses, as I knew it, had nothing in common with the world of arts and letters. If I continued to ride, I not only wouldn’t be a writer, I wouldn’t know any either.

  This either/or dichotomy, like most dichotomies, was based on a series of unexplored assumptions. Of course there are riders who
are also writers—I found fourteen of them for this book, and there are many more I wish I could have included. Back then, as a senior in high school, I chalked the choice up to logistics—how would I ride if I was busy at school, how would I get a good education if I was busy riding—when really, it was based on a more insidious assumption that if I rode, my life would lack creativity and inspiration. If I rode, I wouldn’t have anything to write about.

  Wanting to make a clean break, I applied early decision to an elite liberal arts school that did not have an equestrian team, and got in. My parents made plans to lease my horse, Dave, so that I could come home and ride him on holidays and weekends.

  On the first day of a writing class freshman year, we were asked to introduce ourselves by providing a unique piece of trivia. “I used to be heavily into riding,” I said when it was my turn, though I had quit practically yesterday and technically still owned a horse. Only as the words came out did I realize that I sounded like a snob, that the word “heavily” was awkward, menstrual, unintelligent. My classmates looked at me blankly. “So am I!” chimed another girl. Already I could tell she was friendly and enthusiastic and had no sense of irony. A full-on horse girl. I’d admitted the same about myself just a few moments earlier, but at least I had the good sense to be embarrassed by it. Later, she joined the college’s extracurricular riding club and proudly strode across campus in her jodhpurs, wrote stories (in college!) about sentimental relationships with horses while the rest of us tried to find a “voice” as serious writers. My school was nearly five hours away from home by train. Dave was sold by Christmas.

  Over the next four years, I reinvented myself as anything but a horse girl. I played indie music on the college radio station, dressed in vintage clothes, and wrote moody short stories that didn’t feature any animals, let alone horses. Horse girls were unfashionable, out of touch, unsophisticated. My new hobbies were obscure and exclusive, my demeanor disaffected. My assumption that horses could never be subjects of literary merit remained unchallenged. In fact, I didn’t believe that anything in my life was worth writing about. I made fun of classmates who set their stories in dormitories and on the quad, in their childhood bedrooms and high school hallways. I wrote stories that had nothing to do with me, that blatantly imitated the type of work we were assigned in class, stories about stoic longshoremen, single mothers driving cross-country, and alcoholic brides getting cold feet. Yet I had no interest in inventing a cowboy with a trusty mustang, or an heiress with a stable full of racehorses, a lonely farm girl with a stubborn mare. When I tried to push my imagination beyond imitation, all I got were more clichés.

  I used these stories to get into graduate school in New York, an MFA program in fiction, where I by now had some idea about how to fit in with the urbane, liberal, and artistic individuals I wanted to be like. My writing grew more personal, but riding remained a source of shame, something I rarely mentioned, or talked about only jokingly. It seemed aristocratic and conservative, a bucolic fantasy that had no place in New York City. And yet, I pined after it privately. From my life in the city, this pining was necessarily done at a remove. My Instagram feed filled up with horses, I watched livestreams of competitions on the weekends, I had a recurring fantasy that a lesson horse in Prospect Park would get loose during one of my regular runs, and I would dash valiantly to the rescue. (Unlike a doctor, who might reasonably be called upon at any moment, Does anyone know how to ride a horse? is not a question I was likely to encounter anywhere, for any reason.) Instead of growing out of my love for horses, as I always assumed I would, I felt that horses were drawing closer, demanding more attention, becoming more insistent in their absence.

  I confided in my new boyfriend, whom I met in the writing program, about how much I missed riding. Though we’d only been dating a few months, he arranged for me to have a lesson at a farm in New Jersey for my twenty-fifth birthday. “I thought you’d be wearing the outfit,” he said, disappointed, when he saw me dressed in the navy-blue riding pants, paddock boots, and half chaps my mom had mailed from Pennsylvania for the occasion. “You know, those tan leggings and tall boots.”

  I knew the look, the magazine-perfect horse girl he imagined, but was still surprised to hear him desire her so bluntly. As a girl, I’d coveted that image in an asexual way, wanting the perfection, the thinness. Instead of questioning what it was about the equestrian uniform—prim and prescribed, like a Catholic schoolgirl’s—that he found so alluring, I thought instead that there was no way my tall boots, which I hadn’t worn in years, would fit now. (C. Morgan Babst writes poignantly about the symbolism of that too-slim leather, straining against calves that have grown too wide.) Just the mention of those boots recalled the compression socks and the baby powder, the boot pulls and the bootjack, the phantom of charley horses past, a display I could no longer muster.

  The lesson was at a dressage stable helmed by a former Olympian, and the horse they put me on, while technically a lesson horse, could still do piaffes and passages, flying lead changes, and extended trots. I had never ridden a horse purely trained for dressage; the Thoroughbreds I evented in Pennsylvania sacrificed flare for power. During the lesson I felt that feeling riders chase: complete syncopation with my steed, a half ton of muscle and flesh floating above the ground. After, sweaty and proud, I asked my boyfriend what he thought. My beaming face anticipated the praise I was about to receive. He told me he hadn’t realized he was supposed to watch, as if the outfit was the only show; he’d spent the whole time waiting in the car.

  Still, I told friends the lesson was “the best present anyone has ever given me,” and interpreted it as a sign that this boyfriend really knew me, that he saw value in my dreams, even the dream I was embarrassed to admit to, the one I’d permanently deferred. I realized I’d given him too much credit when he later reported to me a “hilarious” conversation he had with our classmate about “how weird horse girls are.” He told me this without any inclination that I would be insulted, as if I would agree enthusiastically, as if even as the alleged horse girl, I could still be in on the joke.

  The boyfriend and I didn’t last, and these slights were, admittedly, minor. I consider it a flaw in my character that, ever since I was one of those weird horse girls myself, I have been susceptible to an eye roll, to a laugh at my expense. Writing this, I’m even embarrassed to admit how long that moment has stayed with me; I should have forgotten it years ago. But there’s no ignoring that I waited ten years to have another lesson, until the day I rode Woody. My ex-boyfriend’s comment tapped into an insecurity, a suspicion that the sport I loved limited me to an array of contradictory clichés: an overzealous misfit; a girl with her head in the pastures; a princess devoted to ponies and privilege; a dominatrix with high boots and crop.

  Unlike other sports, which are as ingrained into our national consciousness as the seasons, competitive riding inspires only other riders. It doesn’t foster civic pride, or cross-cultural conversation. It doesn’t give you something to talk about with your neighbor, or your coworker, or your dad. Outside of tight-knit riding communities, its value is primarily personal, deriving from the bond between rider and horse, a bond that can feel ancient, even spiritual, but is nonetheless about subordination, a bond made possible by centuries of domestication.

  One weekend a few years ago, I retreated to a friend’s cabin to work on an assignment that would eventually inspire this anthology. My longing to ride, but inability to fit it into my life, had finally taken up enough space in my mind that I had no choice but to write about it. It was the first time I’d attempted to write about horses, and everything I came up with felt myopic and indulgent. I left my desk and went for a walk in the woods, following whatever path called to me, uncharacteristically without a map or a plan. I headed down one trail, hoping it would loop back around, but as it kept going a feeling pestered me: if I continued, I would soon be lost. When I turned to retrace my steps, I saw, spray-painted on a boulder, “When we ride a horse we borrow freedom.�
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  As far as I knew, riders did not use this park. This was not horse country. The message had been at my back, and had I not turned around, I never would have seen it. The message had been written for me.

  Freedom, yes. Freedom was the feeling I got from riding, though I would have been too self-conscious to put it so plainly. Galloping, all four legs off the ground, six if you count mine. People can’t help but compare it to flying. And that word: borrow. The best horse and rider relationships have a give-and-take, their own language, a physical communication. When we ride a horse we don’t take their freedom; their freedom is not lost by being ridden. We borrow it; they share it with us; it is not depleted by being shared, and it is endlessly replenished. Freedom is not bestowed upon a horse; it is an innate quality that horses, even in captivity, embody and exude. Horses are free in ways that humans can only sample. We do not permit horses to be free because that kind of freedom is not a gift that humans have to give.

  Riding freed me from myself, but only temporarily. Self-consciousness returned as soon as my feet touched the ground. The way I continued to long for horses as an adult forced me to reckon with why, in the first eighteen years of my life, my sense of self was so dependent on something I was determined to deny in the next eighteen. Rather than view it as straightforward and sentimental, I began to see the damage of the horse girl stereotype, from the strange way that so-called horse girls have been both fetishized and made fun of in our culture, infantilized, sexualized, and mocked, to the way that the very term negates the athleticism and bravery required to ride a horse. Though it’s a label few apply to themselves, I also thought about who the term horse girl excludes: anyone on the margins. As Carmen Maria Machado writes in “Horse Girl: An Inquiry,” “If you were to lean close and breathe deep, she would smell like heterosexuality, independence, whiteness, femininity.”

  As I edited the essays that would be in this collection, I recognized certain patterns. Shame and passion are in conflict in many of these stories, albeit from different sources. Shame over not looking the right way, over not having enough money, of being too chubby, or too boyish, or queer, or having dark skin. Perhaps shame is a defining characteristic of girlhood, a period that concerns most of the essays here. It would follow, then, that girls who experience acute shame are motivated to seek relief for it on horseback. Riding promised a way to escape our circumstances and our bodies, our genders, our parents, our upbringings. On horseback, we weren’t horses, but we weren’t girls, either.