Why We Give Our Children Horses

She sits with one bare ankle across her knee, and her foot jiggles to the beat of an invisible rhythm. Her arm dangles out the window, letting the hot, dry, air play through her slim, elegant fingers. Her seat belt is jerked loose and useless, it’s hard not to reach out and adjust it.


“You know, I kept skipping this class at first, I was so mad every time I thought about taking it,” she says. “Now, I’m starting to really like it. Shawn, our counselor, has so much to say, and I’m learning a lot.”

I glance at her, judging her mood, and catch her watching me, doing the same. We laugh a little; our eyes pull out of their clinch and slide back to their corners. We aren’t used to this sharing, it’s new and a little frightening, talking to each other like grown-ups, letting go of our sparring.

“Do you want to know the biggest thing I’ve learned?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t belong there. I’m not like everybody else in the group.”

My mind jumps, I put down the sarcasm, the judgment, and try to weigh my words carefully. “How so?”

“They’re all so messed up, they’re crack heads, or alcoholics, or both. Some of them are younger than me and have two or three kids. None of them have jobs, some of them have never worked.”

I nod, buying myself some time. I feel protective of these other kids, their lives so close to ruined; afraid her opinions could be their last straw, after all, her clear eyed beauty and easy self confidence have unsettled me since the day she was born, and, unlike them, I know it’s only a mask she hides behind.

The other side of me wants to crawl over her, hide her in the shelter of my body and take these hits for her, like I’ve done her entire life. My scabs and scars have given me rhino hide, I could protect her shiny view of what life has to offer, help her shoulder the weight of growing up and the prices she’ll pay for the privilege. I don’t though, not anymore. I try to step back and let her find her own steel, hope I’ve done enough, given enough, and not marked her with too many of my own scars in the process.

“Yet there you are, taking the same drug and alcohol class as the rest of them.” It’s the best I can do. I struggle to keep the bite from my tone, but she flinches, feeling the edge.

“Oh, I know, it’s embarrassing. When we’re in group, they talk about selling their food cards to buy meth, or getting beaten by their parents, their boyfriends, the police, it seems like everybody wants to beat them. Like it’s the way to fix them.”

“And this embarrasses you how?” I feel my anger rise. What did I do to create such a selfish little shit?

“When it’s my turn to talk, all I’ve got is how worried I am about juggling everything. How I can’t figure a way to keep my horse. How frustrating it is to work two jobs and still try to find time to ride, for the band, for just about everything. I feel like a spoiled brat whining about my white girl problems. I mean, they’ve got real problems, they’re in group because it could be the only shot they have at getting on their feet.”

My anger recedes and now I’m the one who’s embarrassed. Thank God I didn’t open my mouth and step in it, get the barely cracked door slammed in my face before I got even a peek at the light coming through.

“It makes me see how lucky I’ve been, how easy it is to end up in their shit. At the same time, I think, hey, I’m paying for this class, this is my time too, so they can just deal.” She smiles at the joke of the thing.

“How do they react? Do they resent you?”

“No Mom, you wouldn’t believe it.” She twists around in her seat to face me, pulling at her lap belt until it sags almost to her knees. “They stare, and listen to every word. Then they ask questions and they’re all about Toby. ‘You have a horse? Where do you ride? Do you run him?’ They completely forget whatever we were talking about and want to hear about riding, and horse shows, and trail rides, all of it. It’s like it makes them hungry, you know?”

“I do know. Horses do that to people. It’s why I raised you there, in the horse world, it was the only way I knew to give you power.”

“The thing is, I want to give them horses somehow. They could help them see there’s more out there than the little tiny world they’re trapped in. Just petting them could help.”

“Petting a horse fixes a lot of problems,” I say, and smile.

“I was thinking,” her eyes light up and she runs her fingers through her tangled hair, twisting it into a knot and away from her face. “Maybe I could open a school, or a youth camp, something like that, where people from my group could come and pet a horse. Then if they wanted, they could learn to care for them, ride them. They could find out how it feels to run.”

“You could.” I stomp down the dire warnings that leap to the surface of my thoughts, resist reviewing bad decisions, make sure the phrase ‘You should…’ is nowhere on my face.

“I talked to Shawn about it and she thinks it’s a great idea. I’d have to go back to school. I’m thinking a business degree with a minor in psychology would be enough. I’d hire a shrink for the kids, I don’t want to go there. I just want to plant the seed, you know?”

I watch her while she rattles on, her plans and ideas growing by the second. Long limbed, tattooed, nose rings and a face without makeup. She looks the part of a lost and wandering soul, but the horses, they keep shining through.

She sits back and looks out the window. A smile plays across her face as she loses herself in her daydream. She reaches up and tightens her seatbelt.