Let's Hear It For the Boys

Immigration is the one national issue the horse world has a strong opinion on. You see, we wouldn't be able to survive without our boys from Mexico, many of whom are illegal. Our boys groom, tack up, cool down, wrap, muck stalls, unbraid, and basically take complete care of the horses both on the road and at home. While there are girls who also do this job, a "girl" is basically an aspiring professional rider who doesn't come from money and hasn't yet been lucky enough to get a break. Boys aspire to be the best groom possible, but I've never heard of one who aspires to ride. And sometimes they don't aspire to be the best, they aspire to be the most adequate groom they can be before getting canned and moving on to the next groom job.

The term itself is horrible. Boy. It encompasses multiple derogatory levels. First, it's impersonal. Second, it's generic. Third, the connotation of "boy" rather than "guy" implies ingrained immaturity that cannot be outgrown; a flaw of the entire Mexican nation. I myself always refer to them as guys. I feel that it is ok for me to do this because I myself am classified as a girl and I take no offense. I am a girl. They are guys.

Now that I've defined the group, let's subcategory. There are several different types of guys. The lowest class don't know or care about the horses. They do the bare minimal needed without learning to be horsemen. They are rough, full of machismo, and can put the horse in danger out of ignorance. These guys are usually drifters who blow from barn to barn, accumulating cash only to spend it on tricked out cars, drugs, sound systems, cell phones, and other material goods. These are the guys I hate to work with, because of their stares, cat calls, and sleezy remarks. The next tier up are the ones who are fresh off the border. These guys don't speak English very well, and while most barn managers need to have a rudimentary grasp of Spanish, a lot gets lots in translation. While they try to do a good job, they are at the mercy of their coworkers. If the other guys know what they're doing, no real problems come up. But this is a crap shoot situation. The next tier up from that contains the majority of guys: they're good, they know their jobs, they respect the horses, and they respect a girl's personal space. They tend to be very quiet, and you're not always sure if they even speak English, but the work gets done and it gets done right.

Then, there is a special class of guy. These guys are the best of the best. They are the Olympic athletes of grooming. They know everything, and have tons of special tricks that make the work easier and faster without cutting any corners. They love their horses, and go out of their way to make sure their needs come first. They are patient, kind, respectful, like their jobs, and willingly share the work as long as you too know what you're doing. Yes, you need to earn their trust and respect, but they are at least willing to give it if warranted. Even if you happen to be a girl.

In my career, I've come across three guys that have blown me away with their knowledge, work ethic, kindness, and patience. All names have been changed to protect their identities.

The first is Roberto. I worked with him during a difficult time in my life, and our boss was not easy to work for. Roberto was older, and supported a wife and three kids, so I never felt at all uncomfortable around him. He taught me little tricks, like picking the stalls whenever I had spare time instead of saving it all for the end of the day, and even just tossing piles under the water buckets to get them out of the way and pick up later. He taught me to bank a stall only in back, so that it's easier to clean and harder for the horse to muck up. He taught me to wrap the nylon bandage inside the quilted one, so that when you wrap the leg, it already overlaps. These little tricks, and the almost father like figure he was to me during our time together, made every day worth it.

The second is Sergio. Sergio loved his ponies, Literally. He worked for one of the top pony trainers, and while many guys hate grooming ponies because to them it means they are less "manly" (btw, ponies are not baby horses, they are smaller breeds of horse, very much like there are small and big breeds of dog), Sergio wore his status with pride. He took extra special care of them, knew what they liked and didn't like, and taught me little tricks for each one. He was my age, but gay and fabulous. He had a wide array of hats that he rotated, and loved to blast Madonna or Michael Jackson over his iPod stereo at the shows. His groom stall had a mini fridge AND a microwave. He and I would dance in the aisles as we tacked up his ponies, and he never ever did anything to make his life easier in exchange for making theirs harder.

The third is Julio. Julio is the only groom on whom I've had a mild crush. His family grew up raising quarter horses in Mexico, so he is also the only groom I know who knows how to ride. Granted, he rides Western, but still, it makes a difference. He always always has a smile on his face, no matter how insanely early we had to get up or how ungodly late we had to stay. He knew how to safely lunge any horse, and even knew better than the trainer what the horse needed to prep for the day. He would take his horses on long walks if they had been indoors too long, and didn't use it as an excuse to walk around talking to his friends. He actually walked the horse. He laughed good naturedly when I mangled a sentence in Spanish, but he then taught me how to say it correctly, slowly pronouncing each word and making sure I said it correctly. He went out of his way to make sure all of his horses were happy, clean, and ready for their jobs.

Roberto, Sergio, and Julio all have special places in my heart. They are the best of the best. There are many more out their like them, and I'm sure that as the years go by I'll meet them, but if I were to open a business tomorrow, that would be my dream team. A little surge of anger wells up whenever I hear to them casually referred to as "boys". This term stems from the larger caste system in the horse world, and the deep roots of old money and racism that still run rampant. In my opinion, they are not only men, they are horsemen, and better horsemen than many of the white, drug addicted, psychologically abusive, womanizing "trainers" that have multi million dollar businesses. They deserve more than they get.

Let's hear it for the horsemen.

A Conversation About Money

Right now, I am working at a horse show with some fabulous people, and for a fabulous person. It’s a top top barn in the industry, everyone knows who my boss this week (heretofore referred to as MBTW) is. She has in her employment a manager of sorts, who is my age, and while she hasn’t worked for as many top people as I have, her situation in life nevertheless automatically inducts her into the inner circle of the horse world. To what inner circle am I referring?

Money. The inner circle of Money.

PLEASE let me start by saying she is EXTREMELY nice. Very easy to work with, not bossy, easy going, clean. Just plain nice nice nice. It is interesting, though, to see her talk effortlessly with people 6 to 9 years younger (like me, she is 27). Clients even. Me? I would never get chummy with a client, and it’s more than just a professional viewpoint. I simply have nothing in common with the clients, not really. Why? I’m not rich, and while I can’t 100% confirm it because who comes out and says, “Yes, I’m rich,” she is.

Yes, this sounds a bit like jealousy. And I’ll admit it, part of it IS about jealousy. What would it be like to be rich? To not have to worry about money? And that’s the main difference. I may choose to buy nice things, even a few extravagances with my funds. But I also know what it is like to worry about money. These people....there appears to be no concept that money is usually a limited resource.

Take water. I myself have no concept of what it means to be without water. Or to worry about not having enough water to get through a shower, or boil my pasta, or even take a casual drink. Yes, I KNOW that it is a resource, and I KNOW that there are parts of the world where water exists as a scarcity. But for me? Personally? I can’t understand these facts at anything other than surface level. I can’t internally, viscerally comprehend.

For many people who I am in contact with now on a daily basis, money is very much like water. Yes, they KNOW about money, but they don’t really KNOW about money.

Example:

Last night, I went out with MBTW to dinner with a few other people. The place was somewhat pricey, so I decided to order the equivalent of a hamburger and water. MTBW graciously treated us all, which was fantastic. Tonight, MBTW specifically invited me out to the same place. This time, I ordered the Filet Mignon, expecting (oops) that I would once again be treated, specifically because the place was overall very expensive and I was invited.

I was not.

Ouch.

I felt pain! Ouch! And THAT is the part, THAT pain, THAT feeling of being monetarily wounded, THAT is the missing link between myself and my inclusion into this world.

I will close by saying that this world does have some odd voyeuresque appeal to me. If I was repelled or repulsed by it, I wouldn’t be here. Many of the bosses I work for do work hard. Many didn’t necessarily come from money, but have simply forgotten what it’s like not to have it.

And me? Well. This is as close to it as I’ll ever get. In a weird, honestly blogging sort of way, that’s better than nothing.

One Year Ago Today...

There is a game that I often play with myself called One Year Ago Today. Don't think too hard, it's pretty self explanatory. One year is enough time for things to significantly change, both in terms of events and in terms of personal growth. It's also a length of time that goes by relatively quickly. Put the two together, and it can make for some pretty amazing WTF moments.

My life tends to resemble a shaky traveling amusement part ride as it is, even at the steadiest of times. Friends like to talk with me on the phone mainly because I always have something new to tell them, and most of the time, it comes completely out of the blue. "You're doing WHAT?" "When did you decide THIS?" and most importantly, "Does your Mother know?"

Yes, she usually does.

Right now, things in my life are pretty steady. Meaning that I've uprooted myself, moved to a completely different state, and started gearing up for Graduate School, where I will spend the next 4-5 years rooted to one spot (whaaa??) getting a double masters degree. Mind you, in February, Grad School wasn't even a twinkle in my eye. Does that help you get a clearer picture? I'm about to spend my final year of professional horse work, come fall, I will give it up and embrace the amateur's life. I will start dating. Again.

And this is where we begin.

One Year Ago Today:

June 11th, 2008 - . My god, I was lucky. I finally landed my dream job: Assistant Trainer of a legitimate show/lesson operation in the heart of the city I had always wanted to call home. I wasn't a girl, or a groom, or just an Assistant. I was a Trainer. I reveled at the thought of warming up kids to go into the ring, coaching them at home, watching them grow and improve. I had clout., as my winter in Florida fleshed out my already good resume with some of the top names in the industry. The head trainer promised to not only give me the riding time in the SHOW ring (FINALLY), but also the support and guidance to make the experience positive. The people were nice. The horses, well cared for. My future? Golden.

June 11th, 2007 - Freelancing. Finally. That was the way to go. The school year was over. Teaching inner city kids took more out of me than I had expected, though I loved my students. Only one summer class at grad school for my MEd. August? What? What's August? I was going to work at....wait for it....irony of ironies....HORSE SHOWS. And not only that, with the same woman who I quit working for just two short years ago. But the choice felt good. Nevermind that it had been more than a year since my butt touched the saddle, horses were a part of my need to function. Yes, the vacation from them had been necessary, and now getting back to them was just as necessary. I loved working hard. I loved flatting in the morning before the sun rose, watching it creep over the horizon atop a horse I could never afford to buy for myself. I loved the atmosphere. The drama. The commotion. In a way, I felt like I was coming home again. In the fall, back to business, back to school, back to teaching, back to "real life." But for my summer? Make believe in The Horse World.

June 11th, 2006 - FINALLY!! A teaching job!! A light at the end of the tunnel! It had been more than a year since moving to the city and establishing a blissfully horse/drama free life. What did I have to show for myself? Yes, I had a nice little place and paid my own bills, and wore nice clothes and had at least something that resembled a social life. But the job in the jewelry store started to wear thin. I quit horses to teach. And I wasn't teaching. Until FINALLY, an inner city school gave me the chance I craved. My English degree wasn't enough for other schools. I didn't carry the "highly qualified" badge. Whatever. I wanted to teach in this setting anyways. Plus, PLUS, the city's School of Education had EXACTLY the program I was looking for, and in two short years, I would have my Masters in Education; I wouldn't be the family **ck- up any more. The jewelry place till August, then...then...my life would begin.

June 11th, 2005 - Horses wasn't working. At all. What had started as a dream job slowly collapsed around me. My boss, while sweet outside of work, had no concept of personal boundaries or the limits of what a person could take. I loved the horses, but I couldn't handle a full barn of 14 that needed full show care with only one other girl to help me. I couldn't feed, muck, turn out, clean the barn, turn in, groom and tack 3 horses, groom and tack my own horse, and then cool out 3 horses, cool out my own horse, do the same with another set of 4, clean the tack, make their dinner feed, clean the barn, go to Southern States, babysit while lessons were taught, pick the stalls again, and feed dinner, 6 days a week, week after week, with no end in site. And body clip. And pull manes. And polish the bits. And trim. And dust for cobwebs. I felt myself falling apart. But where else could I go? What else could I do? Maybe, just maybe, if I stuck it out, things would get better....

So that's where I've been. I've learned not to wonder too much where I'm going, though I do hope to still be in Grad School, riding as an amateur, having a boyfriend (a what? What's that?), and making time for all the little things I didn't make time for before.

The next time you find yourself bored, I invite you to play the One Year Ago Today game. You might be surprised at what you learn.