You can bring a horse to water, but first you have to kick him in the teeth.
I was a six-year-old sitting atop a 3,000 lb. horse when he turned his massive head toward my boot and made a chomping lunge at my foot. Smokey was my first experience with bullying and I don’t hold it against him; the person who put me in this situation was my mother.
I was starting first grade when we moved to Valley Forge Pennsylvania. It was a place so lovely, it almost defies description. We lived in a Revolutionary-era house on the fringes of the National Park; the one George Washington occupied with his army during the frigid winter of 1777. The sloping hills of the park formed a natural barrier for our little enclave. Kids sledded down the hills, deer wandered through our backyards, and every day on the way to school we passed the Old Quaker Meeting House.
Towns that reside along the train tracks serving the Philadelphia suburbs are part of an area called “The Main Line.” It was an outdoor kind of life. Kids learned to become accomplished athletes, and horseback riding was a common pastime. A committed social climber, Mom registered my brother and me for lessons at Al Stire’s Riding Academy.
I was small so they put me on a pony. Anyone who has ever been in a saddle knows that ponies have an uneven gait. In other words, I bounced around like a plastic fishing bobble on rough seas. A woman (a disinterested teen who looked like an adult to me) held onto the pony with a leather strap as around I went in a circle of vomit-inducing misery.
After my first “lesson,” I rebelled. On the way home I told Mom in tears, “I’m never going back there; I hate that pony.” Unwilling to give up her horsy aspirations, Mom persevered. Back we went a week later to Al’s for my second lesson.
“Find her a gentle horse,” Mom said. So up I went on Smokey. He was about a thousand years old. His back swayed and he poked around the ring in a slow, swaying motion. “Okay, I thought, this is better.” As we plodded around the ring, I began to relax; actually thought “I can handle this.” Then Smokey did something; he saw the open gate and turned his giant body towards it, knowing instinctively that the barn was only a short mosey down the bridle path.
I yanked hard on the rein, trying to pull him back from the open fence. Around came the giant head, one watery eye glaring in rage. I saw stumpy green teeth. I heard the rattle of metal against leather as his mouth made a chomping lunge for my foot. By then, we were past the gate and still in the ring. But Smokey had made his point. I was crying and nearly paralyzed with fear. When I looked up, I saw Mom strolling toward the ring. She climbed up on the fence and swung her long legs over the wooden rungs.
Tears streaming down my face, I begged her to help me. “Get me off,” I cried. Instead, she settled herself on the fence, while inside my head I’m screaming, “Now…I need help now!” In a calm voice she looked over at me and said, “Kick him in the mouth.” What? I thought I hadn’t heard right. “The next time he tries to bite you,” she said, “kick him as hard as you can right in the mouth.”
We were once again approaching the open gate, Smokey and I. Turning his giant body like a slow-moving freighter, Smokey was within steps of reaching the flimsy wooden gate that separated him from his hay and release from the annoying fly on his back. With just seconds to make a decision, I pulled on the rein. The massive head jerked around and made a fierce snap at my foot. I pulled that foot back with all my six year old might and kicked; making contact with a hard “thwack.”
I don’t know if I hit a painful cavity or just got lucky. But Smokey faced forward and turned back toward the ring. He even picked up his pace and seemed to settle down. We walked around that ring like any horse and rider on a pleasant ramble. I have no recollection of what happened next. I know that I never saw Smokey again, and that horseback riding did not become my sport. I only remember the feeling of elation; that I still had my foot…I had acted with courage…and it worked!
Many years later, I told a therapist the story of my encounter with Smokey. She said this; “I grew up on a farm and I’m not defending your mother’s handling of the situation, but that’s exactly what you do with a horse like Smokey. You kick him in the mouth.”
What was the lesson?
Want that kid’s toy? Kick him in the mouth!
Want that girl’s boyfriend? Kick her in the mouth!
Kidding.
Here’s what stayed with me from that time forward; there will always be bullies—the horsey kind and the human kind. We encounter them in business all the time. Your first reaction may be fear or anger, but you still have to make a decision that’s in your own self-interest.
My mother put me in a difficult situation, but she also told me how to get out of it. The choice was mine. I could have held back and the worst outcome would have been Smokey winning the face down and heading back to the barn with me on his back. But instead, I took mom’s suggestion and went for it. I don’t remember anything about being six, except for my encounter with Smokey.
Lesson? Don’t be a victim.
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