I nearly lost an eye when I was a kid, and it was all because of a horse.
The horse in question was Mr. Ed, the year was 1964, and thanks to me having all the grace and style of a dead bristlecone pine, what should have been a pleasant evening at home for Mum, Dad, our dog Terry, and yours truly turned into a medical emergency. I’m not all that clear on the details – I was all of four, after all – but I’m fairly sure that this was one of the incidents that eventually led my long suffering mother to wail to that it was a good thing she hadn’t named me “Grace.”
We were all downstairs in the basement/TV room of our luxurious split-level colonial watching the adventures of Mr. Ed, Willlllllburrrrr, and Willlllllburrrrr’s assorted relatives and friends who were too dense to realize that hey, the horse actually talks! Dad was in an armchair, relaxing with a glass of beer, Mum was on the sofa, the dog was off practicing to be a wire haired fox terrier, and I was sitting in a little kiddie rocking chair, rocking back and forth and laughing my little kiddie behind off at the sparkling wit manifesting itself on the black and white screen of our Philco.
The rocking chair in question had been Dad’s almost forty years earlier, so it was sturdy, well made, and more capable of handling whatever punishment I could inflict upon it. The rockers were smooth, so was the linoleum floor of our basement, and if none of us noticed that the chair and its contents were gradually getting nearer and nearer the television set, well, my parents were trying to relax a little before bed. And if I was laughing perhaps a bit too loud, and rocking a bit too hard, I’ve always been easily amused.
Did I mention that I was really, really close to the TV set? Or that I really, really liked Mr. Ed cracking jokes and Willlllllburrrrr playing straight man to a badly dubbed Palamino who inexplicably lived in what appeared to be a suburban garage?
What happened next was probably inevitable; when one combines a clumsy child with a less than sophisticated sense of humor, a perfectly balanced rocking chair, and a slippery floor, it’s no surprise when Something Awful happens. At the same time, none of us were really prepared for the moment when Mr. Ed said something outrageous, I went into hysterics, doubled over, and swung forward toward the Philco –
And slammed into the corner of the picture tube housing, face-first.
I let out a howl of pain and fell out of the chair to the floor. My father, cursing madly, lunged forward to pick me off the floor, while my mother carefully turned me over to see if I had somehow succeeded in blinding myself. I was sobbing uncontrollably by then, both eyes bruised and swelling, and by the time Mum had finished calling the doctor and Dad was bundling me into the car, I was a whimpering wreck.
Fortunately our doctor only lived a few blocks away. Even more fortunately, her offices were on the first floor of her home. By the time we pulled into the driveway and Dad carried me inside, Dr. G was downstairs waiting for us, clucking reassuringly about kids and the scrapes they got into as she led us into her examining room.
“That’s quite the shiner you’re going to have,” she said, shaking her head as she gently checked to make sure that both eyes were still in place and both orbital bones were intact. “It’s the best I’ve seen in quite a while.”
“It hurts,” I mumbled. “I was just rocking and – “
“Well, you shouldn’t sit so close to the TV.” Dr. G shook her head and picked up a mirror. “I don’t think anyone’s going to bother you on the playground for a while, though. They’ll think you’re really tough.”
I stared at myself in the mirror – I hadn’t realized that human skin could bruise quite that spectacularly, or that bruises came in purple and red and green as well as blue – and started to giggle. I was small for my age, and I rather liked the idea of looking fiercer than I actually was. “How long will I look like this?”
“Oh, just a week or so,” said Dr. G. “Now, you’ll have to put an ice pack on it, but I’ll tell your parents how to do that – “
I’m not sure how my playmates at kindergarten reacted to me looking like one of the Dead End Kids, but I do know that I was complimented on my shiner by an admiring stock boy when Mum took me to the grocery a couple of days later. I also seem to recall that my uncle Lou, who’d gotten into more than one fight himself defending his kids sisters back in the day, was mightily impressed, but that may be wishful thinking on my part.
I am certain, though, that I never got to close to the TV again.
Especially while watching Mr. Ed.
After this incident, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I went through a horse-crazy phase a few years later. I never took riding lessons (possibly due to Mum's fear that I'd fall off and imitate Bonnie Blue Butler) but I devoured the collected works of Marguerite Henry, Walter Farley, and other authors specializing in the genre known as "horsey stories." These books, which usually involve a plucky child or teenager and his/her love for a Very Special Horse, are wildly popular among preteen girls of the suburban persuasion, and are responsible for the racks of horse show ribbons, dressage trophies, and other memorabilia that clutter so many suburban bedrooms alongside posters of whatever cute male actor is currently featured in Tiger Beat.
Theories as to why middle class girls loves them some horsies range from "they're fun stories" to "they're wish fulfillment, just look at National Velvet," to "horses are pretty" to "the vibration of the saddle hits a Certain Special Place just right and...." I make no claim to knowing the truth (especially the latter theory, since I've been on a horse about twice in my life and thus lack salient experience) and offer these simply as possibilities; if anyone reading this diary can offer more insight, please send the said insight on a postcard along with the shooting script for the Agent Carter pilot delivered to the Last Homely Shack East of the Manhan by the GIANT TURKEY PUPPET O' DOOM or similar bonded transportation method post-haste.
As for the books themselves...as in all things, Sturgeon's law applies. Some of these books, like Misty of Chincoteague, The Black Stallion, or Mr. Revere and I, are genuinely well written, enjoyable, and suitable for all ages. Others, particularly the series about little girls going pony trekking in the Brecon Beacons, are only fair. And some, of course, are Horsey Stories So Bad They're Good.
Tonight I bring you a somewhat unusual horsey story. I really wish I weren't - the book, which was clearly written for adults and older teens, not children, is much better written than my customary finds in Badbookistan. At the same time, the subtext is so unnerving, and so ultimately horrid, that I can't ignore it:
The Heavenly Horse from the Outermost West, by Mary Stanton - One of the more unusual fictional genres is the beast fable. These tales, which feature animals talking, thinking, and sometimes even behaving like humans, are distinguished from the average Richard Scarry tale about hat-wearing worms and tabby cats being close personal friends by the strong metaphorical/allegorical/moralistic strain. Beast fables, which can range from legends about Anansi the Spider and Coyote to Aesop's Fables, have long and deep roots in human folklore and myth. Notable Western examples include the The Nun's Priest's Tale and Reynard the Fox in the Middle Ages, Drakestail in Baroque France, Black Beauty, in Victorian England, and of course Animal Farm in the twentieth century.
Some of these stories are better than others - Animal Farm is every bit as scathing today as it was when first published, while Black Beauty is as relevant as protests against child chimney sweeps - but they all share a common didactic purpose. Whether critiquing Stalinism, calling for better treatment of beasts of burden, satirizing feckless kings, or warning against flattery, these stories are all out to teach their readers a valuable lesson.
Such obvious allegorical tales may seem obsolete in today's world, but beast fables are far from extinct. Visual media have been tailor-made for beast fables, as the critical and box office success of Chicken Run, War Horse, and even the recent Guardians of the Galaxy all amply prove, and that doesn't even touch on films with prominent animal/animal-like characters such as Princess Mononoke or Brave.
The same can be said about books. Beast fables may be rare, but they do show up on the best seller lists from time to time. The best known, and probably the best, is still Watership Down, but other examples over the last few decades include The Book of the Dun Cow and its sequel The Book of Sorrows,, Tailchaser's Song, and the seemingly endless Redwall series of children's fantasies. There was even a brief vogue in science fiction and fantasy circles for books that purported to do for other animals what Watership Down had done for rabbits, such as Mouse Guard, The Guardians of Gahoole, and similar graphic novels and stories.
The Heavenly Horse From The Outermost West is firmly in this modern beast fable tradition. Published by fantasy stalwart Baen in 1988, with a gorgeous full color cover by Larry Elmore and charming interior illustrations by Judith Mitchell, this is a true fantasy epic of good versus evil, with gods, demons, romance, a servant of Equus, the horse god, sent to the mortal world with a sacred charge, desperate battles against the demonic Anor the Executionar, humor –
Oh, this one has it all. The horses, from the Dancer, the last remaining Appaloosa stallion who has been sent by Equus to restore his breed, to El Arat, the Dreamspeaker/prophet of her herd, actually behave like horses, not humans with hooves. The mythology, folklore, and customs of the equine society are well developed and plausible, and the human, canine, and other supporting characters are equally well written. The female lead, Duchess, is something of a ninny, but much of this can be forgiven since she’s an amnesiac who’s unaware of her true identity and destiny. There isn’t much that’s truly original – it’s very clearly in the tradition of Watership Down, with little that’s groundbreaking beyond the heroes being horses, not rabbits – but author Mary Stanton not only knows horses, she has a deft hand with writing, plotting, and characterization. Whether or not one loves horses, this book more than qualifies as a solid, enjoyable read.
So what is THHFTOW doing in this diary?
Very simple. The horses in this book, even the quasi-angelic Dancer, are at base nothing more than happy, contented slaves, with a society that is even more sexist that than advocated by the Botkin Sisters.
I realize that this sounds very harsh. However, what else is one supposed to make of the following?
- The equine society, which is (of course) based on the idea of the herd, consists of Equus and the one hundred five breeds of horse that follow him…all but about three of which are human-created breeds. Even better, the representatives of the one hundred five are stallions who are known as "Breedmasters," or "a foundation sire for the breeds in the world of men."
- The position of second in command in the Heavenly Courts is given to the Dancer, an Appaloosa stallion, ignoring the fact that Appaloosas were only recognized as a distinct breed in the 19th century. The actual oldest breed, the Arabian, is demoted to second in the heavenly courts for reasons that are never made clear, while the actual oldest type of horse, the wild Tarpan of Central Asia, is way, way down in the hierarchy.
- The story of the Dancer's quest to re-establish his breed on an American farm, owned by an American family with the undoubtedly symbolic named "Bishop," only gives a glancing nod to the very real, and very tragic, history of the Appaloosa as the creation of the Nez Perce tribe, and how the breed was almost lost thanks to white men stealing the horses from Chief Joseph and his people.
- One of the horses, Fancy, the Lead Mare of the herd, gives a ringing defense of how wonderful it is that Equus has given horses to humans to care for and breed in exchange for faithful service, and how meet and right it is that this should be so:
There was a very long silence. Finally, Fancy said, "This would be wrong, El Arat. There’s no reason for disobedience. The men here have kept their bargain with the horse. They create the breeds, and for that we serve them, nothing more. There is a Balance, just as the One has ordained. We are sheltered and fed, and in return, we bear our foals for them to train and sell. I can see no reason to break this bargain."
- Not only do the horses not seem to care when their herd is culled and the older members are sent off to the slaughterhouse to become pet food, they seem to accept this as part of the bargain that Equus made with humans in the first place. How this differs from the system described in so-called "slavesploitation" books like the endless
Falconhurst series of historical novels is not clear, but it is, to put it mildly, troublesome.
- The entire equine hierarchy is based on an American breed classification system which not only ignores European and Middle Eastern traditions, but counts color types like Palominos as actual breeds, even though Palominos don’t breed true.
- The relationship between stallions and mares may be true to horses (or not, since most of what we see involves domesticated horses who've adapted to human norms, not wild horses like Tarpans or even the feral Mustangs of the American West), but it's so deeply sexist, and the Duchess is such a stereotype of the damaged female who's healed by the love of a good stud male, that I positively winced at some passages.
I confess that I didn’t see much of this subtext the first time I encountered this book, and a lot of its readers still don’t if the Goodreads and Amazon reviews are to be believed. It’s definitely there, though, and once seen, is impossible to ignore. Worse, the author so clearly knows and loves Appaloosas that it’s all but certain she knew the breed’s actual history and consciously chose to edit it so that the saviors of the Appaloosa breed are a) the Dancer (a quasi-angelic avatar) and the human ranch owner who saves Duchess even though she’s ill-tempered and psychotic enough that she should be the one sent to the knackers.
There's also nothing in the author's background to indicate just why she wrote something so problematic. Mary Stanton, a twice-divorced native of Hawaii with a background in advertising, social work, and the law, seems like a perfectly ordinary writer if such a thing exists; she's written THHTOW and a sequel (Piper at the Gates, about Duchess and the Dancer's son), a children's fantasy series about unicorns, and almost two dozen mysteries under the name Claudia Bishop. She's even worked as a nightclub singer and cartoon scriptwriter, and runs a writing program for young people on the side.
In short, she's the very model of the successful professional writer and public-spirited citizen, with nary a hint in her life story as to why her first book was basically about how some animals are more equal than others horses may have their own society, their own religion, and their own familial relationships, but they're happiest and best dancin' on de levee waitin' for the Robert E. Lee when their masters are in charge. She'd probably be shocked at having this pointed out to her, too, and likely would respond that "that's how horses are."
She may even be right about horses, at least domesticated horses. However, unlike Watership Down, or even The Book of the Dun Cow, THHFTOW portrays animals as ultimately not as autonomous creatures, but as servants to the superior humans. After all, the humans care for them and feed them and introduce them for breeding, so why shouldn't the horses willingly give up their young for sale? Or allow the kindly humans to send them off to become Alpo when they're too old to work?
It’s a real shame that THHFTOW is so flawed. If one can ignore the subtext of the happy, contented darkies horses giving up their freedom in exchange for a warm barn and plenty of oats, this is exactly the sort of sweeping epic that a horse-crazy tween would swoon over. I certainly would have loved it when I was ten or eleven, and I can see why so many adults on the Amazon and Goodreads message boards still think it’s one of the best books they’ve ever read.
If only the faint, unconscious, but very definitely present stench of racism manure didn’t underlie the richly scented straw of those deep, comfortable stalls…..
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Did you ever go through a horse-crazy phase? Ride a horse? Watch Mr. Ed? Nearly blind yourself on the corner of a television set? Is there a complete set of Black Stallion books in your daughter's old bedroom? Step inside the paddock and share....
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