Half Broke A Memoir

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Rootbeer
Follow Me
To the River
Just a Few
Waves
Belle
Soft Creatures

Acknowledgments
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book represents my best recollection of the events I relate. During the
year and a half these events took place, I worked with over fifty residents.
Some characters are composites. The dialogue comes from memory and
from conversations I had with residents after they left the ranch. These
conversations often led to differing accounts of the same events which I
have tried to integrate.
HALF BROKE
 PROLOGUE

At first it seemed like just another ranch asking me to help. Training

horses and educating their owners has been my job for the last twenty years.
I hear many stories of horse trouble. In those stories a lot of things go
unsaid and, most likely, unnoticed. But I know that the slightest movement
—a flick of an ear, a shortening of breath—is how a horse will try to
communicate. If the owners had noticed this subtle language early on, the
whole bad experience might have gone differently. But this call was
different. Not once in my life had I heard of horses acting like this:
scavenging, marauding, war parties of horses. I didn’t think it could be true,
and if it was, I certainly needed to see it.
This particular ranch is a prison. Most of the residents living here are
multiple offenders, felons. They applied to come to the ranch from prison
and have gone before a judge to have the term of their sentence finished
here on the ranch. The whole operation is run by the residents themselves:
no hired CEO, no lawyers, no counselors, no outside plumbers, no doctors.
No jail guards. Statewide and county judges, probation and parole officers,
court-appointed lawyers—all interact and count on the older residents of
this ranch to fulfill the legal sentencing requirements for each resident.
This ranch has run like this for almost fifty years. The oldest residents
take the lead and teach each new arrival the essential skills to keep the
operation of the ranch ongoing. Only a few of the residents have come in
off the streets voluntarily, strung out on heroin, meth, or alcohol. They live
at the ranch after hitting rock bottom. This ranch is here to save their lives.
Horses have always been part of the ranch. They live together with the
residents on this seventeen-acre property, which sits along the banks of the
Rio Grande in northern New Mexico. The herd roams free in the pastures.
They gather in the automotive shop when it rains and snows, and in the
woodshop when the flies get too bad. They forage through the ranch
dumpsters for cookies, leftover baked goods, and Wonder Bread. At night
they are chased by six to eight men, running behind them, into sizeable pens
where they have shelter, water, and alfalfa hay. During the day they wander
the property like giant gods with dominion over all things.
No one on the ranch knows very much about horses. They don’t know
that Wonder Bread and Tastykakes are not good forage for an animal that
has browsed on grasses, flowers, and tree bark for thousands of years.
Before I got the call, the horses had begun running in packs like dogs,
chasing the residents when they brought the trash out from the cafeteria
after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The residents gathered in a tight circle
next to the trash containers. They carved wooden poles in their woodshop
that they carried to fend off each attack. Residents had been bitten, they’d
been tripped and stepped on. A few had injuries to their ankles, arms, and
wrists. Men and women, toughened by prison and living on the streets, ran
as fast as they could for safety when the horses began their charge.
My first trip to the ranch was on a Sunday. Sunday is the one day of the
week the residents have off from a grueling weekly work schedule. At the
ranch, they have a livestock division. The residents working on livestock
are required to feed and care for the horses, ducks, dogs, and cats that live
on the property. There are two heads of the livestock division and about six
other members who split duties of caring for the animals.
I learned on that first Sunday that the livestock division was run by two
women, Flor and Sarah. Flor was in her thirties, a longtime heroin addict
for fifteen years. She was in prison for a multitude of crimes, with the last
term for robbing her mother’s home. Her mother turned her in, feeling
certain that prison was the safest place for Flor. Flor is a small woman with
a big presence. When I first met her, she stood with her legs parted wide,
her chest and shoulders open, arms draped by her side, as she looked me
straight in the eye. Sarah was in her forties, a mother, a meth and heroin
addict, and a prostitute since she was thirteen. When she spoke to me, her
body wiggled like she was dancing. Her mouth held wrinkles that pointed
the corners of her lips toward the ground.
Everything at the ranch, all the knowledge and skill it takes to keep the
property in good order and the residents cared for and well fed, is
supervised by the residents who have lived here the longest. The elder
residents are the officials in charge. It is a long chain of knowledge handed
down, one person at a time, ensuring that the strong traditions and standards
of the ranch will continue. At one time there had been a chain of knowledge
regarding how to care for the horses. That chain of knowledge had broken.
Neither Flor nor Sarah had much experience with horses, yet they
understood something was seriously wrong.
They went before the elders of the ranch and asked permission to reach
into the community for help. Asking for and receiving help from outside the
ranch is rarely needed. Most of the residents come from families with a
long history of addiction, poverty, and gang crime. Some of them have
never worked a job in their entire life. Each one, teach one—this is the way
the ranch operates. Every four months the residents change jobs to learn a
new skill: plumbing, cooking, auto mechanics. The older residents pass on
their knowledge. Over one hundred residents live on the ranch at any one
time. Drug addicts and criminals adjusting to life outside a conventional
prison but still contained by twelve-foot adobe walls.
That’s when I got the call. I am a small-framed woman, weighing just
over 120 pounds. I can be quiet and reserved when I first meet people and
rarely make dramatic first impressions. My calm, restrained demeanor may
not impress people, but horses take to it easily. In my work over the past
twenty years, I have witnessed a wide variation of behavior when it comes
to the horse-human relationship. On that first Sunday, I found myself in the
middle of the most dangerous horse situation I had ever encountered.
 EMOTIONAL CAMOUFLAGE
March / 2013

The men and women from the livestock team are sitting on tables and
benches placed under the shelter of a small tack room, positioned a few
yards away from the nighttime corrals. It is four in the afternoon, feeding
time. Recently they have experienced bad accidents during the feeding
routine. Arguments about whose fault it was and the question of how to fix
the problems are on their minds. I introduce myself to everyone, as each
member of the team rises to shake my hand and tell me their name. They
begin to talk. The most recent accident, with Paul, keeps coming up. Paul
was trampled by Hawk two days ago. His left wrist is wrapped in a support
bandage, and he limps along dragging his right leg.
“How can we keep them from running us over? I mean, they don’t
listen,” Paul explains. Paul is a tall man, with a thick neck and broad
shoulders. “They run right through us, like we aren’t even here,” he tells
me. His ear lobes have wide open holes at their end. I see straight through
them like I’m looking through tiny windows.
“And this is always at dinnertime, or other times, too?” I ask.
“Always at dinner and anytime there’s food.”
A tall, thin man rises off the bench to shake my hand. His name is Rex.
He grins as he unbuttons his collared shirt to show me a perfect hoof-
shaped bruise on his chest.
 “Scout knocked me good yesterday during the morning feed,” he tells
me as he gestures out into the pasture to a brown-and-white spotted horse
standing away from the rest of the herd. “I was dropping the hay into his
trough when he spun around and got me.” Rex is taller than Paul, six-foot-
three at least. Lean and lanky, he towers over me with his shirt unbuttoned,
looking down at me with his hazel green eyes.
I hesitate. “I want to see how it goes,” I tell the group. “Let’s bring them
in and feed.”
A young man named Marcus rises from the bench. He has the body of a
guy who spends too much time in the gym. His muscles bulge under his
tight T-shirt and make his upper torso move like a large stone. He looks a
little angry, yet he speaks carefully. I wonder if my presence makes him
nervous. I get the feeling that not everyone on livestock is happy to have
my help.
“Let’s get ’em, guys.”
The other men rise off the bench at his command. Marcus walks over,
unlatches the hay barn door, swings it open, and starts throwing small
portions of alfalfa hay into the arms of the waiting men. The horses stand at
the far end of the pasture, heads down and quietly chewing. With the sound
of the latch and the barn door swinging open, they snap their heads from the
ground, readying themselves to race in our direction. Each man grabs two
cuts of alfalfa, tucks them tight against his body, and launches into a run
toward the night corrals. They toss the hay into the feed troughs and tear
back to the shelter of the tack-room shed, intent and out of breath. A few of
the men make a second trip back to the corrals to ensure that each horse has
enough hay for the night. Flor, Sarah, and the others cram themselves into
the front of the hay barn, shouting like they are participating in an important
sporting event.
“Hurry up. Here they come. Get in here!”
The residents’ screaming paralyzes me. And then, here they come—the
horses galloping, ears back, kicking up and thundering toward us. I am
standing alongside the large cottonwood tree that shades the barn and night
corrals. A herd of horses racing across a field has a mesmerizing effect.
Most of my days are filled with teaching horses how to feel comfortable in
the world of humans. But my secret truth is that I love their world more. All
they need is their bodies. As they gallop toward us I see their legs churn
under the wide girths of their rib cages.
The shouting and screaming grows louder, and a few of the men run out
and grab me, dragging me back inside the hay barn. Marcus slams the gate
behind us. We are all tucked into an eight-foot-wide space in front of the
hay. The horses roar up to the wooden gate at a gallop, a band of snaked
bodies, twisting and kicking dirt into the air. They level their heads and
necks down to the height of their shoulders, flat and thin, ready to strike.
It sounds like a hiss, but it’s more like spit. Hawk opens his mouth and
his teeth jut forward at us. He snaps his jaw shut and curls back his lips. The
force of it shoots a mist of saliva all over our faces. He can see us—they all
can—but they cannot get to us. Their dark hollow eyes are unrecognizable
to me. Watching them bare their teeth at us like predators, as if we were
their meal, makes me think: these are not horses.
We are their captives, herded into our cell like lesser animals. They stand
in front of the gate swinging their necks back and forth, ears flat back.
Clumped together, we step back from the gate and wait, not saying a word. I
feel the touch of our bodies pinned against one another. The intimacy of our
fear, the smell of adrenaline and sweat steams up from our cluster.
Once we are thoroughly dominated, the horses walk into their corrals for
their evening meal. We wait in silence, listening for the horses to settle.
Five or ten minutes pass. We can hear the horses chewing on their alfalfa. A
few of the men sneak out of our shelter. Hunkered low and moving like
thieves, they run to the corrals and shut the gates. I hear the latches slap
tight. Now we can reenter our world; the giant beasts are content and
contained for the night.

PEOPLE SAY THAT horses mirror their owners. To protect themselves, they
become you. They blend themselves to the inside of a person: emotional
camouflage. The ranch horses have seen a lot of damaged people over the
years. They carry their life stories on their faces, in their postures, and
within their unique styles of movement. This physical expression is a
language the horses are well equipped to understand. Fear and its family
members—anger, frustration, pain—are all carried in the residents’ steps, in
their shoulders and necks, the way their backs round forward, forcing them
to look out through the tips of their eyes, hiding in the shadows just beneath
their eyebrows.
Some of the residents move with an artificial confidence, their arms
gesturing wildly as they shout orders at their work crew. Others have no life
left in their bodies. They are soft and amorphous, like small sea creatures
clinging to a reef. Movement, and the lack thereof, is an emotional story. It
tells all. Over the many years this contained engagement between hurting
humans and these once-wild animals has created a disaster. Strong men and
women beaten down by poverty, by family history, by the prison system, all
walk the ranch daily, unknowingly communicating their pain to the horses.
With their ears and eyes, even while grazing head down, the horses see
all, feel all. Horses survive by acknowledging risk and by assigning
leadership. Flight, not fight, is how horses naturally resolve troubling
situations. Leaders become leaders by keeping the herd out of harm’s way,
by noticing peril and using their inherited gift of speed to reduce the danger
posed. Flight or fight. Inside the tall adobe walls of this contained ranch,
thousands of years of inherited instinct have been reversed. Lacking the
space to truly flee, living among one hundred men and women who
broadcast danger with every movement, the horses have chosen to fight.

IT IS MY second trip to the ranch and all the horses are resting inside the
woodshop. Six of us go into the woodshop banging on the trash-can lids.
The horses panic and run out the double doors. They shoot past the enclosed
garden where the radishes and peas spike through the soil, and through the
twelve-acre pasture kept for the horses in the middle of the property.
Marcus and Rex grab four cuts of alfalfa and head toward the round pen, a
recently built structure, seventy feet in diameter. They peel the cuts of
alfalfa apart and spread them across the pen. Marcus pulls the gate to the
round pen wide open. He’s dressed in his running sneakers and sweatpants,
with a short-sleeved T-shirt that has Carolina Panthers written across it.
Once the hay is spread, Marcus and Rex run behind the cottonwood tree for
safety. The horses thunder across the pasture and run straight into the pen,
devouring the alfalfa as quick as they can. Rex runs from behind the
cottonwood and slams the gate shut.
 The horses circle the pen, walking from pile to pile, like wild animals
sniffing scat. They watch us, their ears flicking back and forth. The
livestock crew gathers. Their eyes are dim with what looks like fatigue.
They shuffle from task to task wearing oversized jeans that drape over their
work boots. Sarah and Flor huddle away from the men. They, too, look
tired, a slate-black tinge under their eyes. I wonder what it must be like to
live here on this ranch of mostly men. So far, I’ve encountered only three
other women. I met them briefly in the driveway as I drove in today.
As they lean against the top rail of the pen, the six men from livestock
start talking and joking, berating each other over something that happened
at breakfast. I watch them from my truck where I gather my rope and a thin
bamboo pole. Their attention is not on the horses, it is only on themselves. I
realize, as I take a sip of water, that I’ll be working alone today.
What I see in these horses worries me. Vigilant and dismissive.
Defensive and certain. They know they are contained, but they are far from
domesticated.
Without saying a word, I climb over the top rail and begin to work. I
choose the big bay named Hawk. Hawk, I was told, was the worst of the
herd. He would lead the charge after lunchtime when the residents brought
out the trash. Hawk was well versed in trampling and intimidation. Baring
his teeth, flattening his ears, and reeling around with his hind legs, he
threatened to kick anyone who lingered near his garbage.
When Hawk walks, I walk. When he stops, I stop. He hears me. His ear
and the corner of his eye are sternly on me. The other horses rummage
around the pen from one flake of alfalfa to another, while Hawk and I walk
the perimeter. I pick up my bamboo cane in my left hand and start tapping it
on the ground as I walk. Hawk’s ears flatten. Still walking away from me,
he becomes more and more agitated. He swings his head and neck toward
me like a lion, warning me to back away. The men fall to a hush, but I keep
tapping.
I won’t get back, I say in my mind. No, I will not back up. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I know what is coming. I have seen it before, but only rarely. Hawk is about
to attack me, and I’m armed with only a bamboo cane and a thin rope.
First, he charges me halfway. Swinging his shoulders, neck, and head in
my direction. Baring his teeth, ears flat. I stab the bamboo cane into the
center of his chest, then follow with a quick slap against his bulging
pectoral muscles. He flashes himself backward in surprise. I tap against the
ground, then swing the pole around his side, tapping the dirt close to his
hind legs, to let him know I want him to walk forward again. I spread my
legs and crouch a little, readying myself for the next charge. The rest of the
herd shies away from us, then continues chomping on their alfalfa.
I begin to swing the rope coiled in my right hand, over and under, in time
with the tapping on the ground. And then Hawk turns and comes at me with
all he has. I smack him across the forehead with my cane, then twice again
in rapid succession across his shoulders. He rises off his front legs, rearing
straight up into the sky and towering over me, refusing to retreat, pumping
his front legs at my head. The sound that comes out of me is one I’ve never
heard before: it’s a roar, fierce, determined, and clear. But I’m trembling. I
thrash at his front legs with the bamboo, moving sideways but never
backward, holding my ground. Down he comes and, on the way, he swings
his rear end toward me, aiming. My rope is eight feet long, the lash of it
stinging him across his back, his loin, his strong rear-end musculature.
I jump left then right, trying to remove myself from his view. I crash
against him with all the force I can draw from my small body. I swing my
rope and smack, smack with my cane. He kicks out and spins his hind legs
around again, tries to square my body in his line of fire. With a burst of
effort, I whip my rope and lash him evenly across the back of his hind legs,
giving him a good sting. He jumps forward and away from me. A tiny
victory. Tap. Tap. Tap. Hawk walks away, ears pinned. I turn and climb over
the top rail taking the pressure off—this a reward for his correct behavior. I
drop my rope and pole and walk away from the horses. I try to catch my
breath, then cover my mouth with my hands. A cold sweat drips down the
back of my neck.
The men mob me, whooping and hooting like I’ve just hit the game-
winning basket. They shout over each other, in disbelief at what they have
just witnessed, raising and swinging their arms, attempting a faded
imitation of Hawk and his giant gestures. I’m not ready for the
entertainment. I stand motionless, facing away from Hawk, knowing I must
go back in that pen and try to make a friend.
A sudden sadness comes over me, and I know it’s not coming just from
me. I look around for Sarah and Flor. They are huddled together near the
cottonwood tree, about fifty feet away. They’ve been watching from a
distance, holding on to each other. Sarah’s face is red with worry. Flor has
her mouth clenched. Her lips curl and disappear inside her face. This is why
they called me, I hear a voice inside my head. The pain on their faces makes
me wonder how long they have had to witness these horses’ distress.
After a few minutes, I glance back toward Hawk. He’s standing alone
where I left him, his head low with one leg cocked and resting. His ears are
soft and placed lightly to the sides of his head. His whole body looks
deflated, far less rigid. His eyes are half-shut, half-asleep. His mouth hangs
loose, with his bottom lip in a droop. The other horses mindlessly eat the
alfalfa, never looking up. I ask Marcus to open the gate and let the other
horses out of the pen. One at a time they walk back to their pasture, calm
and casual. Hawk stays resting.
I climb back over the top rail of the pen and stand on the far side facing
Hawk. This is our new herd, I think, just you and me. “If you don’t know
what number you are,” one of my teachers once told me, “then you are
number two.” Generally speaking, I think humans could learn to be number
two more often, but in this situation I don’t have that luxury. I walk to the
middle of the pen and pick up my pole, standing quiet and waiting. Hawk’s
head rises a little, his legs straighten. In the corner of his eye there lies a
question, a curiosity toward me. I take a step toward his hind legs holding
my pole still. A light, clear “click” comes from the edge of my tongue.
Hawk’s ears capture it and flick back and forth. I take one more step
forward, one more “click.” Hawk steps forward and moves away from me. I
follow behind at a safe distance. When he slows his step, I “click” and he
returns to walking. When I stop, he stops. When I go, he goes. His breath
becomes deep and noticeable. He blows out a long and wet tumble of air
that cascades out his wide nostrils, then down toward the ground. His
mouth and jaw roll his tongue around, he licks his lips. He is giving me a
sign that he accepts me. I stop again and walk away, climbing out of the
pen. I head over to the dusty old box that holds the halters and pick one out.
Will you let me put this on? Can I get that close? Are you ready?
I walk toward Hawk’s shoulder. He sidesteps away from me and curls
his neck, staring at the black halter and red lead line like he’s looking at a
hissing snake.
Whatever happened to you before, it will never happen again.
 I jingle the buckle on the halter. Hawk takes a few more steps away but
doesn’t leave me. I reach out with my right hand and lightly scratch his
withers, his shoulder, the middle of his chest. I move my arm up toward his
face, his ears, scratching and humming a simple, wordless tune. His eyes
soften. The halter now in my left hand, I pull it under and around to the
other side where I rub, jingle, and hum some more. He doesn’t move away.
Hawk is good; he’s comfortable. I pull the halter over his neck and bring it
behind his ears. I lift it up and over his muzzle, buckle the bridle, and leave
the lead line dangling over my left shoulder.
Hawk stiffens when he feels the first tug under his chin. He braces his
head upward and hops off the ground with his front legs giving a trivial
effort to defy me. I bend his neck around and massage him just behind his
ears. I lay my hand across the bridge of his nose and wiggle his head back
and forth until it drops closer to the ground. I step forward. He follows, one
slow step at a time. We walk around and then out of the pen, in the direction
of his other herd. When we reach the pasture’s edge, I slide the halter off
Hawk. We stand in silence as I groom him with the palm of my hand. Then,
as I turn to leave, he bends his head down for the grasses. His left eye
follows me into the corner of its socket, trying to keep me in his view.
 STRAY DOGS
March / 2013

I leave the horse pasture, gather my bamboo pole and rope from the round
pen, and walk toward the corrals. The men have gone back to their dorm
rooms to clean up. Sarah and Flor have left for the kitchen. The smell of
food cooking sinks into the cool evening air. I throw my rope and pole onto
the back seat of my truck and walk the ranch road toward the dining hall.
The sun is high, it’s five o’clock, and sweat clings to my skin. I wipe my
face with the clean edge of my shirttail and tuck the whole hem neatly into
my jeans.
Looking around, I don’t see any residents. I walk toward a cluster of
buildings that are at least one hundred years old. There is not one crack in
the old adobe walls. A landscape of simple desert plants surrounds the
buildings, and two R. C. Gorman sculptures wrap around a small water
fountain near a courtyard. A tall grove of cottonwood trees creates a lush
shade over the buildings.
When I push open the dining hall door, chile stings my eyes. I stand in
the doorway, watching platefuls of food pass by with fresh tortillas stacked
on top, staring out at a room full of eighty to ninety men. Every one of them
is dressed in a suit and tie, with their hair cut meticulously short, trimmed
tight around their ears. Most have missing teeth and tattoos drawn up their
necks, next to their eyes, scrolled across their foreheads. Names like “Lisa”
scripted in ink at an angle, behind their ears.