Little American

Jillian Quist

“Sac de pommes de terre!” “Sack of potatoes!”

My six-year-old body slipped off the saddle in the middle of a canter. The French horsemaster barked as I came crashing down on the ring floor.

“Petite Americaine, reve toi!” “Little American, stop daydreaming!”

The horsemaster snapped his heels like a veteran soldier and raised his horse cane high in a salute.

“Attention,” he bellowed from the center of the ring as the mare galloped the perimeter, anxious for a way out.

The other riders tightened their reins. The army of pigeons roosting in the rafters woke up and stood at attention. The horsemaster stood in the center and fixed his stare on me.

“Et … alors?” “And ... then?” The maestro circled his horse cane high over his head like a lasso and slowly walked toward me.

He reminded me of my ballet teacher who pranced between her students, holding a pointed stick and tapping the parts of our bodies that stuck out too far. She poked us in a quick succession of taps—tap tummy, tap derriere, tap knee, tap leg, tap the back.

“Plié, releve.” “Bend, rise.”

Tap tap, poke poke. We stretched our young bodies high to the ceiling and pretended we were balancing a stack of our mother’s china plates on our heads.

“Leve toi!” “Get up!” “Woo woo woo!” He hooted, like a restless owl.

I got to one knee and put both hands on my thigh for leverage. It hurt, but I didn’t show it. I stood up slowly.

“Woo woo woo!” he continued, motioning for me to speed up, making faster and faster circles with his arm.

The other riders exploded with laughter. Like a conceited actor, the horsemaster turned to them and pressed his arms down slowly as if he were hushing a large audience.

“Shhhhh.” He quieted his fans. Then his eyes found my mare.

“Pas de chance, mon ami.” “No chance, my friend,” he said to her softly, and with more respect than he’d given me.

“Calme, calme,” he cooed and walked toward her. She eyed him warily. He grabbed her reins, tugged them hard, and walked ceremoniously to the center of the ring. She pulled her head back, resisting him. I hoped she’d break free, run the ring and steer clear of him, except to throw a snigger in his direction. But he had her reins tightly curled around his knuckles.

“Et toi?” he called to me again as I rubbed the dirt off my jodhpurs. I shuffled to the center of the ring, hoping he would send me home.

 “Ally oop!” he said and laced his fingers together to make a stirrup. The horse saw what was happening, snorted, and bucked away.

“Non! Non! Non!” he roared in escalating tones, yanking the reins harder. I froze. Please God, let me go home. But my mother had dropped me off instead of waiting for me like she used to. She wasn’t here to hear my prayer.

 “Non?” He checked to see if my mother was there and then pouted as if he would cry. A new round of laughter burst out from the sidelines.

“Les Americains. Bravo, courage!” he said with a military salute to me. He didn’t remind me a bit of my dad, who was a real commander. My dad had real sophistication. He’d traveled the world, and was saluted by everyone every time we went to the officer’s club on the military base near our home. At the dining hall, we’d get the best table, eat the day’s specials, and have our chairs pulled out for us. Mom sat tall like a commander’s wife. But dad never pretended he was anything special.

The mare bucked under the tight reins. Her ears were pinned back.

“Calme,” the horsemaster commanded, yanking the mare’s reins harder. She reared on her hind legs. She’d already been tricked. I knew how she felt. My mom had signed me up for horseback riding after I had a lot of fun riding on trails in the nearby woods. When my mother expressed my enthusiasm to the ring manager, he smiled, and nodded in empathy like we had something in common.

He placed the mare next to me in the mounting position. The mare snorted and spat a hot misty mucous at me. I turned my face and saw the others sitting upright in their saddles, the perfect students. The corners of their mouths turned up in a part smile. The only sounds were the pigeons rustling in the rafters.

The man made another stirrup with his hands and I stretched my leg to its full length and placed my left foot into it. He boosted me so hard that I almost see-sawed over to the other side of the saddle, but I would not let him see me fall twice.

“Ah mon dieu,” he said with phony surprise.

I sank into the saddle, one with the mare, and felt her body relax under my weight. I grabbed the reins and squeezed my legs. Heels down, I kicked her ever so lightly to move forward. She obeyed.

“Allez, allez!” He pointed to the perimeter of the ring.

“Et gallop!” He added when I reached the wooden fencing.

“Desole.” “Sorry.” He said it to the others and brought his hands together in a mock prayer for forgiveness. They nodded in solidarity.

“Les Américains," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

My back stiffened. I thought of the last time I was mocked for being an American. Just a week ago I was walking with my mother on the promenade next to the lake near our house. From a distance I saw a little girl about my age with her mother coming toward us, staring down at my blue Keds with the pink shoelaces. Her upper lip curled and her eyes widened the closer she got. I looked up to my mother to see what might be unusual about her, but it was clear, the girl focused on me. Her mouth dropped open in shock the closer she got.

She stopped in front of me and said excitedly, “Maman, regard!” “Mom, look!” she pointed at my shoes.

“Ils sont Américains.” “They are American.” Her mother threw a quick glance at us and whispered loud enough for us to hear as they strolled by looking straight ahead. My mother pretended not to notice. She’d spent too much time trying to adjust to the culture, and preferred her expat art friends. We walked past and tears filled my eyes. My mom told me I was too sensitive, but I knew I’d been mocked.

This time the insult wouldn’t stand. I looked at the horsemaster and wondered why a grown man with grey hair and a mustache needed to embarrass a six-year old. And why didn’t the French like us? Why did French kids mock me? I was getting tired of it. I threw him a backward glance, bolted straight up in my saddle, and started to trot along the perimeter. I began with a sitting trot before I posted. Every one of my lessons were on display—shoulders back, head straight, heels down. The maestro had gathered the other students to the center of the ring and spoke to them in hushed tones.

I took some breaths, happy to have the attention off me. Alone now with my mare, I leaned forward, rubbed her mane and whispered her name.

“Caramel.”

Her ears relaxed. We began again from a slow trot. I felt the rhythm of the trot and sat deep into the saddle for a sitting trot, feeling her muscles stretch and her joints flexing. She was a powerhouse beneath me. I kicked her, pressed my legs into her, squeezed and released them while I leaned forward in the saddle. Effortlessly, she moved into a canter, her three hoofbeats in stride, a trained ballerina.

 I felt the rhythm of her strides and watched the sweat begin to bead on her back. We cantered around the circumference of the ring and then came to a stop again. A new stillness filled the ring. I glanced over to see the horsemaster’s mouth in motion. His arms motioned towards the different letters hanging at each quarter of the ring. A, B, C, D, we moved past all of them. His motions distracted me. He reminded me of a circus clown.

 Next, I asked her to gallop. The last time we tried galloping, I‘d been thrown. This time I was ready as she sprang forward. It was like she’d just left a starting gate. I gave her full rein and wrapped my finger in her mane. Her long neck stretched out. Her legs did not hold back. I let her enjoy the run, and after our third circle, I saw everyone had turned to watch me.

I brought her to a trot, and we walked to the center of the ring, where all the horse riders had gathered. The mare held her head high, and the sweat on her body made her coat shine.  Without any help from the maestro, I dismounted, hugged Caramel’s neck, and waited to be dismissed.

“Bien fait.” “Well done.” He said to me in a low voice.

The other girls dismounted. I heard lively talking as a couple of the girls looked over at me. One of them smiled. Suddenly we were comrades, fellow horse riders in concert with each other. We gathered at the center where the horsemaster gave his last command and dispatched us to the stable. Each step away from him brought more lightness to our steps. Then one of the girls came alongside me.

‘Salut, je m’appelle Claudine,” “Hello, I’m Claudine” she said.

“Je m’appelle, Jill,” I said and we walked together side by side toward the barn.

Jillian Quist writes fiction and short memoir. She lived in France as a child, in Switzerland, Ireland and Greece as an adult, and likes to write about her experiences abroad. Jillian holds a BFA in Theatre from Emerson College and an MA in Communications from San Francisco State University. She lives in Carrboro, North Carolina, where she is an Adjunct Professor of ESL at Durham Technical Community College.  Little American is her first publication.