Building a Western Foundation
By Brian Reed
Just days after throwing my cap in the air and closing the final chapter of
my high school career, I found myself cruising down a two-lane highway bound
for a local working man’s rodeo. I was not thrilled to be spending my first
post-graduation Friday stuck on bleachers surrounded by men in tight jeans,
but I recognized my role as moral supporter for a friend who was trying to
fulfill a dream. I kept the thoughts of the lake and the ladies to myself as
the mile markers flew past.
Alone in the bleachers, surrounded by an array of low-brimmed straw hats, I
sat listening for a last name that I had known so long that it could have
been my own. Too scared to go to the concessions or bathroom for fear of
missing my friend’s star moment, I waited, becoming more irritated each time
a name was called that I did not recognize. For years my friend had been
talking about becoming a bull rider but I always blew his excessive
fantasizing off as a need to fuel his ego. Now I sat shocked, toying with
ideas of how I would break it to his family if something tragic happened
during this irrational show of bravado.
I recognized him immediately as he climbed into the shoot. Not once did his
body give the slightest hint of fear as he climbed on the back of the bull.
Only when the people around him had to show him how to tighten his cinch did
a look of defeat slide across his face. That look quickly vanished as the
ring hand pulled open the gate and the bull was free to let loose his anger.
I watched, hands clenched in prayer, as the bull twisted and jumped. My
friend slid forward and back, hand flying loosely in the air. It lasted only
a few seconds and he was thrown to the side, quick to leap up the fence. He
stood there smiling and alive. Realizing I was the only one out of my seat,
I sat back down and continued to watch him walk out of the arena. Men he did
not know shook his hand and patted his back. His pride was beaming with each
step. I saw then that I was not there to help a friend fulfill a dream; I
was there to help him secure an identity.
Looking down at my boots and belt buckle, last name inscribed, a thought
occurred to me: What gave me the right to wear the hat, boots, and belt of a
cowboy? I had always considered myself a country boy, I grew up in a small
town where my dad taught me how to hunt, fish and fix an engine. But my
family didn’t own any form of livestock. I had ridden a horse only half a
dozen times. My nearest association to being a cowboy was a family of
relative farmers (a longstanding debate itself). It occurred to me that
night that my identity had no foundation. It was at that moment I decided to
find out what gave someone the right to be called a cowboy.
As a soon-to-be freshman at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, I was free
to explore the possibilities of a new identity. In the weeks leading up to
my departure, I besieged myself with questions from the night of the rodeo.
Who do I say I am? The thought of being a small-town country boy wasn’t bad,
but I wanted more. I have always considered cowboys the greatest gesture of
American patriotism. Men and women who earn an honest living from the land,
who live up to the greatest of the Christian virtues, and who disregard mere
possessions for what is right. That’s what I wanted for the cornerstone of
my foundation, and I knew for the sake of identity that I couldn’t be a
fake.
My search led me to a club meeting of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln
rodeo team. For a person consciously seeking a designation, walking into a
room of people with a clear sense of identity can be more intimidating than
speaking to a crowd of hundreds. I wandered around the room, quick to pick
up a refreshment for the sake of something to do, begging for a reason not
to leave. I found my reason in a young woman who stood alone in a corner
looking just as awkward. I stood next to her. In a full room, two awkward
people in a corner is always better than one. Still feeling the weight of
being “new” I didn’t say a word to her. After a few minutes she introduced
herself. Feeling a little ashamed in my lack of courtesy, I began asking the
regular college questions. Where are you from? What is your major? Do you
like your roommate? I tried profusely to keep the conversation as generic as
possible because I didn’t want to explain to her that I really didn’t have a
good reason to be at a college rodeo meeting. But it was from this first
awkward experience that I made a life-long friend and got my first glimpse
into the authentic cowboy culture.
This picture was snapped after the wild horse race. I'm on the right.
I learned that night, after divulging my secret to my new friend, that being
a cowboy is a lot like being rich. She explained how it’s easier for a poor
person to enter the “moneyed” class than an outsider to enter the world of
western traditions. People born in that world have their tools and pathways
already laid out. Her insight reminded me of a middle school conversation I
had with my mother about buying a horse. I’m sure you can imagine how
quickly that dream was shattered. Our conversation continued to derail my
hopes. I found out that most of the young men and women in the room came
from ranching backgrounds. They were mutton busting while learning to walk.
I left that night feeling defeated. I never went to another meeting or
attended a practice. Realizing I did not have the background to be a cowboy,
my search took a step in the wrong direction.
Since I wasn’t going to become a cowboy by buckin’ into the college rodeo
scene, I looked for another solution. I was going to become a ranch hand.
Riding the ranges, counting fence posts, alone, rounding up cattle. It was a
long shot, but divine intervention came my sophomore year from an ad in the
campus newspaper, the Daily Nebraskan. I applied for the job. Whether it was
mere luck or because I had promised to work Husker game days, I’m not sure,
but the job was mine.
A half-mile drive outside the Lincoln city limits is a dream world. Houses
with enough rooms to be apartment complexes sit on fifty or sixty-acre lots.
It is the place where church goers take their Sunday afternoon drives to see
if they can sneak a peek inside the fortified compounds.
I drove past a gate that identified the owner as a doctor. Standing at the
end of the lane was a man dressed to the nines in a suit and tie, extenuated
with cowboy boots and a hat. He offered me a cup of coffee and began
explaining that it had always been his dream to own a ranch. With his extra
acreage he was going to fulfill his dream. Being a doctor he had a work
schedule that required strenuous hours and the need to travel often, so it
was going to be my job to oversee things. At that moment two things crossed
my mind: First, whether like the doctor, I could just buy my way into being
a cowboy, and second, I had absolutely no idea how to take care of a herd of
cows.
For three months my life felt justified. Lucky for me the doctor managed the
whole operation. I just had to follow his daily orders consisting of feed
patterns, building fence, and making hay runs to a local vendor. The entire
semester I walked with my head held high in my boots and hat. Glad to tell
people that Saturday I would be on the “ranch” instead of at the game. But
the validity that I felt did not last long.
When I was a senior in high school my father told me to pick a profession
that I could be proud of because it becomes a part of how we define
ourselves. I felt the reality of that statement the day the doctor told me
he was selling the herd because it was not what he dreamt. Standing there
shaking my head in understanding I remember wanting to yell, “Make the work
part of your dream.” That herd of cows was never officially mine. I found a
lot of purpose in building fences and giving shots, but I left my new
identity the moment I drove out of the gate.
I have written many chapters and partaken in many adventures in my search to
become western, but none of them had an impact more profound than the night
I tried to tame a wild horse. I’m not sure if my friends were looking out
for my best interests or tired of my excessive banter to become a cowboy,
but a close college friend offered me an opportunity to actually partake in
his hometown rodeo. I thought this was the answer to all my prayers.
Flashbacks of my high school friend walking out of the arena flooded my
mind. The molds of the last experiences always melted away; I hoped this
time it would finally stick.
The night plays out in my mind like a flawed circus performance. We were in
teams of three competing against the clock. The first guy, who is on a
horse, has to catch a rope connected to a wild horse, dally the rope and
hold the horse steady while guy number two saddles the horse and guy number
three rides the horse to the finish line. It seemed fairly straight forward,
which calmed my nerves just enough to not throw-up as I rode into the area.
I can tell you for sure that the scenes from movies where time slows down
can happen. Trotting through the gate, looking at the crowd‹I don’t remember
hearing a thing, or exactly what I was thinking at the moment. What I do
remember is an announcer yelling, “Let’s go!” and my world going from zero
to sixty in a split second. How the rope for the horse got in my hand, I’m
still not sure. Maybe luck, quick reflexes‹or as I like to think‹skills of
an actual cowboy, but I’m still not sure. However it happened, it was the
only good thing to come out of the experience. Within seconds of dallying
the rope things started to go wrong. My inexperience led me to only dallying
a couple of times, leaving slack in the rope for the horse to buck and jerk.
I wrestled with the horse and tried to bring it closer so I could wrap the
rope a few more times, but I wasn’t making any ground; the rope was still
too long for my partners to saddle. In a rash decision to take out slack I
drove my horse toward the unbroken. In the maneuver I gained some ground but
it also drove the other horse to run circles around my horse.
The pain was excruciating. The circling horse wrapped the rope around my
waist, squeezing me like an empty ketchup bottle. I tried turning my horse
to undo the twist, but I couldn’t get the rope over my horse’s head. In a
split second decision I undallyied the rope and watched as the horse dashed
across the arena.
In the moments riding out of the gate, seeing my friends standing holding
the saddle, my insides felt as wild as the horse I just let go. My hopes of
getting a ticket into that life were ripped out of my hands along with the
rope
Since graduating from college I have moved on from my dreams of being a
cowboy and created a strong foundation in my religion and career. A part of
me will always want to be the cowboy I dreamed of as a child. Until I’m
movin’ my own cattle or movin’ from rodeo to rodeo, l will feel like a fake
when I put on the boots, buckle, and hat, but I believe that is a testament
to the culture. It is an exclusive breed and no matter the size of your
truck, how intricate your boots, or how loud you play your music, only those
who rope, ride and live the life should call themselves cowboys.
This is a picture of my grandfather teaching me how to drive a tractor. I've never felt like my farming heritage justified my right to wear the boots and hat of a cowboy.
