With tight blue jeans, a white turtleneck sweater, over-the-calf leather boots and a black jumper’s helmet, Becky was an alluring sight as she cantered her horse around the indoor arena of the Yale polo barn. 

However, even before reaching puberty, I knew my Holocaust survivor mother’s rules. No Beckys allowed. No cavorting with antisemites, real or imagined. No dishonoring the memory of her little brother, Meier, who was murdered by the Germans and whose name I now carried. My only girlfriend options were to be the Jewish daughters of American-born or survivor parents. The pickings were slim. Because of our low socioeconomic standing, I felt shunned by daughters of the American-born. In contrast, I was shamelessly pursued by survivor daughters – and their mothers. 

I was trapped in a web of trauma and resentment.

Then, I met Elsie.

Unlike the chestnuts, Elsie was Granny Clampett gray-and-white and barely 14 hands tall in horseshoes. If the grand stallions racing at Churchill Downs, Pimlico and Belmont were teased into their starting gates by prancing fillies, the sendoff for the gelded Quarter Horses about to enter the field of polo play was an arthritic nod of Elsie’s head. The Borden cow had an equine body double.

Words chalked onto the sideboard of her stall by a wise-guy Yalie said it all.

ELSIE There ain’t no udder 

I imagined her surprise that Friday afternoon when she was gently roused from her position of modesty, haltered, stripped of her blanket and brought to the awaiting saddle, bit, bridle and belly-belt station. The sound of nickering stall neighbors reverberated in her decibel-declining ears as she was led into the arena. And then she waited. 

As it turned out, for me.

Squeezed into my long underwear, soiled dungarees, imitation leather work boots, an itchy red-and-black-checked wool shirt and stained black winter jacket, I was scrubbing tack when suddenly and unexpectedly, I received a tap on the shoulder. Skull and Bones? Scroll and Key? Wolf’s Head? Did Yale have a Pitchfork and Wheelbarrow secret society? 

“Follow me,” Bob the groom beckoned.

We walked between parallel rows of horses and advanced toward the arena. There, she stood, gently positioned by a more experienced barn hand for me to mount. Until now, all I had done was watch others, occasionally amused but mostly trying to commit their moves to memory. There were no liability waivers, consent forms or extra precautions.

Tilting backward, I thrust my left foot into the dangling stirrup and swung my right leg and hip over her sagging back. I was now erect in the saddle, reins in hand. A gentle kick to her protruding ribs brought the desired response – movement. At first, a slow walk. Another rib poke shifted her into trot mode, giving me a sudden and sustained saddle spanking as I tried to match her rhythm. Squeezing my thighs ever more tightly around her girth, I delivered a final kick that propelled us forward, enveloped in the ecstasy of an easy canter. It was all over in less than 10 minutes. 

 Yes, I remember my first time. I was 13 years old. Her name was Elsie.