🔵 By Matthew Boivin. Photo by lauragrafie.
Before I start my journal, I need to give a quick background to set the time frame. I am a prisoner in the Arkansas Department of Correction and have been incarcerated since 1996 shortly after my 21st birthday. At the time of this writing in October 2021, I have a full 25 calendar years behind bars hoping to be released in October 2024. I do not bemoan my circumstances; I am, after all, daily convicted and serving my sentence as the law requires. It took those years in prison to find myself, though, and in January, 2020, I stumbled upon the culmination of all those years of hard work, setbacks, and more hard work. You see, in January 2020, I was assigned to the Beef Herd at the Cummins Unit where I found my life’s purpose. Perhaps I was a cowboy in a previous life or perhaps I simply have a gift with horses, but what I know in my heart is that I was meant to become a prison cowboy to build the skills to complete the dream of a rehabilitation ranch after my release. Even though my body is in prison, I feel more free now than I ever remember being in society. That sense of freedom comes from the realization that being a prison cowboy is exactly where I’m supposed to be right now.
My name is Matthew, and these are the tales of a prison cowboy told from the back of a sorrel quarter-horse named Bow who was born and raised on the prison farm, much like I was raised by this place. At 15-hands and an easy 1,000 pounds, he’s my slouch, but his spirit makes him an even better cow-horse. A cowboy without his horse is just another man, so these tales aren’t complete without including the gelding who is as much my working partner as he is the horse I ride. Now that we’ve all been introduced, I have to tell you about the ranch on which I work. Built on what was once a slave holding plantation, the Cummins Unit, nicknamed “The Farm” is a sprawling 16,000-acres of farmland in Southeast Arkansas bordering the Arkansas River. It’s a fully functioning farm with six chicken houses providing fresh eggs for the units, 300-acres of gardens to grow fresh fruit and vegetables, and a working dairy complete with a pasteurizing facility to purify the milk we collect. The Farm not only provides commodities for prisoners consumption, it raises soybeans, rice, corn, wheat and oats for sale on the open market averaging some 9-million dollars annually. Suffice it to say, the Farm provides a substantial source of revenue for the state. Prisoner labor is free slave labor, so that revenue is even higher when compared to the average farmer paying twice as much to sell his goods in the same market.
The Beef Herd is exactly as it sounds. We raise Angus cattle, sell the steer calves and work to keep the herd growing. Right now, we hold a herd of 560 cows and 15 bulls with a crop of 430 calves ready to be weaned in late October. The weanlings will be grain-fed to pack on weight until their sale in December. The calves fetch top-dollar on the sale barn floor because the Arkansas taxpayer pays for the genetics to ensure quality breeding. The prison will keep 100 of the biggest heifers to stock the herd, and so the cycle goes every year. It’s my job as a prisoner to maintain the barbed wire fences, to bale hay in the summer to feed in the winter, vaccinate, tag, brand, castrate, and basically perform the job of a ranch hand. Bow and I ride through the herd looking for sickness, injuries or orphaned calves; and, I roped many cows from atop his back. The beef herd has 2,000-acres between the Arkansas River and the Army Corps of Engineers flood control levee. It’s a full time job and I have no problem working full time to do what it takes to become a bonafide cowboy. It’s not uncommon for Bow and I to cover 10-20 miles in a day looking for cows or driving a herd from one pasture to another. I enjoy a level of freedom other prisoners do not, and I value that freedom immensely. The land here ranges from flat pastures for hay to densely grown patches of pecan trees older than the prison.
Wildlife abounds from the average armadillo or raccoon to the occasional alligator hiding out in a swampy bar pit. The white-tailed deer are everywhere, and there are even American Bald Eagle nests in the dense woods. Often, Bow and I will stop to watch an eagle watching us or simply rest for a moment taking in the natural beauty around us. He’ll let out a big sigh, and I’ll rub his neck as he lets me know he’s at peace as well.
It may seem out of order to start my journal at the present when over a full year of adventure has already passed, but the week of October 3, 2021, was perhaps one of the best weeks I can remember in a long, long time. That was the week I was in the Farrier School learning the basics of shoeing horses. That simple bit of instruction sets me on a path that can only lead to my success as a returning citizen, not just a prison cowboy.
The Beef Herd has a 12-year old bay roan mare named Moody with one bad foot. Her hoof had a deep sand crack almost to the sensitive structures and soft soles that made her limp without shoes. She stayed off work for months, and I couldn’t stand to see her feet deteriorating from neglect. It was breaking my heart to see a sound horse be lame because no one would step up to to help her. I asked my supervisors how I could help them, bought a horseshoeing textbook. I went to work, educating myself on the farrier’s craft and took the time to trim Moody’s feet. A before and after picture was sent to the Farrier I would later meet in class, and his words of encouragement convinced my supervisors it was time for me to step up. Two weeks later, on my way out the Sally Port door for work, my supervisor asked if I thought I could put shoes on Moody. I answered “I’m fully confident I can handle it”, and loaded up ready and excited to use my newly gained knowledge.
I shoed our horses through three cycles before the administration announced the Farrier School was cleared to happen this year. So when they called Farrier Work Call on Sunday at 3:30 pm, I walked out of the Sally Port four months ahead of the game from a largely self-taught course in shoeing driven by compassion for an animal’s well-being. With a well-used textbook, a little bit of experience, and a strong desire to learn more, I looked forward to honing my beginner’s knowledge.
I always feel a little nervous walking into something new, but that’s a product of being institutionalized that I can’t let hold me back. Nine of us walked out the door to start our journey to becoming farriers, and the first thing that caught my nervous watchful eye was the horse trailer waiting for us. We loaded into the trailer just like the horses we would shoe and took the mile long ride through the Freeline to the Dog Kennel which would be our classroom for the next five days.
The ride in a horse trailer was a first for me and definitely one of those “only-in-prison” moments. I was the first one in the trailer and made my way to the front as everybody climbed in. the other eight lived in the same barracks for two days and had developed a sort of comradery I didn’t feel. I lived in a different barracks, but I wasn’t bothered by this disconnect because I’ve spent most of my life alone locked away from things. They were teasing each other and rough housing in ways that always led to fights in the prison I grew up in, so I wasn’t interested in joining those reindeer games anyway. Besides, they all had short hair numbers, and I could tell an old can like me would have problems relating to these kids in grown bodies.
One thing I chuckled to myself about was when the trailer started moving, they all went to the sides like curious puppies poking their noses through the slats in the trailer wall. While they were taking in the sights, I was quietly thinking that the squeal of the trailer tongue grinding against the truck ball was pretty annoying and wondered how the horses reacted to it. We arrived safely and waited for one of the Dog Kennel prisoners to let us out of the trailer. I guess nobody thought to remember we were born with hands to let us operate the latch from the inside. No matter, we waited for the gate to be opened and piled out.
Folding chairs were set out for us, and I took a seat in the second of five rows, not too eager to be in the front of the class nor indifferent enough to rush to the back. After we picked our seats, the Farrier introduced himself and handed us a packet of training material photocopied from different sources. We spent an hour or so going over the material and discussing the expectations of the course. We left for the day with the admonition to read our packets because tomorrow we’d be under a horse.
Monday came, and I woke up at 3 am to a breakfast of scrambled eggs and biscuits with jelly. It’s the same breakfast I’ve had every weekday morning for two and a half decades, but today, I had shoeing horses on my mind, and the excitement had the eggs tasting just a little better. I spent the morning writing a letter to my friend in Canada sharing my excitement about the day ahead.
At 5:30 am, they called Farrier Work Call, and I was at the door before the intercom stopped rattling. Little did I know, I would walk straight into the first obstacle – a locked door and a short-hair officer multiplied by the pressure from the hard-nosed Dog Kennel Lieutenant. He told us in no uncertain terms on Sunday, “Don’t be late, or you’ll get left; and it’ll be whatever,” ; a veiled threat nobody misunderstood.
The first obstacle was a turnkey whose only job is to open the locked door when needed and keep it locked when it’s not.
“Umh-uh”, he said in a flamboyant voice. “You can’t go. You’re not in the right barracks.”
The snippy way he said it with a feminine flick of the wrist sent me straight to convict in nothing flat.
“You need to check that roster and open this door”, I told him through the jam. “I’m right there on the paper. I’ve got to go.”
This clown was going to make me late because he wanted to interfere with something he knew nothing about and was too lazy to verify.
“I don’t have the roster. I’m not over your barracks”, he taunted with a neck roll.
A second ago he was telling me where I could or couldn’t go but now he doesn’t have the authority to make a decision. Luckily, the officer in the Control Booth saw me on camera and popped the electric door lock, letting me out. I didn’t say a word as I stopped to check in with the officer assigned to my barracks – a 70-year old woman doing her best to earn a paycheck.
“Umh-uh”, he had to say as I walked off. “Don’t do that”, referring to my telling him he needed to open this door. I gave him an obligatory, “yessir”, I didn’t feel any kept stepping. I had for bigger things to worry about than the power trip of a glorified turnkey who wasn’t even born when I started doing time. I was fighting for survival when he was still dirtying his diapers! Usually, that convict side of me is held in check, but every once in a while, he’ll snap up to remind me prison is part of me now. I made it out to the door and into the trailer without any other snafus and found myself just as quickly glad in the same shoes I just got mad in. We made it to the Dog Kennel and after the mad rush to the coffee pot (with sugar! a real treat!), we settled in waiting for the Farrier to arrive. As soon as he pulled up and opened the doors to his impressive mobile workshop, we started class. We went over the material and asked questions until the sun came up enough to get to work. The Farrier paired us up and my partner gathered a horse while I collected tools.
Fortunately for me, I was able to use the Beef Herd tools I was already familiar with, taking away one variable and setting me at ease. Once I got under our first horse, I was really at ease. Being under a horse feels just as purposeful as being on top of one, and that purpose builds my commitment to being the best I can be at all things, every day, starting with making my bed in the morning. Strange how that one small act completing such a simple task can set my entire day. So when I let that horse smell the back of my hand before running my hand down is front leg, the only thing that mattered was the hoof in front of me.
I explained what I was doing for my inexperienced partner’s benefit, and the morning was spent shoeing the horse and coaching my partner for the day. The Farrier walked around the different groups evaluating our work and giving us pointers. I took each tip to heart, applying his 20 plus years’ experience to the work of shoeing this horse. I applied each pointer to my next shoe, and it didn’t escape his notice. When lunch time came, I was on a roll and reluctant to leave this horse, but once I did, I was certainly happy about it.
Lunch was a scene straight out of the bunkhouse with cowboys lined up on each side of the table passing food around to each other. After a prayer to bless the food, we dug in. Our first lunch was smoked bologna sandwiches and a pot roast with potatoes, macaroni and cheese and baked beans. I ate a sandwich and some roast with all the sides, but what really made my day was the tray of lettuce, tomato and onion slices to dress up the sandwiches. The other guys in the class looked at me funny when my second sandwich was all vegetables. “You a vegetarian”, they asked in mocking tones. “Not at all”, I answered. “I just love vegetables.”
Of course what they were really asking was whether I wanted more because the first thing they did was snatch the remaining two slices of bologna. I was perfectly content with my tomato-onion-lettuce sandwich and drew more raised eyebrows when I salted a thick tomato slice to eat like an apple for dessert. The meat came from a cow the Beef Herd sent to the prison slaughterhouse to be our food for the week, and we feasted on hamburgers, steak, shredded beef for barbecue and some desserts prepared by a forty-year-convict even I called “Sir”.
And so the days went – class work until sunrise, shoe a horse until lunch and finish that horse or get another until supper with dessert. The home cooked meals were a blessing, but the way some men took and took, eating until they were sick turned my stomach. Greed and selfishness disgust me, but there are men in this prison so depressed that the only time they feel happy is when their stomachs are full. I quickly let my revulsion pass, focusing instead on learning all I could to better myself. Another man’s faults have very little to do with me; I was here to shoe horses.
The next day of class I had a different partner, and I selected the horse this time. I deliberately picked a horse with neglected feet looking to tap the Farrier’s experience to gain a deeper understanding of farrier science. The horse I picked was an 18-year old palamino mare long overdue for the auction block. The arthritis in her back legs from decades of carrying uncaring hoe squad riders made her drag her back feet.
The poor horse had been left to her own devices so long, the toes of her back hooves were completely dragged off to a square against the sensitive structures. I tied her off, ready for the challenge. The Farrier looked at her and told me: “Just shoe her like the toe was there. It’s all we can do for her. Those toes will take a year or more to grow back.”
I wanted to do the best I could for this horse – another example of an animal left to suffer in prison because no one took the time to care just a little. She was a doll to shoe, too, not once snatching her feet away from me. When we led that horse away she was lifting her feet and sound again. Purpose ; Meaning ; Compassion ; Empathy ; the little things that make life worthwhile.
When it came time to shoe Moody in the class, I made sure I picked her. There was history here, and I introduced her to the Farrier as the first horse I shod who my supervisor sent pictures of. In around-about way, he knew this horse, too, and when I got a shoe on her, he called the whole class to witness her hoof. He told us: “The best thing we can do for this horse is keep giving her a good shoeing job like the one he put on her, but I’ll show you something else we can do.” He cleaned out the crack in her hoof and inserted some epoxy filler for cosmetic value. As he worked, he explained the process and talked about cost, but I was scanning the groups. I finally met the eyes burning into me from the moment the Farrier said I did a good job. Jealousy? Admiration? Disdain? Respect?
It didn’t matter – all that mattered was that Moody was sound. People are people driven by their own impulses and prone to their own shortcomings. People lie to and use each other all the time, hating for what they perceive or denigrating any person seen as a threat to their fragile egos. But an animal is pure, driven by understandable instincts. With horses, those instincts define our relationship. Respect. Love. Trust. The keys to a solid relationship with a horse. Moody didn’t care or even have the capacity to understand that she was the trigger for a man’s emotions; all she knew was she could walk without pain.
We put shoes on 69 horses in four days, and it was good, solid work. Strange how that hard work made for one of the best weeks I can remember, but it was so much more than the work. I felt a purpose with each new horse. My actions had meaning when each shoe became a catalyst to a healthier horse. My touch carried compassion as I worked to ease the younger horses’ fears. And, I felt a sense of fulfillment when a lame horse became sound.
In a way, I learned more that week than just how to put shoes on horses. I learned that there’s so much more to being a true Farrier than just nailing a piece of metal to a horse’s hoof. There’s an element that transcends the farrier’s craft. Respect the horse, and she’ll respect you. Show love to the horse, and she’ll return that love in the way she lifts her foot to be shod. Trust in yourself to bring that horse to being sound, and she’ll trust you as a leader. I think we all could stand to learn a few lessons from a horse.