RaeAnna is a wandering bibliophile, dog mama, foodie, advocate, fashionista, linguist, and more. If she's not pantsless at home with her dog, she's out with friends, trying new foods, or on the road adventuring.
Worth A Read Yes Length 304 Quick Review An exploration of the constant search for love, meaning, and belonging so many people find in animals, but this is a tale of finding stories and horses in the most unusual places.
Just a good day.Horse kisses are almost as good as my dogs’ kisses.
I’m a wanna-be horse girl. I have loved horses forever but grew up around cows. In college, I dated a man who’s mom has horses. Her farm is still one of my favorite places in the world. 80% because of the horses. They make me happy, but then again, all animals do. Reading Horse Crazy was like diving into a completely different yet oh so similar life’s journey. I think animal people, in the way Sarah Maslin Nir is, will find pieces of themselves tucked away within these pages.
Nir writes a fascinating and engaging memoir. She grew up in New York City with the kind of privilege that allowed her to be a true horse girl, which would have provided the backdrop for an already interesting memoir. Growing up Jewish on the Upper East Side, she’s the daughter of a holocaust survivor father and a workaholic mother. She was an outsider in New York City because of her love for horses. She was an outsider within the equestrian community as a city girl. Even within her family, she was often left alone. Though she has three half brothers, they’re two decades older and barely claimed her as family. She sought out community and belonging but found horses to be the only beings to truly understand and accept her.
There is so much cool stuff in Horse Crazy. I legitimately learned a lot. Nir answers questions, I never even thought about. There are horses in New York City… Where do they live? Not only does she answer that question, she dives into the history of Black cowboys in the United States, brutalities of horse training, the rampant neglect and abuse that’s part of the horse life, and so many other things.
There’s such a humanness to Nir’s persistent struggle with feeling worthy within her family and the world. She found validation through horses. Even when people tore her down and made her feel less than while training, horses were always there for her. I get that. More days than not, I only find validation from my dogs. Animals, whether they be horses or dogs or cats or a pet tarantula, are so many people’s joy and unconditional love and even lifeline to continued existence.
Honestly, this is my happy place.
Horse Crazy is well written, funny, relatable, and filled with amazing moments of humanity. I’d read it again.
Title: Horse Crazy; The Story of a Woman and a World in Love with an Animal Author: Sarah Maslin Nir Publisher: Simon & Schuster Copyright: 2020 ISBN: 9781982145484
Tradition might be one of my favorite things. I love traditions. They make my world go round. I have traditions for everything. And it takes very little for me to create a new tradition. Seriously, I could like doing something one time, and it is immediately a tradition…. That I will uphold for the rest of my life. The more I write this, the more I’m thinking this is solely an autistic habit creation thing… But I’m gonna stick with calling this… tradition! And let everyone believe it’s just a cute quirk of mine.
We love Starbucks.
It’s a cathedral. This caption will make sense shortly.
Please don’t get “tradition” mixed up with “traditional.” If I call something “traditional,” that is very much a bad thing. If I’m calling something traditional, I’m being polite in front of people I don’t trust. Whatever it is is likely rooted in heteronormativity, the patriarchy, capitalism, or something generally shitty.
Traditions, though, are lovely and often little things that bring me joy. I have so many. So, so many. I’m only going to share eleven that are all over the place in importance. But I’m not going to tell you which ones are the important ones and which are not. Also some have been practiced for decades and others a year. Just know, if I ever rope you into a tradition, you’re stuck with it for life. So take part wisely.
Every time Dylan drives me to the airport, we get Velvet Taco. Every time he picks me up from the airport late at night, we get Waffle House. This tradition does not go both ways. It’s only when I’m the one flying.
Marshmallows with a little bit of hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls with Christmas music while opening presents on Christmas morning.
Dumplings whenever I’m sick or extra-spicy sad.
Getting a Starbucks I got to a new state/place. There are limits and terms to this agreement, but there is a state cup for everywhere I’ve been.
Matching outfits on trips. I rarely travel with people, but when I do, there are coordinating outfits and a lot of photos. Alex has been on the receiving end of this tradition more than anyone. Although, Amanda is a fast second.
Lighting a candle in every cathedral I go into. I’m not religious.
Going for a swing on a swing set late at night when I’m sad and can’t sleep. Extra awesome when it’s a cold winter night and the stars are clear.
Photoshoots for absolutely no particular reason other than… I can.
Birthday tattoos.
Mommy-Doggy ice cream cones every time we go to the vet.
Throwing trash in the backseat of my car and yelling “ROADTRIP!” We do not need to be on a roadtrip. We will pick up immediately.
I feel most myself in nature. At the top of a mountain, there’s a sense of possibility and belonging. From a high vantage point, the world lays itself out to be seen as it is, and in that raw existence is the truth that it can be changed. It can get better. People deserve to live vibrantly in this beautiful world rife with chance. I am overcome with a calling to exist, to be a part of the global landscape, to create enough ripples to spread far enough that eventually someone will be affected in some way and the world will be a better place for one, for many, hopefully, for all.
Standing with my toes in the water on the beach has always been one of my happiest places because it is devoid of hope and utterly isolating. It’s how I feel all the time. At sea level, my view is stunted. I am still overcome with possibility and beauty, but my ability to see past what is is impeded by being in it.
Sometimes, I walk. Sometimes, I stand.
Maybe it’s not even nature that makes me feel like myself, it’s that I’m almost always alone in it. I travel, do life alone. Even when I’ve been in relationships, I almost always exist in the world by myself because no one can keep up, I’m a lot, I don’t want to let people in, so many reasons. I’ve never really had a partner. Not a real partner. So maybe it’s just the fact, I can breathe because I’m not being anything for anyone other than me. Except I’m alone far more than I’m around people, and I can only truly take a breath when I’m surrounded by nature.
I remember being on a deserted beach on the coast of North Carolina in front of a lighthouse with the one person who knows me best in the world. It was an amalgamation of my literal favorite things: solitude, beach, North Carolina, lighthouse, this one specific human. It was a beautiful day. The thing I remember most was standing in the ocean. The waves wrapping around my legs, and the sand burying my feet deeper and deeper. Time passed me by, and I just stood there. Overcome by the senselessness of it all. I don’t know if I would have ever left that spot if he hadn’t come up behind me, putting his chin on my shoulder, hugging me out of my head. He let me stand there for over an hour because he knows me. He knows the despair in my soul and my need to honor it, but he also knows the need I hate to admit exists to feel connected, and for so long, he was the only one I was connected to. The only one who saw, accepted, and loved me.
I am so many muches. I am aware of it. Even masked, I am a lot. Once I get comfy with someone, I’m even more. If the trauma and true thoughts and feelings come out, well… there’s like three people who truly know how fucking much I am.
The best feeling.
I am well past existentialism and have found myself knee-deep in nihilism since I was about 20. Most people would not call it a happy mindset; however, I find it to be the most comforting. I can’t make sense out of it. Try as I might. When anxiety takes over, I just remind myself: The Big Crunch doesn’t care about my credit, my love life, sexism, or any of it. Theoretical Astrophysics… that’s what keeps me from spiraling into utter insanity. Not that billions of people deserve better than this shit show, and I’m trying to do my part. It’s: eventually, all of this will disappear, I will be forgotten, and the universe will start again. I am so fucked up. Whatever keeps me balanced, y’all!
Anyways, I need to take a trip to the beach. Until then: Here are some thoughts I’ve had while standing in the ocean. A lot of these have been recurring since before I was ten, but now I have the words to articulate those feelings. And also, my parents can’t commit me for not being happy 24/7.
Flannel at the beach since 2017… Gay.
I am the most forgettable person to ever exist.
No matter how hard I work, how exceptional/smart/cunning/knowledgeable/talented I am, I will never have the kind of systemic impact I so desperately want to have.
The world is a dumpster fire. No one cares. Knowledge is so accessible and people are still not trying. They have all the world’s information and solutions in their pocket… hand right now because I doubt you’re reading this on a computer or tablet and you sure as shit didn’t print it out to read it on paper. There are solutions to all the problems. Yet no one wants to take the first step of educating themselves. FUCK! Google that shit. It’s easy.
There is nothing unique or special about me.
I am nowhere near as talented as I once hoped I would be.
Why try? It’s futile. I’m one in eight billion people. Someone else can be known as the girl who got cyclically raped into social justice advocate.
My writing is selfish, narcissistic, and steeped in martyrdom. Also it’s boring and not a single person gives a shit.
All of everything I’ve ever done with my life, career, advocacy is done just so I can have the moral high ground because I don’t want to be seen as the truly bad human I know I am.
I’m making it all up. I am, in fact, the liar my parents decry.
I am only as valuable as my beauty.
I am alone because I deserve to be alone. Everyone sees the truth: I don’t deserve kindness, love, respect, dignity.
My parents aren’t a part of my life. Not for their lack of trying. I set boundaries again and again and again, but our perceptions of our own realities are not compatible. They are allowed theirs, but they do not allow me mine. They cannot listen with compassionate hearts or accept me as I am nor own responsibility in our downfall yet expect all of this and more from me. I might be a real adult, but I’m still their child.
Life without my family is hard. I won’t lie. But it’s so much easier than giving up who I am to be who they want me to be. Fitting into a too small box and swallowing the truth, I couldn’t do it anymore.
I have chosen the unpopular route: disowning my parents.
For so many reasons. This is not the first time. It may not be the last, but it likely will be.
One of the biggest upsides to continuing my life without them is my ability to write. I am a writer. One who has always found real people’s stories to be far more interesting than fiction. The life I’ve been dealt and the choices I have made or were forced into making sure do make great copy. My life isn’t just interesting, it’s an example of how far we have yet to go as a society. I refuse to stay silent when I have a voice and the ability to use my voice. I know why so many people choose silence when they’re confronted with abuse or the ramifications of what telling their truth means after it’s over. As a survivor, sometimes the event itself isn’t the most traumatic part; it’s the after. Choosing what to say and to whom for fear of not being believed or worse being believed and told to hush hush. I have been towing the line for eight years, trying to be the good daughter, creating fewer waves. But the waves have always been my favorite part of the ocean, and I’d rather be in them than watching them.
For the first time since the last time I cut off my parents, I’m writing again with emotional depth, clarity, and vulnerability. I have spent eight years playing diplomat. Weighing every word I type to avoid hurting them because my story and, in many ways, my existence causes them pain. Though it may not seem like it, I am a people pleaser. In order to write what I do, I have to fight against every instinct in my body to stay silent, to save people’s feelings. The problem is trying to prevent pain. There is a moral component to telling stories and who owns a story. As a victim and survivor, this component becomes even more nuanced with power dynamics and silencing tactics coming into play all but immediately. In a great many of my stories, my parents were not direct players and fall into a category of affected bystanders. Though, I have plenty of stories to tell where they are active players and even abusers, but the majority of the stories I am ready and capable of telling have nothing at all to do with my parents. The only reason they hurt over the stories I tell is because they are adjacent to me and my stories are a reflection upon them as parents, people.
Over the last eight years, I haven’t written these stories because I don’t want to cause pain unnecessarily. Except the pain is not unnecessary. This is necessary pain. I haven’t spoken to my mother or father in over two years, and it’s been within the last six months that words have started pouring from my soul again. I needed time to heal. I am writing my truth, my pain, the life I have lived. It has been a painful life. A beautiful life, but painful. And I’ve finally gotten to the point where I’ve gone beyond ambivalence.
I’m not purposefully inciting pain, but I’m not going to skirt around it anymore either. I’m bringing a lot more fuck you energy to the stories I’m telling because I’m not making this shit up, and if I’m the only one who believes me, then fine. If my stories hurt my parents, then good. I was raped for years in their house. I’m not angry and I don’t hold it against them, but let it hurt. I have hurt for a decade and a half. They parented me for nineteen years and failed to do the one job they should have done above all else: protect me. Maybe I am and was as good at hiding behind a mask as I think I am, but I asked for help and was turned away time and time again. Precedents were set that I would not be believed, my safety was not a priority, my mental health was to stay hush-hush. They chose to not protect me, to not stand by me, to not pay attention to their daughter when I needed them, when I begged for help, when I was assaulted, when I told them I wanted to die.
So what was I to do when a boy held me down and raped me for the first time? Or the second? Or the fiftieth? They had proven they didn’t care and I couldn’t trust them. So I found solace in myself and learned to depend on no one. Now that I no longer need them to parent or protect me, they want to do both and by doing so silence me, whether that is their conscious goal or not.
I love my parents with all my heart. Truly. Though no one will believe me, family is the most important thing to me, which means it is so hard every day not caving in. But it is possible to love someone and not want them in my life. I am happier and healthier without them. I wish them well. I do not wish to cause them pain, but I will not stop writing the stories that matter.
George Peabody Library sits on the Mt. Vernon Campus of Johns Hopkins University. Founded in 1857 with a donation of $300,000 by George Peabody to create an accessible cultural center of learning for all. The original structure was finished in 1866, but the library seen today was finished in 1878 and designed by architect Edmund George Lind. When it opened, it was dedicated to the kindness and hospitality of Baltimore. At its inception, the librarians curated and pursued a list of 50,000 specific books to line the shelves regardless of price or difficulty. Today, the library stacks are home to a collection of more than 300,000 works ranging from rare first editions to 15th century tomes, including first edition Hawthornes, Melvilles, and Darwin’s On the Origin of Species. The rare book rooms’ newest books date from the 1700s. The collection is always growing with a focus on 18th and 19th century works.
Walking into the main atrium, the eye is met with stacks five tiers high, lined by ornamental cast-iron balconies. The library is capped by a stunning skylight soaring 61 feet above quiet readers below, illuminating the entire space with a warm comfort so rarely found in rooms so large. Created to be free and open to the public, despite changing hands multiple times, it is still a free and open library to the public. Though the collection is non-circulating, readers and researchers can explore the works while enjoying its immense beauty.
I was in awe.
It is immensely beautiful.
Visit
Visiting George Peabody Library has been really the only thing left on my Bucket List for years. I have actively been making plans and trying to go for many, many years. Those plans fell through every time. In October, I went on a roadtrip to Washington DC. There were lots of plans with lots of activities. When asked what I wanted to see on the trip, the only thing I said, “I’d like to take a trip to Baltimore and see the library.”
Done.
We took a day trip to Baltimore and I fell a little bit in love with the city. I went when I was 18 and adored it. As an adult with an even better grasp and love for history, I was in heaven. Historically, it’s a fascinating city. Architecturally, it’s stunning. Culturally, wow. It sits at an intersection of so many interests of mine as a human, learner, and writer of social justice. I would love to go back and spend more time existing there.
Parking in front of the Mt. Vernon campus, the building is as gorgeous as every other 19th century building in the neighborhood. But there was nothing differentiating it from all the other incredible façades. So much so, I tried going in the side door as it was just as magnificent as the main entrance. Even standing in front of the door, I was vibrating with anticipation. Actually the whole drive there.
Getting to the library, we had to walk through the entryway, take a left, and then walk through a large room of stuff, which was probably a museum of sorts. I should have looked, but I was ready to see what I had come to see and didn’t really pay any attention. Obviously. And also fighting off an anxious pee feeling that was totally unnecessary and over the top. The moment I could see through the doorway, I started crying. I couldn’t help it. It was very embarrassing. A bad case of Stendahls Syndrome. Of course there’s a video because my friend is an asshat and documents everything. I wandered and cried. Thank God, I eventually stopped crying and kept wandering. I tiptoed through card catalogs, read every plaque, sat in awe of the sheer beauty, size, and knowledge this one room held. I took a crap ton of photos. So many pictures. None of which will ever do the room justice, though they’re brilliant. I don’t know what I expected. But I didn’t expect the library to be just a massive room in an even bigger building, yet it is.
I spent two hours soaking in that moment I had waited so long to enjoy.
I will always explore card catalogues.
More Than Stendahls Syndrome
As I walked into George Peabody Library, I was swept with so many complex emotions. I started crying. I tried to play it cool, but I am not a chill person. Part of me did cry because of the immense, architectural beauty. It’s art. Part of me cried because I was with someone who had no idea how much that moment meant to me but made it happen anyways. Sometimes, small things are not small things.
I stood there crying and sniffling for more than just Stendahls Syndrome.
Libraries always have a tendency to bring up the emotional side of me. It does exist, very, very deep down. As a writer, I know how much effort one book requires. As a writer in the time of computers makes it far easier, faster, and less physically taxing to actually write a book. Imagine writing an entire book with a quill… imagine the typos. My hand hurts thinking about that. The amount of knowledge in that one room alone is more than I will ever acquire no matter how dedicated I am to the pursuit. Libraries are a testament to the lives of people who dedicated themselves to gaining and proliferating knowledge. In their own ways, many of which I do not agree with, they were trying to make the world a better place. That is what I also aspire to do. It’s hard not to be a little overcome with emotion when one steps back from themselves to acknowledge the effort put into the existence and purpose of libraries. I do not believe in God. I do not go to church. I do believe in knowledge. Truth is my God. Libraries are my sanctuary.
Standing just inside the door as a gay woman, I was hit with more than awe. This library was not meant for me. As a woman, an out gay woman, had I walked into the library upon its construction, I would have been imprisoned existing the way I do. Hell, there are a great many places today I could still be arrested or even executed for existing as I am. It was built in a time when 20% (optimistic) of the population was illiterate and less than 2% of the population went to college. Fuck women on that statistic, there isn’t a percentage available. Wesleyan, the first women’s college, only opened twenty years prior. George Peabody Library was meant for everyone, but not really. It was created in a time where the “everyone” was implicitly understood as white men, maybe refined, respectable ladies who were educated but not too much. I am not either of those things by today’s standards let alone the standards of 1860s America.
The first Ivy’s—Princeton and Yale—didn’t even start admitting women until 1969. Women have had to fight with everything we have, including our lives, for the privilege, the right to receive an education.
Education. Knowledge. That is the path forward. Ensuring women—49.72% of the population—are educated is how the world turns around. Yet there are so many roadblocks for us. They’ve been lessened in this country and others by the lives and fights of so many women who have gone before us. But there are still so many obstacles. From societal pressures, laws, cost, so on and so forth.
Malala was shot in the head because she advocated for girls’ education in 2012.
I’m angry.
I am angry for all women. But this hits home for me. For over a decade I have, in so many unknowing ways, downplayed my fight for education. I have never been quiet about the fact I was a stripper to pay for college. So often, people hear “stripping” and latch on. They want those stories. It’s unique, and I’m open about it. I’m a novelty. I’m an information resource fountain about a taboo yet extremely intriguing topic from anecdotal and scholarly standpoints. I know my shit, and I lived it. The part about stripping to PAY for college is glanced over. I think, emotionally, I always glanced over it too. Standing in the George Peabody Library, for whatever reason, it hit me. I did all of that to learn.
I graduated in 2014 from Cornell College with a triple major in Literature, French, and Russian with an emphasis in Literary Translation and Analysis. I did it in four years. I paid for it by working 100+ hours a week (it is possible, hard, yet possible), taking my clothes off for men who didn’t give a fuck if I lived or died, figuring out better ways to withstand the physical and psychological violence. I did all of that so I could have an EDUCATION. I tried so many other ways. But I was shit out of luck. When I went to the financial aid office, I was told to join the military, get married, have a child, or drop out and wait until I turned 26. None of those were options. So I stepped outside of respectable society for knowledge, ultimately, a piece of paper.
And I am so fucking proud of myself for doing that. I fought for my education. I gave up so much. I still live with the repercussions of that decision and I always will. I knew what I was doing and the ripple effects it would have on my life and future, intellectually. I was not stupid. My eyes were wide open. As much as they can be. Reality is always different. I don’t regret it. I never have. I wish I’d had other options, a choice. I wish the country we live in prioritized people rather than money. I wish men knew how to treat women, all women—sex workers included—well. I wish college wasn’t so expensive. I would also do it again. Knowing everything I know now, I made the right choice when I was left with no choices to make. I chose an education above all else.
The fucked up part… I made that choice twelve years ago.
TWELVE.
A year before Malala was shot on the other side of the world in her own fight for women’s education. I was sitting on a strip club counter studying when the notification popped up on my phone. I live in a first-world country, and I was still forced to fight for an education.
In so many ways, it was a different time, but all that’s really changed is college is more expensive and stripping is only infinitesimally less villainized. Even then, as a poor, desperate college student, I knew I was so privileged. I am a white woman. I was “straight” when I started stripping. I had every seeming advantage. I still had to fight to learn. I dodged sexual assault, rape threats, death threats, a shooting, knives, and more over the course of four years so I could graduate, move on, get a good job, build a life.
So often, I come across as straight-laced. I am. I like rules. But I’ve always been a rebel. I have always pushed back. I do not fit in the society that is, but I’m trying to open society so there’s a place for me, women, minorities, the LGBTQIA+ community, and everyone who feels othered.
My fight for education looks different than most women’s. Yet, it’s so similar. I leveraged sex and femininity in the same way women have for all of written history to access information, power, safety, comfort, literally everything. I took the only thing I had—my body and mind—to dare to grasp for more than what was being offered. I succeeded. I didn’t die. I get to move on and rebuild and heal. I get to use the knowledge I worked so hard for to advocate for other women so one day no woman will be turned away from learning.
You know… I’ve dated. I’m 31, never married, no kids. I have yet to make someone projectile vomit when they look upon me. I have a pretty successful career, not lucrative, but successful. I’m tall. I wouldn’t say I’m a catch, but I have enough going for me that I could catch a date if I felt so inclined.
Sometimes people say stupid shit, and that’s why I love being in nature… without people.
I am not so inclined, but I have spent years romantically attached to humans. I wouldn’t call myself a dating expert; although I am in possession of stories. I was thinking of some of the more ridiculous things that have been said to me while coupled up. Also hurtful things. The people we date have access to our inner selves in a way most people never will, so our partner[s] has the ability to hurt us more deeply than almost anyone. And the shitty bit is: we give them all the ammunition.
Partnership is great. Truly. Almost all of the best moments in my life have been shared with and when I was in a relationship. As I get older and more set in my ways, I’m not sure how for me it is. At least, right now, I’m so good with what is.
The world is vast. I am so glad I haven’t let the words of others keep me from exploring and living.
I like other people’s opinions; I tend to search out criticism. Especially from people I love and respect. I am not perfect, but I do try to be a safe space for people to talk about anything and everything. I also really try to make it known that I want my friends to tell me when I fuck up, fall short, hurt feelings, can do better. Life is hard, and the least I can do is love my people the best I can—so much of that is accepting my own shortcomings and doing better when I can. Don’t be mean, I am sensitive underneath all my armor, but I can take well meant criticism. Most of the time, my people’s opinions help me grow and become a better person… But these comments, not so much.
I don’t think I love you anymore. This is number one. This is the worst. It’s an absolute gut punch. I’ve heard I don’t love you anymore. That doesn’t hit quite like the addition of think. Cause guess what that means??? There’s still a chance. Which means… I’m gonna spend way too much fucking time trying to remind you of all the reasons you fell in love with me to begin with. It did work… It just took nine years, a lot of money, a bunch of tears, and then I came out as a lesbian.
You’re conniving cunt. Yes I am… Said in the heat of a break up after I was tired of having my money stolen from me.
If you need to have sex with women, that’s fine as long as you love me. Oh buddy… Sweet, sweet dumb-dumb. That is not how that works.
Ex Nothing Situationships are the best. I did cry after this one. That stung.
You’re so fucking quiet during sex. I sure fucking was. I earned that. My high school rapist, I mean boyfriend, had a penchant for violence. He liked to hear the pain he was inflicting. So I didn’t make a noise. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. No matter how hard he hit, no matter how he raped me, no matter what he said, I never even let him see me cry.
If you break up with me, I’m going to kill myself. I did. He tried. It was not a good day.
Will you marry me? This is wild. I’ve been proposed to four times. I said yes once; it did not last more than ten hours. Good times. Thank god that didn’t happen.
You show signs of psychopathic tendencies. It’s called dissociation and compartmentalization due to extreme trauma and CPTSD with psychotic features, thank you very much. I was just serviving and didn’t have time for sharing feelings. I’ve done a lot of work in the ten years since that comment. But also being private with feelings does not equate to psychopathic tendencies.
I’ve never met anyone like you before./You’re different. It’s called trauma.
You’re fat. High school rapist again. After two years of severe abuse, this was the comment that made me leave. I wasn’t fat. I knew I wasn’t fat. And there’s nothing wrong about being fat. But when it’s said the way he said it… Fuck right off.
You only talk about getting raped because you like being a martyr. Yeah… That’s it. It’s super duper fun being this open and honest with the entire world about my past. The pity is 100% worth the rape/death threats.
