Island Rodeo Queen

Three miles from the exit to Andromeda, Utah, population 1,500, our old Chevy Silverado slowed down, then rocked forward and backward.

“Keep going, keep going,” I chanted, as if the truck could understand me.

Papi said his own kind of muttered prayer behind the wheel. He had to make it to the class where he taught teachers and medical professionals Spanish on Saturdays, and I couldn’t be late to horsemanship practice, my weakest queening event. 

Public speaking? No problem. I could outargue my almost-lawyer mom. (She was still studying for the Utah bar exam.) 

Presentation? In my Abuelita Irma’s words, I was stunning in my parade clothes.

But queening was more than a pageant or a debate. A rodeo queen represented the town for a whole year, carrying the American flag at events like parades with pride and honor. She was the face of the rodeo, the representative of the sport that ruled here in the West.

The voice of my riding teacher, Melinda, echoed in my mind. “If you’re going to be the next Andromeda rodeo queen, you must be perfect, Coralí. Punctuality is a mark of respect.”

Whatever reason I had for being late today, she’d say it was an excuse. 

“Come on,” I said.

The truck tried. But a few seconds later, the engine sputtered its apology, and finally an ominous hiss broke the expectant silence of the desert.  

Papi maneuvered the dead truck to the shoulder of the road. “¡Ahora sí estamo chava’o’!”

My native Spanish was rusty from lack of use, but I understood his words. This was bad.

We’d come from Puerto Rico to Utah 10 years ago, when I was 7. Back then, we were some of the only Spanish speakers in the area. 

In the States, there was only time for work. And all of my family’s work and sacrifices were for me and my future. If I became the next rodeo queen, the scholarship to the University of Utah that came with it would open doors to opportunities that now were only dreams. If I became rodeo queen, it would make all the years trying to put down roots in this area worth it. It would mean there was room for my family this far from home.

A few months ago, during one of our weekly calls, Abuelita Irma had suggested we sell pasteles and other Puerto Rican foods to pay for my queening expenses. So we did. Our friends shared my Instagram posts with their neighbors and friends. Now even non-Latinos eagerly waited for our homemade pasteles. Our customers had so much hope invested in me. I had to win. 

But now our truck was dead.

I put my phone away before I was tempted to check my social media. Ever since I’d become a finalist, there’d been a mix of comments from proud well-wishers and people doubting I had what it took to represent the town. Sometimes I also got hateful private messages from anonymous accounts. I never told anyone about those. I didn’t want to give haters the power to make my family and friends unhappy. But the truth was, the seed of doubt had taken root in my heart—and with the rodeo only a week away, the dark voices blared louder than the positive ones.

“Well,” the man drawled, “now that Puerto Rico is back on its feet, they have to help themselves.” 

“Puerto Ricans are American citizens too you know,” I blurted, a little louder than would be considered polite. 

“Coralí . . .” my dad said and made a calm-down gesture. My face heated, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

Had I overreacted? I wished I could take my words back. A rodeo queen had to be diplomatic, after all. 

“I’m sorry if it sounded like I have anything against the island. I don’t,” the man said, putting his hands up in a conciliatory sign. He looked at me, and his eyes widened in recognition. “I know who you are!” he exclaimed. “The surfer who wants to be a rodeo queen!”

I bit back my next words. I wasn’t a surfer just because I was Puerto Rican. 

“Actually, she was never much of a surfer, but she sure has a way with horses.” Papi’s voice was full of pride.

“Nice to meet you,” the man said, and shook my hand. His palm was calloused in exactly the same places mine were, from the rub of the leather reins.

“I’ve seen you in some events, and let me tell you, for a Spanish girl, your form on the horse is a thing of beauty. Being the rodeo queen—those are big boots to fill. But the Western way of life has room for all if they adapt to it, don’t you think?” 

I looked at my dusty checkered Vans as I considered which part of his statement to address first: the fact that he’d called me Spanish or that I had to prove I was adapting to the Western way of life. At what point would I get to be someone who belonged? 

But I didn’t have time to respond. 

“We got it!” Papi called, starting the engine. After a small cough, the truck came back to life. “Now let’s get you to the ranch.”

At the ranch, the familiar scent of horse manure tickled my nose. I put on my boots and headed for the corral, where Sugar was waiting for me. He was spontaneous and mischievous, which made him perfect for practicing. For the actual competition, I’d have to ride a horse I’d choose randomly by selecting a number from a lottery bowl. This was supposed to make it fair, but I was nervous. Horses can sense fear and insecurity. With anyone else, I could fake my confidence, but a horse would know my real feelings as soon as I got close. 

Sugar greeted me with a twitch of his ears. While I placed the saddle, he flicked his long tail, trying to swat my back. He snorted, and I laughed as I guided him to the indoor arena. Three girls who couldn’t have been older than 10 were walking out. One was golden blonde. The other two were as dark as I was. They looked like sisters, probably Latinas. The trio was arguing in hushed voices, but I caught the last words the older Latina girl was telling the younger: “. . . not like you can become a queen, Jazzy. Some girls are cut out for royalty and others—”

The girl’s jaw fell when she and I made eye contact.

“You’re Coralí Estrada! One of the finalists.”

The other two girls looked at me in wonder.

“Hi, Jazzy,” I said to the younger Latina girl. I paused. What would younger me have needed to know? 

“Girls aren’t like fabric or leather. We aren’t cut out to be—or not to be—anything. We’re like light. You can fit into any spaces you want to fit into, OK?”

The words felt hollow and fake. If I didn’t win the crown, would I still feel like I fit in here, in this town?

As if reading my mind, Jazzy said, “My cousin who lives in Nephi says you won’t win. The girl from Provo has family in the area, and the judges will go for someone local.”

I knew what she meant by “local”: not Latina.

I swallowed. They were just repeating stuff they’d heard; I shouldn’t take it personally. Inside, though, a storm to rival Hurricane Maria bellowed in fury.

“I am local,” I said.

“Late again, Coralí.” Melinda shook her head. 

She held the reins for me as I jumped in the saddle. Sugar trotted to the hay feeders, the opposite of what I wanted him to do.

“Control him,” Melinda said, her voice matter-of-fact. “Relax your shoulders and unclench your jaw. You’re too tense.”

I exhaled to relax my upper body while I pressed Sugar with my legs, leading him on a trot around the arena. Then it was time to practice the reining pattern—eight maneuvers around three markers.  

Sugar bolted before I was ready, and in the millisecond it took me to recover, I imagined myself falling. It was only a moment, but Sugar sensed my distraction. He turned before we had completed our first left circle.

“No!” I gasped and tugged the reins.

He circled to the right sharply, then beelined to Melinda, who wore a grim expression. If I couldn’t control a horse I rode every week, how did I expect to control one I had no connection with?

“I’ll try again,” I said.

Suddenly, Sugar shot out. I lost one of the reins. When I finally managed to grab it, Sugar reared his head, and inertia sent me flying off him. I rolled, curling my body and protecting my head. My ears thundered with my rushing blood. 

“Are you OK?” Melinda’s blue eyes bored into me.

Unable to speak, I nodded. 

“You’re distracted, Coralí.” Her voice was soft, but the words cut me deeper than the sharpest knife. “Let’s end practice. You have a week to figure out what you really want.”

With that, she walked out of the arena, taking Sugar with her.