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Fighting Bulls
 The first part of my life, I made it through a breed in the deep south, raised with animals and baby dolls and learned how to make buttered biscuits, and was taught, trained, loved, and prayed for by the people who worked in my parents’ home.
Bull fighting was not a joyful thing. It was darn bloody. The bulls huffed and puffed and danced around and showed their strength, curling around the place, the space where some dancer, the fighter, usually a brave young man dressed elegantly, twirled around with a thick fabric in his hand.
Bullfighting was dangerous. It was cruel to the bull who suffers his life, his time on earth, becomes the victim, losing his strength and poise and snuff and his turns that kept him alert and dancing and threatening the guy trying to be victorious. As if it mattered, we the audience, were told not to wear fancy glittery red attire. Would it disturb the bullfighter or the bull?
I remember when I was about six of seven, my young brother and I, curious about the farm where we lived on, having left the gorgeous mansion which my grandfather had owned at 201 S Parkway East. Stables full of show horses, and a clog of cattle living safely in white fences which people admired as they drove along the rough and tumble dirt roads out in Germantown, which had just returned to that name after the war, when it was Nashoba. We had been told not to go in the pastures where T Royal Report 49th abided, because he was the breeding bull, the powerful one, at one point a winner at shows.
My younger brother and I felt protected behind the white fences, as we hoped to see T Royal Rupert pulling up good grass. We saw him finally one morning as the bull silently pulled up weeds in the best of the pastures dedicated to him. And my little brother and I were shouting “kids” versions of bad words, and we threw a stick or branch at him, from far away, it seemed. Then old T Royal decided he didn’t like all the razz-ma-taz my brother and I were making, throwing sticks, laughing, feeling safe from the protective white fence. But suddenly T Royal Rupert stopped pulling grass. Some hung out of his jaw, and with a calm demise, he began to walk in our direction. We were giggling, and teasing him, thinking we were protected by the white fence and our language. But lo and behold, T Royal was a tough old bloke and when he got started, nothing was going to stop him coming at us - not in a trot or speed, but just damned to get these two kids to leave him alone.
When T Royal arrived at the white fence, he didn’t stop or moo or do anything but with big head down, he kept on going, just walking through the white fence, busting out the wood fence crossing each other, and my brother and I took off running as fast as we could. T Royal was not going to do anything with speed, but in his strong crash through the wooden fences, he certainly got the irritants out of the picture, and we didn’t stop until we reached the huge horse barn. The farm manager shouted at the bull, trying to get him to turn around and return to his pasture, which the bull did, as his girlfriends were waiting for his return. And no one was more worn out, having experienced “fear” for doing something they knew was not proper.
Years later, when traveling on the girls' European trip, we passed through Spain and there was a chance to see where the real Francisco Romero, from Ronda, Spain, first introduced the practice of fighting bulls on foot. It was about 1726 and using the muleta in the last stage of the horseback in an enclosed arena was probably Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, El Cid (1043-99). Bulls are attracted to the color RED. It is the aggressive whipping of the Muleta by the Matador which irritates the bull. Then it becomes fight or flight with blood everywhere. It is illegal in most countries today, except Spain and Portugal. La Plaza Mexico is the world’s largest bull fighting arena, seating 42,000 spectators. It is not a pretty sight, in the end, as the beautiful bull becomes a wimp, defeated with bevy of spears, painfully throwing him to death.
The first recorded bullfight may have been the Epic of Gilgamesh, when Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought and killed the Bull of Heaven. This competition of man vs bull included Charlemagne, Alfonxo X the Wise, Emperor Charles V, Pedro Ponce de Leon - killing his bull on a horse with blindfolded eyes. Bette Ford was the first American woman to fight on foot in the Plaza Mexico, the world’s largest bullfight arena. After 500 years of bullfighting, how goes the skills in these days.
When I was in my twenties, I was befriended by a bucking bull family who appeared at the Bull riding contests here in Memphis. I met such wonderful friends, and some of the greatest bucking bull riders. I often wondered where they are these days. Their sons were on the way to superstar success. I wouldn’t even ride a bull, nor let him buck beneath me, toss me out like a dead soccer ball. For a short while, I did partner with two beautiful white bulls with a girl friend from Florida. She knew what she was doing. I didn’t. I just thought it would be fun and we named the white bronco bull The Rev. That’s what people call me in the police department, sheriff department and in general anywhere that the know me. We had to wait for the two bulls to grow a big tougher body and my partner knew all the ins and outs, ups and downs of bucking bills. But she became quite ill, and we decided to close our interest, sadly, and hoped the bulls had some sort of fun life bucking anyone off their backs even though they were kind of friendly broncs. I had a hard time thinking someone would spike our broncs so he would buck that backside high as possible. Probably it hurt, it wasn’t fun, and the whole point was to toss the rider off ASAP. Well, it may be fun to watch, but I didn’t want anyone to beat and buck our broncs because we loved them. Sigh.
~ Rev
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audrey@audreytaylorgonzalez.com
www.audreytaylorgonzalez.com
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