Joanne Tortorici Luna and two of her mentees,
Arashi Nguyen and Christina Harris
T he afternoon I learned I had been accepted to a competitive graduate program, I wandered around my eucalyptus-scented campus and quietly wept, wondering how this kid from an immigrant Brooklyn neighborhood could be so lucky. Perhaps luck had a bit to do with where I'd unexpectedly landed, some years after working as an organizer in the women's liberation and anti-Vietnam War movements, followed by a stint as a New York City cab driver. Looking back, I recognize that more influential in helping me navigate my long and winding journey were the caring and generous people I encountered and continue to find along the way.
One such person was my friend Zanna, who I met when I was an undergraduate student. When I met her, Zanna was 46, a mother of five, minus one kidney and a survivor of one heart attack. Zanna always had a bunch of people around her. Every loser, outcast and renegade seemed to find her. She'd spend hours in the student union playing cards, smoking and talking in her slow, homey way.
Zanna's "friends" would spin out their stories to her. She would calmly listen to tales of alcoholic binges, struggles, hopes and terrors. They'd give her their most intimate details, stories of impotence and rage. She took it all in, her smokey laugh rasping as she made it all seem play or, at least, understandable. Sometimes on hot summer afternoons, Zanna would carefully scrape breadcrumbs off my kitchen table onto the floor and wonder out loud if she was promoting dysfunction. All I knew was that she'd become my lifeline. She saw through the underachieving slider and threw me the rope. I caught it and held on.
Zanna and I would sit out in her old pickup truck on the packed-down dirt of an East L.A. back road and listen to country music, howling Willie Nelson songs at the moon. I'd get on her for smoking. She wouldn't quit, even after another heart attack.
Zanna was a psychology graduate student, and she needed a volunteer for a battery of tests. I agreed. The intelligence test was the turning point. I was in my last undergraduate year and I planned on getting any old kind of job when I was done.
When Zanna read the test results to me, her solemn black eyes burned above her angular cheekbones. I caught a whiff of sage and tobacco. "JT," she said, "did you know you scored in the top two percentiles?" "Yeah, right." I replied, thinking there must be some mistake. I'd been in gifted classes as a kid, but I always felt like the dumbest one...never learned how to study...got by. Zanna wouldn't let me squirm out of it. I was smart. I started considering graduate school.
When Zanna died from a third attack, I was through my master's program and had just started on my Ph.D. I felt as if the legendary Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi had died. I didn't know how I would make it without her. One of the more ridiculous thoughts that floated through my grief was, "How will I ever pass statistics without Z's help?" Miracles do happen, though. Somewhere along the way I had learned to stand on my own.
Fast forward to Long Beach, 2000-I was a new faculty member at CSULB, back from spending nearly a decade working as a psychologist in the war zones of Central America and South Africa and, more recently, from six years working in the Long Beach schools as a counselor and violence prevention coordinator.
I learned about Partners for Success. As a first-generation college graduate, Partners seemed a natural fit. I signed up as a mentor and quickly had a good group of mentees.
Joanne Tortorici Luna and "Lolly"
One of the parts of my life I enjoy sharing with students is my work with the therapeutic horse riding program, Move a Child Higher (MACH1). I became interested in working with horses on a camping trip with my young son several years ago. Each morning before dawn, we went to the pasture to watch the herd. We observed how they related to each other and how their curiosity would draw them near us. We loved to hear them nicker as we got close, to smell the sweet hay on their breaths and feel their velvety muzzles against our hands. I returned home with a desire to integrate horses into my everyday personal and professional life.
I found a therapeutic horse riding program accredited by the North American Riding for the Handicapped Association. At MACH1, I met expert horsewomen Joy Rittenhouse and Cric Dupuis, who now are guiding me in learning about the horse-human bond. The horses have been my friends, therapists and, yes, my mentors too. There is a saying, "Let a horse whisper in your ear and breathe on your heart. You will never regret it." For me, the saying is so true.
How are partnerships with horses therapeutic? For those with physical disabilities, riding a horse is helpful because the movement of the horse mimics human walking movements and promotes sensory integration, muscle strength, coordination, stamina and confidence. On the emotional level, spending time with a horse can promote bonding, relaxation, congruence, empathy and a sense of competence. For me, an extra bonus is the opportunity to help develop the equine-partnered mental health and learning aspect of the program, with accompanying research projects.
Fieldwork interns from various universities, several of my students and one of my Partners mentees visited the ranch to meet the horses and program participants. It was heartwarming when Partners mentee Arashi Nguyen became interested in working as a MACH1 volunteer. He came to our fundraiser, Ride-a-thon, and he has visited several times to walk alongside the therapy horses while children ride.
If you see me around campus in jeans and muddy boots, it's likely I'm just back from the ranch. It is gratifying to open doors (or ranch gates) of opportunity for those I mentor. It's my way of paying it forward.
