The recent unveiling of Peacock’s three-part docuseries, High Horse: The Black Cowboy, resonates deeply with an authentic understanding of horsemanship, mirroring the profound lessons learned from the quiet communion with a horse. This sentiment is amplified by the personal experience of meeting a new mustang for the first time, an encounter marked by a blend of healthy apprehension, burgeoning joy, tenderness, and immense respect, where the animal stood with a remarkable steadiness, an apparent boundless patience, and an engaging curiosity that spoke volumes about its inner life. These fundamental interactions, focused on achieving steady hands, a deep seat, and quiet legs during a brisk loping pace, might appear understated from an observer’s perspective, yet they fundamentally transform the relationship between rider and steed. Years of dedicated practice in the riding arena have solidified the understanding that genuine confidence cannot be feigned; a thousand-pound animal possesses an innate ability to discern authenticity, invariably calling out any pretense.

It is precisely this inherent honesty and clarity, cultivated through the practice of working with horses, that lends such potent impact to the High Horse docuseries. The series powerfully asserts that throughout the history of the American West, Black individuals have consistently been instrumental in its development, their hands having guided reins, broken horses, moved vast herds of cattle, patrolled remote fences, excelled in racing, and dedicated themselves to training. The fundamental issue is not the addition of Black cowboys to the established historical narrative of the West, but rather society’s persistent astonishment at their presence.

Executive produced by Jordan Peele’s Monkeypaw Productions and helmed by independent filmmaker Jason Perez, who benefited from the mentorship of Spike Lee, High Horse masterfully interweaves evocative archival footage and historical photographs with contemporary scenes depicting the vibrant reality of Black cowboy life. The series navigates through the landscapes of film, music, and marketing history, illustrating a critical disconnect: the widely disseminated story of the West often diverges from its actual lived experiences. This historical revisionism, often a slow erosion rather than a singular dramatic edit, subtly narrows the perception of who truly embodies the spirit and legacy of the West.

High Horse resolutely rejects the notion of Black cowboys as a tangential element in the Western narrative, instead meticulously tracing a direct lineage from the skilled labor of formerly enslaved people who expertly managed horses and livestock, to the Black jockeys who dominated early horseracing circuits, and extending to the contemporary riders, ranchers, and entrepreneurs who continue to shape the Western landscape. The series succeeds in keeping history alive and relevant without resorting to didactic pronouncements.

A particularly compelling aspect of the docuseries is its deliberate focus on the tangible realities of horsemanship: the rider’s posture, the subtle cues of their hands, and the sheer dedication of countless hours invested in practice. For anyone who has experienced riding, these elements are immediately recognizable. The inherent nature of horses is such that they are indifferent to a rider’s personal narrative; their responses are governed by consistency and fairness. This understanding of equine behavior illuminates how frequently the romanticized aesthetic of the cowboy is celebrated, while the fundamental, demanding work of the craft itself is overlooked.

Within High Horse, the camera frequently lingers on Black riders, portrayed with a posture of quiet strength and unwavering steadiness, surveying expansive open country or navigating urban peripheries that bear the indelible imprint of shared history. These images, though often simple and understated, possess a profound charge. For Black Americans, the concept of land transcends mere scenery; it represents a complex tapestry of inheritance and loss, of promises both made and tragically broken, and critically, it signifies the distinction between being a transient visitor and a dedicated steward.

This profound connection to land is deeply personal. My own father, a lifelong rancher from Texas, later managed land and livestock in California, a legacy that inspired the founding of Outdoor Afro in 2009, initially as a blog and a testament to his memory. Much like High Horse, Outdoor Afro sought to rectify the often-inaccurate portrayals of Black people’s deep-rooted connections to the outdoors. This initiative has since evolved into a national organization that annually facilitates opportunities for thousands of Black families to engage with nature, not as a fleeting trend, but as a profound reunion with heritage and the natural world.

Now, in midlife, I have recommitted myself to horsemanship with a seriousness that continues to surprise me. The practice of riding has instilled in me greater patience and a heightened sense of honesty. It has also broadened my perspective on land, encouraging a more nuanced understanding and fostering a deeper sense of responsibility for my lifestyle choices and their cumulative impact on both our communities and the natural environment.

My current mare, named True Haven, is a mustang from the Twin Peaks Herd Management Area, situated in the high desert straddling the California-Nevada border. Her name serves as a constant reminder of divine refuge and the universal capacity for peace that can be cultivated in all aspects of life. Horses, by their very nature, demand a commitment to fairness and consistency, and they will swiftly reveal whether one is a trustworthy leader.

While owning a wild horse does not confer expertise in public lands and wildlife policy, it does foster an intimate engagement with crucial questions of stewardship and strengthens my dedication to preserving the nation’s public lands and wild spaces. The abstract relevance of slogans diminishes significantly when one is holding a lead rope, entirely focused on the immediate needs of another living creature for safety and clarity.

High Horse astutely recognizes that the narrative of Black cowboys is inextricably linked to the broader story of Black land ownership. This encompasses not only the romantic allure of expansive vistas but also the pragmatic realities of acreage, access, property titles, taxation, and the pervasive influence of power structures that dictate who is permitted to remain on the land. While the series thoughtfully avoids getting lost in granular policy details, it unequivocally addresses a truth that many in the West prefer to ignore: the freedom historically associated with the West was never equitably distributed, and the legacy of violence, both legal and extralegal, is an integral part of the region’s geography.

However, High Horse transcends mere lamentation; at its core, it is a vibrant celebration of freedom. The series showcases young riders in training and competition, elders diligently passing down invaluable knowledge, cherished family traditions, and communities convening around horses with the same warmth and camaraderie found at church potlucks or family reunions. Far too often, Black history is presented solely through the lens of trauma. This series offers a refreshing alternative perspective, highlighting excellence, skill, humor, pride, discipline, and an abundance of joy.

If the docuseries possesses any discernible weakness, it lies in the inherent limitations of its scope. While three episodes can effectively raise a banner of awareness, they cannot fully encompass every nuance and complexity of the subject matter. There is a palpable desire for extended exploration of Black women riders, a more detailed examination of the daily economic realities of horse ownership, and a deeper acknowledgment of the intricate intersection between Black and Indigenous histories on Western lands.

Furthermore, there is a sense that the series could have placed greater trust in the voices of its working riders. While the contributions of well-known celebrities and scholars offer valuable reach and context, they occasionally risk overshadowing the Black cowboys and ranchers whose generational stories of working the land and their horses possess an inherent power that could stand compellingly on its own without extensive interpretation.

Perhaps the most significant achievement of High Horse is its steadfast refusal to categorize the Black cowboy as an anomaly. It actively invites viewers to broaden their definition of what it means to be "Western," moving beyond the confines of traditional Hollywood portrayals. For anyone who cherishes the spirit and legacy of the West, this reevaluation of its historical narrative is profoundly timely.

Watching the series, I was consistently reminded of those initial moments with my mare: the way she observed me, her patient waiting, and the unspoken questions in her gaze about the kind of partner I would be. In the same way that a horse responds to clarity, consistency, and compassionate care, we should approach our collective history with similar principles. If we aspire to inhabit a West that is fundamentally honest and possesses a robust future, we must forthrightly recount its complete story and diligently protect the land that forms its foundation.

High Horse is, and rightfully should be, far from the definitive last word on the history of Black cowboys. However, it represents a significant and powerful stride toward a vision of the West where Black riders are not regarded as mere visitors, but as integral architects of the region’s heritage and essential partners in its ongoing conservation efforts.