When I walked into class, they all mooed at me. It sounded like a real cow mooing, and it continued on and on, like I was a cow that had gotten lost in the wrong barn. At first, I thought it might have been a joke that wasn’t meant to be funny. But it kept happening. Every week. Someone even put a plastic straw on my locker and wrote “BARN PRINCESS” on it in large black letters. Not even a little bit. People all knew that my family had a dairy farm. People knew I showed calves at the county fair and that I sometimes wore boots that still had hay on them. Because of this, they regarded me like a cartoon character and the butt of a long-running joke.
Before school, I would stop at the gas station a few blocks away and wash my boots in the bathroom sink. I was trying to get rid of the stench of manure or iodine that was still there. I knew it was attached to my hair, clothes, and skin. I’d roll up my sleeves and scrub my hands till they hurt, and then I’d use wet paper towels to clean every visible area of my boots, jeans, and jacket. I had a small bottle of perfume in my backpack that smelled nice and floral, which I didn’t like very much. I sprayed it on till the farm smell went gone. But it never really worked. And they always saw it.
It started in the first year of college. I would miss morning volleyball practice because I was either bottle-feeding calves or helping Dad with a breech delivery in the barn. I would get there late, tired, with hay in my ponytail and dark circles under my eyes from the early morning. One day, I was a few minutes late to first period. “Can’t you, like, shower before school?” Meilin said with a wrinkled brow. She was the girl who always had immaculate makeup and new hair by 7:30 a.m. Everyone in the room heard her say it, and everyone laughed. I laughed too, like it didn’t matter, but inside I was burning.
I still didn’t hate the farm. Not at all. I enjoyed it a lot. I liked how the barn smelled like hay, dirt, and life, and how calm it was before the sun came up. I liked the way it went milk, feed, clean, and then back to milk. It made me feel like I was part of something true and strong. I loved the way the calf’s snout felt against my fingertips, the way the cows felt warm in the winter, and the way the fog rose from the fields like a secret that only we knew. My dad would often tell me, “Your head is clearer when your feet are on the ground.” He was correct. The farm made me feel alive. It made me feel comfortable about who I am.
But I didn’t feel proud of myself at school. I felt like I had to stay out of sight at school. So I started to work on making myself smaller. I stopped talking about home. When kids asked me what I did after school, I said “chores,” as if it didn’t matter. I put my inexpensive shoes in my locker instead of my barn boots. I didn’t say anything in class. I tried to laugh off what they said and act like “cowgirl” was just a name and not a weapon. I thought they would stop if I could just be normal, quiet, and clean. But they never did. No matter what I did, I always smelled like the barn. The girl they nicknamed a cow. The one who didn’t belong.
After that, it was the last year of high school. Week of the Spirit. Wednesday’s theme was “Dress Like Your Future Self.” Everyone else was in scrubs, lab coats, or suits. Someone even dressed up like a tech billionaire, with phony sunglasses and an iPad inside. That morning, I stood in front of my closet and looked at all the clothes I had worn to fit in. The slender trousers that were too tight around my waist, the floral tops that smelled like perfume, and the sneakers that I kept white even when my real shoes were filthy in muck. I saw them then: my cleanest slacks, my work boots, and Dad’s old felt hat.
When I walked into school looking like myself—truly, unapologetically myself—the corridors went quiet. I could tell they were watching me and waiting for me to say something funny. But I didn’t move. I walked down that corridor like I owned it and it was a field. I hadn’t been hidden for four years. They made fun of everything around me, but I was proud of it.
That afternoon, my agriculture teacher, Mr. Carrillo, called me aside and gave me a poster for an FFA public speaking contest. The topic is “The Future of Farming.” He didn’t say much. They immediately looked at me and said, “You could win this.” It was the first time anyone at school cared about where I came from.
I signed up. After performing my responsibilities, I wrote my speech late at night. I practiced it out loud in the barn with the cows watching. I would stand between the stalls and say, “I’m seventeen, I’ve delivered six calves, treated pink eye, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” The cows looked at me like they understood. They might have.
I wore my boots to the regionals. I came out on top. I put them back on at the state. I also won there. People finally heard what I stated, which was my reality. Not funny at all. They didn’t laugh at me. But respected.
A few months later, I was invited to give a speech at a national summit in Washington, D.C. about agricultural education. I was still wearing my boots, but everyone else in the meeting room was wearing nice shoes and nice watches. I still had on the same boots. Same hat. A new religion. I talked about farming that doesn’t hurt the environment, education, and being proud of where we come from. When I was done, people got up and clapped. No one said “moo.”
Now I’m in college on a scholarship to study business in agriculture. I still wear boots to class sometimes, and some mornings I still smell like the barn. I don’t care who sees. People used to call me “cowgirl” as an insult. I wear it as a crown now, not because I’ve changed for others, but because I’ve finally stopped hiding who I really am.
And that’s all I need to be.
