They mooed at me when I walked into class. The moo sound went 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 a joke. But it kept happening. Every week. Someone put a plastic straw on my locker and wrote “BARN PRINCESS” in large black letters on it. Not at all. Everyone knew that my family ran a dairy farm. People knew I showed calves at the county fair and that I sometimes wore boots with bits of hay still stuck to them. So they acted like I was 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 sink in the bathroom. I was trying to get rid of the faint scent of iodine or manure. I knew it was attached to my hair, clothes, and skin. I’d roll up my sleeves and scrub my hands till they hurt, then I’d use wet paper towels to clean every area of my boots, jeans, and jacket that I could see. I had a small bottle of perfume in my backpack that smelt nice and flowery, which I didn’t like very much. I sprayed it on till the smell of the farm went away. But it never really worked out. 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 deliver a breech baby in the barn. I would get there late, tired, with hay in my ponytail and the lines of early morning lingering under my eyes. I was late to first period one day. “Can’t you, like, shower before school?” Meilin, the girl who always had immaculate makeup and new curls by 7:30 a.m., said with a wrinkled nose. Everyone in the room could hear her say it, and everyone laughed. I laughed too, like it didn’t matter, but I was really angry inside.
I still didn’t hate the farm. No way. I really enjoyed it. I liked how the barn smelled like hay, dirt, and life, and how peaceful it was before the sun came up. I liked the cycle of milk, feed, clean, and repeat. It made me feel like I was part of something substantial and solid. I loved the way the calf’s snout felt against my fingertips, the cows’ warmth in the cold, and how the fog rose from the fields like a secret we only shared. When your feet are on the ground, your head is clearer, my dad would always remark. He was right. The farm made me feel alive. It made me feel comfortable about who I am.
But I didn’t feel good about myself at school. I thought I had to conceal at school. So I started to try to make 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. Instead of my farm boots, I put my cheap flats in my locker. I didn’t say anything during class. I tried to laugh off what they said and pretend that “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 person who didn’t fit in.
Then came the last year of high school. Spirit Week. “Dress Like Your Future Self” was the theme for Wednesday. The rest of the people were in lab coats, scrubs, and suits. Someone even dressed up as a computer mogul, with a phony iPad and sunglasses inside. I stood in front of my closet that morning and looked at all the clothes I had worn to fit in. The slender trousers that were too tight around my waist, the flowered tops that smelled like perfume, and the sneakers that I kept clean even when my real shoes were muddy. Then I saw them: my cleanest slacks, my work boots, and Dad’s old felt hat.
When I strolled into school looking like myself—really, completely, and without apology—the corridors went quiet. I could feel they were watching me, waiting for me to say something funny. But I stayed still. I walked down that hallway like it was a field and I had every right to be there. I wasn’t hiding for the first time in four years. They made fun of everything around me, but I didn’t care.
That afternoon, Mr. Carrillo, my agriculture teacher, called me aside and gave me a poster for an FFA public speaking contest. The topic is “What Will Farming Look Like in the Future?” He didn’t say much. They just looked at me and said, “You might win this.” No one at school had ever cared about where I came from before.
I signed up. After I finished my responsibilities, I wrote my speech late at night. I practiced it out loud in the barn with the cows as my audience. I’d 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 as if they knew what I was saying. They could have.
I wore my boots to the regionals. I won. I put them back on at state. I also won there. People finally heard what I said—my truth. Not hilarious. They didn’t make fun of me. But honored.
A few months later, I was asked to give a speech at a national summit on agricultural education in Washington, D.C. I was wearing my boots again, while everyone else in the conference room had on polished 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, going to school, and being proud of where we came from. When I was done, people got up and clapped. No one said “moo.”
I got a scholarship to go to college and study agricultural business. I still wear boots to class sometimes, and some mornings I still smell like the barn. I don’t care who sees it. They used to call me “cowgirl” like it was an insult. Now I wear it like a crown, not because I’ve changed for others, but because I’ve finally stopped hiding who I really am.
And who I am is all I need.