They mooed when I walked into class. Literal moo sounds.

One guy taped a straw to my locker with “BARN PRINCESS” scribbled on it.

I used to scrub my boots in the gas station bathroom before school, just to keep from tracking the smell of manure into AP Chem. Didn’t matter. Everyone knew my family ran a small dairy operation on the south end of town. Everyone acted like I stepped out of a cartoon—overalls, hay bale, you name it.

It started freshman year. I’d miss morning practices because I had to help with the calves. My hands would still smell like iodine from treating a hoof infection. One time in bio class, this girl Meilin leaned away and said, “Ugh, can’t you shower before school?” Loud enough for three rows to hear. Laughter, of course.

Thing is, I didn’t hate the farm. I loved it.
There’s a rhythm to it—milking before sunrise, the way steam lifts off the cows in winter, that split second when a new calf blinks into the world and you know you helped. It’s real work. My dad always said, “When your feet are on soil, your head’s clearer.”

Still, I tried to shrink myself. Wore perfume. Stopped talking about home. But no matter how I scrubbed or dressed, I was the “cow girl.”

Until homecoming week senior year. Spirit day was “Dress As Your Future Self.” Everyone showed up in scrubs, lab coats, one guy even wore a fake NASA suit. I showed up in…

My cleanest jeans, a button-down tucked in, work boots polished with olive oil, and my dad’s old cattleman hat. I didn’t go in costume—I went as me. Future me, same as present me, just older and more sure of it.

People stared, obviously. A couple snickered. Meilin gave me this look like I’d just tracked mud across her white carpet. But I didn’t flinch. I sat down, opened my notebook, and started taking notes like it was any other day.

By lunch, the comments were flying. “What, are you gonna marry a cow?” “You applying to Hayvard?” I ignored it. I’d spent three years letting them shrink me, and I was done handing out permission slips.

But here’s where it gets weird.

During seventh period, Mr. Carrillo pulls me aside. He’s our agriculture teacher and FFA advisor, and I’d been in his class since sophomore year. Quiet guy, really into soil science.

“I want to show you something,” he said, then handed me a flyer. It was for a statewide FFA public speaking competition. “I think you could win this. Topic is ‘The Future of Farming.’ I’ve seen you speak during meetings. You’re good, Amira.”

My full name, said without irony. That stuck.

I didn’t say yes right away. Public speaking wasn’t exactly on my dream list. But something about the idea—talking about the thing they teased me for—sparked something. I folded the flyer and shoved it in my backpack.

That weekend, I helped Dad with a sick heifer. It was late, nearly 10 PM, and we were both ankle-deep in mud, working by flashlight. At some point, I looked up and said, “Do you think people respect what we do?”

He didn’t look up. Just kept wrapping the leg with vet wrap. “They will, eventually. When they’re hungry.”

That Monday, I signed up for the contest.

The thing about cows—about farm life in general—is it teaches you patience. Consistency. You can’t fake it. That’s how I wrote my speech. Not trying to sound smart. Just honest.

I practiced in the barn, reading out loud while the cows blinked at me with those big, soft eyes. My little brother, Issa, recorded me once and added mooing sound effects. I chased him around with a feed bucket for that.

The regional round was at a community college two hours away. I borrowed Mom’s blouse and curled my hair with a flat iron that smelled faintly like burnt plastic. The auditorium smelled like coffee and old carpet.

There were kids from all over—some in suits, some in boots. When it was my turn, I stepped up to the mic, heart hammering so loud I thought it might pick up on the speaker system.

I started like this: “My name is Amira Farouki. I’m seventeen, and I’ve delivered six calves, treated pink eye, and once stayed up all night to warm a hypothermic goat in our laundry room. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

They clapped. Like, real clapping. Not just polite.

I won regionals.

Then I won state.

When the results came out online, Meilin commented, “Wow, didn’t see that coming. Guess cows do talk.”

I almost replied. But instead, I just screenshot it and sent it to Carrillo with a thumbs-up.

And then—homecoming.

The thing is, I wasn’t even thinking about court. It was always the same few people nominated. Football players, dance team girls, social butterflies. I didn’t even go to the pep rally. I was helping deliver a breach calf that morning and showed up halfway through fifth period still in a barn jacket.

But that afternoon, someone tagged me on Insta: “Queen of the barn… AND the ballot?” I clicked it and stared.

My name was on the homecoming queen nomination list. No joke. Nominated.

I thought it was a prank. Like, maybe they were doing it to laugh. But when I confronted the student council rep, she said, “No, people really voted for you. We counted.”

I didn’t believe it until I saw who else got nominated: Meilin, of course. Her third year in a row. And two other girls I barely knew.

The whole week leading up to the vote felt surreal. People were actually talking to me. Like, asking me about farm life. One girl asked if she could come see the baby goats sometime. Another dude who used to call me “Udder Girl” apologized in the hallway. Not some big speech, just a quiet “Hey… I was kind of a jerk before. Sorry.”

And then I got the note.

Slipped into my locker, no name.

“You were always real. Don’t let the plastic ones win.”

I kept it. Still have it.

Friday night came. Homecoming game. I didn’t have a fancy dress—borrowed a blue maxi skirt from my cousin and wore it with boots. My little brother scrubbed up to be my escort. Mom curled my hair again, better this time. I remember looking in the mirror and feeling… fine. Not stunning. But solid. Me.

When they called my name as queen, I actually laughed. Just stood there like a doofus, grinning with this dumb shock smile.

Meilin clapped, but the look on her face said it all. She wasn’t mad. Just confused. Like she couldn’t figure out how I’d slipped through the cracks.

But here’s the twist. The real one.

A month after homecoming, Carrillo asked me to speak at a local farm bureau meeting. Said some donors were interested in supporting ag scholarships. I said sure.

I gave the same speech, just polished. Talked about how farming wasn’t just old men in overalls. That young people cared. That we were smart and driven, and we knew how to fix engines and write essays.

Afterwards, this woman came up to me. Mid-50s, business suit, real sharp.

She said, “We’ve been looking for a spokesperson for our youth initiative. Someone authentic. Would you ever consider coming to D.C. to speak?”

I thought she was joking.

She wasn’t.

Six months later, I was on a plane—my first ever—headed to Washington, D.C., to speak in front of legislators about agricultural education. I wore a navy blazer and boots. Because I’d learned something:

You don’t have to change who you are to get somewhere. You just have to stop apologizing for it.

I still work on the farm. Still muck stalls and wrangle calves and hose down fences. But now I’m studying ag business at a university that offered me a full scholarship.

Meilin? She ended up messaging me over the summer. Said her aunt married a rancher and invited her to visit over break. “I never realized how hard it is,” she wrote. “You make it look easy.”

We’re not besties now. But we follow each other. She likes my goat videos. I like her nail art.

So yeah. They called me cow girl. Said it like it was an insult.

Now? I say it like a title.

Cow girl. Daughter of a farmer. Speaker. Student. Voter. Proud as hell.

And if you’ve ever felt like shrinking yourself to fit into a space that doesn’t respect you—don’t.

Take up space. Smell like the barn. Wear the boots.

The right people will see you.

The ones who don’t? Let them stare.

Thanks for reading! If this hit home or made you smile, give it a like and share it with someone who needs a little reminder to be proud of where they come from. 🤎🐄👇