They mooed when I walked into class. Actual moo sounds. Someone even taped a straw to my locker with “BARN PRINCESS” written on it. Everyone knew my family ran a dairy farm, and they treated me like a cartoon—overalls, hay bales, the whole deal.
Freshman year, I showed up to school with hands smelling like iodine from treating calves. Girls like Meilin would wrinkle their noses and say, “Ugh, can’t you shower before school?” loud enough for everyone to laugh. I tried to shrink myself—wearing perfume, hiding where I came from—but I loved the farm. The early mornings, the calves blinking into the world, the rhythm of soil beneath my boots. Dad always said, “When your feet are on soil, your head’s clearer.”
Senior year, homecoming week’s Spirit Day was “Dress As Your Future Self.” Everyone was a doctor, an astronaut, a CEO. I wore clean jeans, a button-down, polished boots, and my dad’s old cattleman hat. No costume—just me.
By lunch, the teasing started: “Gonna marry a cow?” But I didn’t flinch. Then Mr. Carrillo, our ag teacher, gave me a flyer for a public speaking competition on “The Future of Farming.” “You could win this,” he said.
I practiced my speech in the barn, steady as the cows. At regionals, I opened with, “I’m Amira Farouki. I’ve delivered calves, treated pink eye, and wouldn’t trade it for anything.” The applause was real.
I won regionals, then state. Months later, I was invited to speak in D.C. about ag education. Navy blazer and boots—because I learned I don’t have to change who I am to succeed. The “cow girl” label? Now it’s my crown.
If you’ve ever felt you had to shrink yourself, don’t. Take up space. Wear the boots. The right people will see you.
