Every Cowgirl Has A Backstory

When I ask you to think of a prairie, what comes to mind? For most, I’d venture to guess they’re picturing a fuzzy little mammal burrowing to and fro. Others may see a vast, barren wasteland. A place of no importance harboring people who are even less important—hillbillies with run down trailers and beer bellies lounging around and chewing tobacco. But to those who were raised by the prairie, its easy to see the beauty. They aren’t as majestic as the mountains of Honduras, nor are they as colorful as the reefs of Australia, but when the sun begins to set, and its warm light hits the golden fields just right, you can’t help but feel small.

I was raised by the prairie. I grew up running through fields, biking to see the cows in the pasture next door, climbing fences to walk the abandoned railroad. It didn’t occur to me to really see the beauty in the prairie until I’d lost it. When I look back, I can’t seem to find a specific moment when I knew it was gone. Maybe it was when the developers took the cow pasture and replaced it with townhomes. Maybe it was when the city tore down the old railroad bridge. Or maybe it was when the dove hunting fields got replaced by medical offices. When I go home now, it feels like I’m in a different world. The one stop-sign town that I’d been raised in now has DoorDash and malls and a massive Mormon temple. The only thing that seems to be the same is the abandoned meth farms. Have you ever felt like a stranger in a town you’ve lived in your entire life? It feels like when a word is on the tip of your tongue. You keep reaching and reaching, but you aren’t quite sure what you’re reaching for.

The world around me kept growing, and I did too. I grew into my own ideals which slowly stopped aligning with that of those around me. I grew into a body that didn’t fit the standard of beauty like so many other girls around me. I grew into a personality that was too big for the small town, no matter how quickly it was growing. So, when I graduated high school, I left for the land of the Yanks. Not the baseball team — because Yankees suck — rather New England. I wasn’t expecting culture shock, that privilege was reserved for the international students, but culture shock was expecting me. Every interaction felt so strange. People would ask where I was from, and when I would tell them, they’d apologize. As if my heritage, no matter how messy, was something to be ashamed of.

“So, where are you from?”

“Down South!”

“Oh… I’m so sorry. But you seem so eloquent!”

I grew ashamed of the prairies that I used to love. I learned to mask my southern drawl, so people would hear my words when I spoke rather than the IQ they assumed I had. I distance myself from everything I loved growing up, the Friday Night Lights, the Whataburger after homecoming, the once-a-year snowfall thrill. I realized in order to fit in with the Yankees, I had to become one myself.

And yet, I never quite did. It felt like The Cowgirl and The Yankee were constantly at war with each other, forming a weird mutant of a personality. I yearned to have the New England childhood experience, one of hiking the White Mountains and going to The Cape for summer, never having to be ashamed of your heritage and what your ancestors did wrong. The tiny seed of envy grew into a tree of loathing for the prairies. I hated going home for breaks. As soon as I got home, I was eager to turn around and go right back. I started to identify as a New Englander.

“So, where are you from?”

“Down South, but I go to college in New England.” Don’t worry, I’m one of you.

When I graduated from college, the plan was to go back South, get my things, and drive right back up and never look back. But as commencement grew closer, the job applications grew more frantic but still yielded the same result: no. Every door that I tried to wrench open God kept firmly shut. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t want to go back to the prairie. There was nothing for me there. Sure, my family and dog still lived there, but that was it. I burned every bridge when I graduated high school because I knew I was never going to come back. But commencement came and went, I walked across the stage, hopped in my car, and drove back to the prairie, feeling lost in a whole new sense.

It’s been over a year now of being back in the prairie. I moved out on my own, got a big cowgirl job, and have slowly started falling in love with the prairie again. The Cowgirl in me is quite pleased to be back with my kin. I've started remembering why I loved the prairie in the first place. But then I’ll look at scrapbooks of my college days, and The Yankee in me gets overcome by grief.

When cows are in pasture together, they form these really deep bonds with each other. Cows literally have best friends, and when you separate them, they get anxious and depressed. The Yankee in me has been separated from her cows, and placed in a pasture where she has no cows. She doesn’t get to go home to a cow, she doesn’t have cows at work, she’s living a depressing, cowless existence. And I think a part of her wonders if she’ll ever be with her cows again.

I’m going to ask you again, when you think of a prairie, what comes to mind? Growing up, I thought only about the golden fields and the smell of rain as a thunderstorm rolled in. Now that I’ve grown up a bit, I realize that the prairie is more than a place, it’s a state of being. It’s recognizing there will be seasons of sun and seasons of rain, and there’s peace in each.

-The Cowgirl