I grew up on a sweet potato farm about ten miles outside of town—where mornings start before the sun, and “vacation” usually means the county fair. My parents have dirt under their nails and more grit than anyone I know. I always thought that was enough for people to respect us.
Then I got accepted into a scholarship program at a private high school in the city. It was supposed to be my big break. But on my first day, I walked into homeroom wearing jeans that still smelled faintly of the barn, and a girl with a perfect ponytail whispered, “Do you live on a farm or something?”
I stayed quiet. But little comments kept coming. “What kind of shoes are those?” “Wait, so you don’t have WiFi?” One guy even asked if I rode a tractor to school.
I didn’t argue. I studied hard, kept my head down, and avoided talking about home. But inside, I hated that I felt ashamed—because back home, I’m not “that farm girl.” I’m Mele. I know how to fix a tire, gather eggs before sunrise, and sell produce at the market like nobody’s business. My parents built something real with their hands. So why did I feel like I had to hide it?
The turning point came during a school fundraiser. Everyone had to bring something from home to sell. Most students showed up with store-bought cookies or crafts. I brought sweet potato pies—our family’s recipe. I made six. They sold out in twenty minutes.
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