I grew up on a sweet potato farm ten miles outside town, where mornings began before sunrise and “vacation” meant the county fair. The smell of damp earth and coffee was my alarm clock, and my parents moved with the steady purpose of people who built their lives acre by acre.
A scholarship to a private city high school was my “big break.” But on day one, wearing jeans faintly smelling of the barn, I heard a girl whisper, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?” The comments kept coming — about my shoes, Wi-Fi, even tractors. I stayed quiet and hid my roots.
Back home, I wasn’t “that farm girl.” I was Mele — able to patch a tire, wrangle chickens, and sell produce like a pro. Why was I letting a few raised eyebrows shrink me?The turning point came during a school fundraiser. While others brought cookies and crafts, I baked six sweet potato pies from our family recipe. They sold out in twenty minutes. Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, told me, “This is you, Mele.” Then Izan, the guy everyone liked, asked if I could bake one for his mom.
That Monday, I brought not just a pie but flyers: “Mele’s Roots — farm-to-table pies.” Orders poured in. Teachers wanted them for meetings. One girl even tried trading a designer jacket. My parents taught me baking tricks, and I started weaving our farm stories into schoolwork. People listened.
Even the glossy-ponytail girl asked for a recipe. Quiet victory.
By senior year, my identity project was a short film about our farm. The whole school clapped — some stood. Izan hugged me after. “Told you your story mattered.”
I used to think my roots were something to hide. Now I know — they’re my power.
