I grew up on a sweet potato farm about ten miles outside of town, where mornings start before the sun, and “vacation” means a county fair. My parents have dirt under their nails and more grit than anyone I know. I used to think that was enough for people to respect us.
Then I got into this fancy scholarship program at a private high school in the city. It was supposed to be my big break. But on the first day, I walked into homeroom wearing jeans that still smelled faintly like the barn, and a girl with a glossy ponytail whispered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?”
I didn’t respond. Just sat down and kept my head low. I told myself I was imagining it. But the little comments kept coming.
“What kind of shoes are those?”
“Wait—you don’t have WiFi at home?”
One guy even asked if I rode a tractor to school.
I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never talked 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 patch a tire, wrangle chickens, and sell produce like a pro. My parents built something real with their hands. So why did I feel like I had to hide that?
Everything changed during a school fundraiser. Everyone was supposed to bring something from home to sell. Most kids brought boxed cookies or crafts their nannies helped them make. I brought sweet potato pie—our family’s recipe. I made six.
They sold out in twenty minutes.
That’s when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, pulled me aside to say something I’ll never forget. But before she could finish, someone else walked up—someone I never expected to talk to me, let alone ask that question…
It was Izan. The guy everyone liked. Not loud or flashy—just calm, confident. His dad was on the board, his shoes were always spotless, and somehow, he remembered everyone’s name. Including mine.
“Hey, Mele,” he said, glancing at the empty pie plates. “Did you really make those yourself?”
I nodded, unsure where this was going.
He grinned. “Think I could get one for my mom? She loves anything sweet potato.”
I think I blinked twice before managing, “Uh, yeah, sure. I can bring one Monday.”
Ms. Bell gave me this little smile, like, Told you so, then said, “I was just saying—this pie? It’s a piece of who you are. You should be proud to share more of that.”
That night, I stayed up late thinking. Not about Izan—but about all the times I’d hidden my roots, thinking they made me smaller. But what if they made me stronger?
So Monday, I didn’t just bring a pie. I brought flyers. I made up a name—Mele’s Roots—and passed out slips that said, “Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavors.” I figured maybe a few kids would be curious.
By the end of lunch, I had twelve pre-orders and a DM from someone named Zuri asking if I could cater their grandma’s birthday party.
After that, it kind of snowballed. Teachers started asking for mini pies for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade me a designer jacket for three pies. (I said no. Respectfully. It was ugly.)
But the moment that stuck with me was when Izan sent a photo of his mom, mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption said,
She says this is better than her sister’s—and that’s a big deal.
I laughed out loud. My dad looked over and asked, “That a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Very good,” I said. “I think we might be expanding.”
We started baking together every Thursday after homework. Sometimes just pies, sometimes biscuits or bread. I learned more about our family’s recipes than ever before. And I started bringing those stories into school presentations and essays—talking about the land, my grandparents, the years of drought.
And slowly, people listened.
Even the girl with the glossy ponytail? She asked me for a recipe. I gave her a simplified one—no way she’s using a wood-fired oven—but it felt good.
Senior year, we had to do a final project about something that shaped our identity. I made a short documentary about our farm. I filmed my mom washing carrots in a bucket, my dad feeding crusts to the dogs. It ended with me at the county fair, standing by my little pie stand under a hand-painted sign.
When they played it for the whole school, I stared at the floor the entire time. But when it ended, people clapped. Loud. A few even stood.
Afterward, Izan gave me a side hug and said, “Told you your story mattered.”
I smiled. “Took me a while to believe it.”
I used to think people wouldn’t respect me if they knew where I came from. Now I know:
You teach people how to see you.
When you own your story, it becomes your power—not your shame.
So yeah—I’m a farmer’s daughter.
That doesn’t make me less.
It makes me rooted.
