I grew up on a sweet potato farm, where mornings started before the sun and “vacation” meant the county fair. The smell of damp earth and coffee was my alarm clock, and my parents worked with dirt under their nails and steady purpose.
I thought that grit would earn respect — until I won a scholarship to a private city school. On my first day, a girl whispered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?” I stayed silent, swallowing the comments about my shoes and Wi-Fi.
At home, I wasn’t “that farm girl.” I was Mele — fixing tires, wrangling chickens, selling produce. But I hid it.
Then at a fundraiser, I brought sweet potato pies, our family recipe. They sold out fast. Encouraged, I started “Mele’s Roots,” selling pies and sharing my story.
By senior year, I made a film about our farm. When my classmates saw it, they finally listened.
I learned that owning your story turns it from shame into power. I’m a farmer’s daughter — and that makes me rooted, not less.
