30/06/2025
I’M A FARMER’S DAUGHTER—AND SOME PEOPLE THINK THAT MAKES ME LESS
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 a big break. But on my first day, I walked into homeroom with jeans that still smelled a little like the barn, and this girl with a glossy ponytail whispered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?”
I didn’t even answer. I just sat down and kept my head low. I told myself I was imagining things. But little comments kept coming. “What kind of shoes are those?” “Wait, so you don’t have WiFi at home?” One guy asked me if I rode a tractor to school.
I kept my mouth shut, studied hard, and never mentioned 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 nobody’s business. My parents built something real with their hands. Why did I feel like I had to hide that?
The turning point came during a school fundraiser. Everyone was supposed to bring something from home to sell. Most kids showed up with cookies from a box or crafts their nannies helped them make. I brought sweet potato pie—our family’s recipe. I made six. Sold out in twenty minutes.
That’s when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, pulled me aside and said 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...
(continues in the first 🗨⬇)
