Where I Come From

I grew up on a sweet potato farm ten miles outside of town. Our mornings started before the sun, and “vacation” meant the county fair. My parents have dirt-streaked hands and more grit than anyone I know.

A New World, Unwelcoming

When I earned a scholarship to a private city school, I thought it would open doors. Instead, it opened me to judgment. On my first day, still smelling faintly of the barn, a classmate sneered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm?”

The comments didn’t stop. “What kind of shoes are those?” “No WiFi?” “Do you ride a tractor to school?”

I stayed silent. I studied hard. I never mentioned home. But I carried shame for something I once took pride in.

The Turning Point: One Pie, Six Plates

Everything changed during a school fundraiser. While others brought boxed cookies, I brought six homemade sweet potato pies. They sold out in twenty minutes.

Ms. Bell, my guidance counselor, pulled me aside: “This pie is part of who you are. You should share more of that.”

Just then, Izan—popular, polished, and kind—walked up. “Did you really make those?” he asked. When I nodded, he smiled. “Can I get one for my mom?”

That moment flipped a switch in me.

Mele’s Roots Begins

On Monday, I brought more than a pie—I brought flyers. “Mele’s Roots: Farm-to-Table Pies. Fresh Every Friday.” By the end of lunch, I had 12 pre-orders and a request to cater a birthday party.

Soon, teachers asked for mini pies. One girl offered me her designer jacket for three pies. (I declined—it was ugly.)

Then Izan sent a photo of his mom mid-bite with the caption: She says this is better than her sister’s—big deal.

I laughed. “I think we might be expanding,” I told my dad.

Turning Shame into Strength

Thursday nights became family baking nights. I learned our recipes by heart. I brought those stories into school—into essays, presentations, even a senior project.

For that final, I made a documentary about our farm—my mom washing carrots, my dad feeding the dogs, me at the county fair under a hand-painted sign.

I was terrified as it played. But when it ended, the room erupted in applause. Izan hugged me and whispered, “Told you your story mattered.”

Rooted, Not Less

I used to think I had to hide where I came from to earn respect. Now I know better. You teach people how to see you. When you own your story, it becomes your strength.

So yes—I’m a farmer’s daughter. That doesn’t make me less. It makes me rooted.