I’m the Daughter of a Farmer—And Some People See That as a Weakness

I’m the Daughter of a Farmer—And Some People See That as a Weakness

I was raised on a sweet potato farm, about ten miles out of town—where “vacation” meant the county fair and mornings started before the sun had even stretched.

My parents worked with their hands, always had soil under their nails, and a strength I’ve rarely seen elsewhere. I used to think that alone would earn us respect.

Then I got accepted into a scholarship program at a private high school. It felt like my golden ticket. But day one shattered that illusion.

A girl with a shiny ponytail leaned over and muttered, “Wait—do you actually live on a farm?” I didn’t respond. Just kept my head down.

The whispers didn’t stop—jokes about my clothes, my WiFi, even if I drove a tractor to class. I stayed silent, focused on my grades, and stopped talking about home.

But deep down, I felt like I was hiding who I really was. Back home, I’m Mele. Not “the farm girl,” just Mele.

I know how to work hard. I’m proud of my roots and what my parents have built. So why was I acting like it was something to be ashamed of?

Everything changed during a school fundraiser. Most people brought store-bought snacks. I showed up with our family’s sweet potato pie recipe. I sold out in less than half an hour.

That’s when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, pulled me aside. She started to say something encouraging—but then someone else interrupted: Izan.

Yeah, that Izan. The guy everyone knew. He smiled and asked if I was the one who baked the pies. I nodded, unsure what to expect.