I grew up on a sweet potato farm about ten miles outside of town, where mornings start early and “vacation” usually means a county fair. My parents work harder than anyone I know. They built a life with their own hands—sunup to sundown. I used to think that kind of grit earned respect.

Then I got a scholarship to a private high school in the city. It was supposed to be my big break. But on my first day, I walked into homeroom wearing jeans that still smelled faintly of the barn, and someone whispered, “Do you actually live on a farm?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept my head down. But the questions kept coming. “What kind of shoes are those?” “Wait, do you have WiFi at home?” One guy even asked if I rode a tractor to school.

I stayed quiet. Focused on my grades. Never mentioned home. But deep down, I started to feel ashamed—and that feeling surprised me. Because back home, I’m not “the farm girl.” I’m Mele. I know how to change a tire, run a produce stand, and make a pie from scratch that could win ribbons. So why did I feel like I had to hide that?

Everything shifted during a school fundraiser. We were asked to bring something from home to sell. Most kids brought store-bought cookies or crafts they made with help. I brought six homemade sweet potato pies—our family’s recipe. They sold out in twenty minutes.

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