I grew up on a sweet potato farm about ten miles outside of town, where mornings start before the sun rises and “vacation” means spending the day at the county fair. My parents are all grit and dirt under their nails, and they’re more hardworking than anyone I know. For a long time, I thought that was enough for people to respect us.
Then, I got accepted into a prestigious scholarship program at a private high school in the city. It was supposed to be my big break. But on my first day, I walked into homeroom in jeans that still carried a hint of barnyard smell, and this girl with a shiny ponytail whispered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?”
I didn’t even answer. I just sat down, kept my head low, and convinced myself I was imagining things. But the comments kept coming. “What kind of shoes are those?” “Wait, so you don’t have Wi-Fi at home?” One guy even asked if I rode a tractor to school.
I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never talked about home. But deep down, I hated feeling ashamed. Because back home, I wasn’t “just the farm girl.” I was Mele. I knew how to patch a tire, wrangle chickens, and sell produce like a pro. My parents built a life from the ground up, with their own hands. Why did I feel like I had to hide that?
The turning point came during a school fundraiser. Everyone was asked to bring something from home to sell. Most kids showed up with cookies from a box or crafts their nannies had helped them make. I brought sweet potato pie—our family recipe. I made six pies and sold out in twenty minutes.
That’s when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, pulled me aside. But before she could finish what she was saying, someone I never expected walked up—someone I never thought would talk to me, let alone ask me a question.
It was Izan. The guy everyone adored. Not because he was loud or flashy, but because he had this calm, confident vibe about him. His dad was on the board, his shoes were always spotless, and he actually remembered people’s names. Including mine.
“Hey, Mele,” he said, glancing at the empty pie plates. “Did you really make these yourself?”
I nodded, a little unsure of where this was going.
He smiled. “Think I could get one for my mom? She loves anything sweet potato.”
I think I blinked twice before replying, “Uh, yeah, sure. I can bring one Monday.”
Ms. Bell gave me a little knowing smile like, “I told you so,” and added, “That pie? That’s a part of who you are. You should be proud to share more of that.”
That night, I stayed up late thinking—not about Izan, but about all the times I’d hidden my roots, thinking they made me smaller. What if they actually made me stronger?
So, Monday, I didn’t just bring a pie. I brought flyers. I created a name—Mele’s Roots—and passed out slips that said, “Farm-to-table pies, fresh every Friday. Ask about seasonal flavors.” I figured maybe a few kids would be curious.
By the end of lunch, I had twelve pre-orders and a DM from someone named Zuri asking if I could cater her grandma’s birthday party.
Things got wild after that. Teachers started asking if I could make mini pies for staff meetings. One girl even offered to trade me a designer jacket for three pies. (I politely declined—it was hideous.)
But what really blew me away was when Izan sent me a picture of his mom holding a fork mid-bite, eyes wide. The caption read, “She says this is better than her sister’s—and that’s a big deal.”
I laughed out loud. My dad looked up from his work and asked, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Very good,” I said. “I think we might be expanding.”
Soon, my dad and I started baking together every Thursday after my homework. Sometimes we made pies, sometimes biscuits or bread. I learned more about our family’s recipes than I ever had before. I began weaving these stories into school projects and essays—talking about the land, my grandparents, and the struggles we faced during drought years.
Slowly, people started to listen.
The girl with the glossy ponytail? She asked me for a recipe. I gave her a simplified version—no way she was using a wood-fired oven—but it felt good.
In my senior year, we had to do a final project about something that shaped our identity. I made a documentary-style video about our farm, capturing my mom washing carrots in a bucket, my dad feeding the dogs crusts from the bread he baked. I ended it with me standing next to my little stall at the county fair, a hand-painted sign above me.
When they showed it to the entire school, I was terrified. I stared at the floor the whole time. But when it ended, people clapped. Loudly. A few even stood.
Afterward, Izan came over and gave me a side hug. “Told you your story mattered.”
I smiled. “Took me a while to believe it.”
The truth is, I used to think people wouldn’t respect me if they knew where I came from. Now, I know—people will see you however you allow them to. When you own your story, it becomes your strength, not your shame.
So yeah—I’m a farmer’s daughter. And that doesn’t make me less.
It makes me rooted.
