19/08/2025
I’m a Farmer’s Daughter — and Some People Think That Makes Me Less
I grew up where the morning sky is still black when the day begins, where “vacation” means the county fair, and the air smells of sweet potatoes fresh from the earth. My parents work harder than anyone I’ve ever met—dirt under their nails, grit in their bones, pride in every callus. I thought that kind of life earned respect.
I was wrong.
When I earned a scholarship to a private high school in the city, it felt like a dream. My big break. But on the very first day, I walked into homeroom in my cleanest jeans—still faintly carrying the scent of the barn—and a girl with a perfect, glossy ponytail leaned toward her friend and whispered, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?”
I kept my head down. Pretended I didn’t hear. But the comments kept coming.
“What kind of shoes are those?”
“Wait—you don’t have WiFi at home?”
One boy smirked and asked if I rode a tractor to school.
So I stayed quiet. I buried myself in my studies and never mentioned home. But inside, the shame twisted like a knife—because back home, I wasn’t “that farm girl.” I was Mele. I could patch a tire, wrangle a chicken, and sell out our stall at the market before noon. My parents built something with their bare hands. Why did I feel like I had to hide it?
The turning point came during the school fundraiser. Everyone had to bring something from home to sell. Most kids brought store-bought cookies or crafts their nannies helped with. I brought six sweet potato pies—my family’s recipe, the one we bake every holiday.
They sold out in twenty minutes.
That’s when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, found me in the corner. She smiled and said something I’ll never forget… but before she could finish, someone else stepped up beside me—someone I never expected to speak to me, let alone ask that question.
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