08/19/2025
Iām a Farmerās Daughter ā and Some People Think That Makes Me Less
I grew up where the morning sky is still black when the day begins, where āvacationā means the county fair, and the air smells of sweet potatoes fresh from the earth. My parents work harder than anyone Iāve ever metādirt 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 jeansāstill faintly carrying the scent of the barnāand a girl with a perfect, glossy ponytail leaned toward her friend and whispered, āEw. Do you live on a farm or something?ā
I kept my head down. Pretended I didnāt hear. But the comments kept coming.
āWhat kind of shoes are those?ā
āWaitāyou donāt have WiFi at home?ā
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 knifeābecause back home, I wasnāt āthat farm girl.ā 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 piesāmy familyās recipe, the one we bake every holiday.
They sold out in twenty minutes.
Thatās when Ms. Bell, the guidance counselor, found me in the corner. She smiled and said something Iāll never forget⦠but before she could finish, someone else stepped up beside meāsomeone I never expected to speak to me, let alone ask that question.
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