I grew up on a sweet potato farm, where hard work and early mornings were the norm. But when I got a scholarship to a private high school in the city, I quickly learned that grit didn’t earn respect there.
On my first day, a girl sneered, “Do you live on a farm or something?” I kept my head down as classmates mocked my clothes, my background, even asking if I rode a tractor to school. I stayed quiet, studied hard, and never mentioned home.
But I hated hiding who I was—because at home, I wasn’t a joke. I was Mele, the girl who could fix a flat, wrangle chickens, and sell produce like a pro. Everything changed during a school fundraiser. I brought in six homemade sweet potato pies using my family’s recipe—and sold out in twenty minutes. That’s when Izan, the most respected guy in school, asked to buy one for his mom.
And my guidance counselor told me, “This pie? This is who you are. Be proud of it.”
So I leaned in. I launched Mele’s Roots, a mini pie business. Orders poured in. Teachers, students—even someone planning a party. I baked every week with my parents and started sharing my story in school essays and projects.
When I showed a video about my farm for a senior project—complete with dirt, dogs, and pies—the whole school clapped. Some even stood.
Now I know: hiding your roots won’t help you grow. Owning them will.
I’m not just the girl from the farm.
I’m rooted. And I’m proud of it.
