I grew up on a sweet potato farm, where mornings began before sunrise and “vacation” meant the county fair. A scholarship to a city high school was my big break — until classmates mocked my barn-scented jeans and slow Wi-Fi. I stayed quiet, hiding my roots.
At home, I was Mele: tire-patcher, chicken-wrangler, pie-baker. That side of me reemerged during a fundraiser when my sweet potato pies sold out in twenty minutes. Encouraged, I launched “Mele’s Roots” pies. Orders flooded in, and I began sharing our farm stories in class. People listened — even the girl who once whispered “Ew” asked for a recipe.
By senior year, my short film about our farm earned a standing ovation. I used to think my roots were something to hide. Now I know they’re my power.
