But not everyone was pleased with my increasing achievement.
One day, I noticed a few classmates whispering and glancing my way with cold eyes. Gossips began circulating—some claimed my pies were only loved because of a mysterious secret ingredient, while others whispered that my family’s farm wasn’t as flawless as I portrayed it to be.
I stumbled upon a note hidden in my locker, which simply stated, ‘Are you sure you belong here?’ It left me pondering—was this jealousy, or was there something more sinister at play? There was someone who appeared to be fixated on bringing me down, and I couldn’t understand their motivation.
I was raised on a farm that cultivated sweet potatoes, located just ten miles away from the town. Our mornings began before the sun rose, and our vacations often involved a visit to the county fair. My parents toiled tirelessly every day, their hands stained with dirt and an unwavering determination that I’ve rarely witnessed in anyone else. I used to think that would be sufficient for people to show us respect.
Then I received acceptance into a scholarship program at a prestigious private school in the city. It was supposed to be a fantastic chance. But on my first day, I wore jeans that still had a faint smell of the barn. A girl with a flawless ponytail leaned in and whispered, ‘ew, do you live on a farm or something?’.
I failed to reply. I remained silent and attempted to suppress it. But the taunting didn’t cease. People teased me about my fashion choices, made light-hearted comments about my home lacking internet access, and even inquired if I drove a tractor to school.
I remained quiet, concentrated on my studies, and refrained from discussing my origins. But inside, I felt ashamed. Because back home, I wasn’t just ‘that farm girl.’ I’m mele. I have the skills to repair a tire, manage a chicken coop, and sell vegetables with expertise. My parents constructed a tangible reality through their own efforts. So why did I feel the need to conceal that?.
All was transformed during a school fundraiser. Each person was requested to bring an item from their house to sell. The majority of students brought homemade cookies or crafts that their nannies had assisted in creating. I brought homemade sweet potato pies, which are a family favorite recipe. I baked six pies, and they disappeared within twenty minutes.
That’s when she said. Bell, the school counselor, approached me and shared something that would stay with me forever. However, before she could complete her sentence, an unexpected individual emerged from the crowd, someone she had never anticipated conversing with, let alone asking her a question.
It was amazing. He was highly regarded, not due to his boisterous or flamboyant nature, but because he possessed a quiet self-assurance. His father served on the school board, his shoes were always impeccably clean, and he had a remarkable memory, including remembering my name.
‘hey, mele,’ he said, glancing at the empty pie plates
I nodded, uncertain of what to anticipate.
He grinned and asked, ‘do you think I could get one for my mom?’ She adores all things that contain sweet potato.
I was astonished but said, ‘yes, definitely.’ I can bring one on monday.
Ms. Bell smiled knowingly and said, ‘I was just telling you — this pie? It is an integral component of one’s identity. You should be pleased to disclose that.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking — not about izan, but about all the times I’d tried to conceal my origins, believing it made me appear less. But what if it actually made me more resilient?.
So on Monday, I didn’t just bring another pie — I also brought flyers. I established a name: mele’s roots, and distributed leaflets stating, ‘farm-to-table pies, freshly baked every Friday.’ Inquire about seasonal flavors. I thought a few individuals might be interested.
By the time lunch ended, I had twelve pre-orders — and even received a message from someone named Zuri, inquiring if I could cater her grandma’s birthday celebration.
From there, things took off. Teachers desired small pies for gatherings. One girl proposed a trade, offering a designer jacket in exchange for three pies. (I politely declined — the jacket was not to my taste).
But the most amazing part? Izan sent me a picture of his mother while she was eating, and she seemed astonished. The message stated,’she claims this is superior to her sister’s — and that’s quite a statement.’.
I chuckled heartily. My dad glanced at me and inquired, ‘is that a positive or negative thing?’
‘very good,’ I said
Every Thursday after completing homework, my family and I would gather in the kitchen to bake together. Occasionally we had pies, at other times biscuits or bread. I ended up gaining a deeper understanding of our family’s culinary traditions than ever before. I incorporated those stories into my school assignments — discussing our farm, my grandparents, and the challenges we faced during the dry seasons.
People gradually began to pay attention.
That young lady with the lustrous mane? She requested me for a dish. I presented her with a straightforward explanation — she wouldn’t use a wood-fired oven — but it still felt rewarding.
In my final year of high school, we were required to complete a project that delved into an aspect of our lives that had a significant impact on our personal development. I created a brief video about our farm. I captured my mom cleaning carrots, my dad giving crusts to our dogs, and concluded with a shot of me at the county fair next to my pie stand and our hand-painted sign.
When they displayed it to the entire school, I was so anxious that I couldn’t look up. However, when it concluded, the audience gave a resounding applause. Some even rose.
Afterwards, Izan came over and gave me a warm hug. ‘I told you, your story mattered,’ he said.
I smiled. ‘it just took me a while to believe that.’.
I used to believe that if others were aware of my background, they would not hold me in high regard. But now I know — you demonstrate how to perceive you. When you fully embrace your story, it becomes a source of strength, rather than something to conceal.
Yes, I am a daughter of a farmer. And that does not make me any less.
It means I have strong connections.
If this tale brought a smile to your face or reminded you to be proud of your heritage, pass it along to someone who could use a little encouragement.
Result:
This journey taught me a valuable lesson: our backgrounds don’t determine our value—they mold our resilience. Being a daughter of a farmer isn’t something to be ashamed of; it’s an integral part of who I am, and it has shaped me into a resilient, proud, and determined individual.
By embracing our stories and sharing them with self-assurance, we not only pay homage to our heritage but also motivate others to do the same. Regardless of your background, always remember that your story is valuable, and it is your greatest asset.