I grew up on a sweet potato farm ten miles outside town, where mornings began before sunrise and “vacation” meant the county fair. The smell of damp earth and coffee was my alarm clock, and my parents moved with the steady purpose of people who built their lives acre by acre. A scholarship to a private city high school was my “big break.” But on day one, wearing jeans faintly smelling of the barn, I heard a girl whisper, “Ew. Do you live on a farm or something?” The comments kept coming — about my shoes, Wi-Fi, even tractors. I stayed quiet and hid my roots.
