It's no secret that I don't look like most of my colleagues in Washington DC. They don't run a farm when they're back home, you won't find them swapping out duck foot shovels or greasing a combine, and to my knowledge no one else is missing a few fingers from an unlucky childhood run-in with a meat grinder while butchering meat on my family farm.
But beyond our differences in appearance, I'm alway...
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