Cruel laughter aimed at the simple folk—I know this all too well.
I finished my studies in economics and recently started a job as an accountant in a private company. It seemed my dreams had come true—a good job, stability, a chance to start anew in a bustling city. But soon, I was plunged into memories I had tried to forget for years. It felt like I was thrown back to my college days, where I was labeled as “country girl” and faced open disdain.
I’ll never forget how the girls from my course looked at me—with a mocking and disgusted smile, as if I were a scarecrow stumbling into their glossy world. I was unfashionable, wore no makeup, donned an old coat, and had a backpack filled with my grandmother’s homemade pies instead of a makeup bag. Appearance wasn’t on my mind; I was simply focused on not missing the train, boarding the right bus, or getting lost on campus. My world left no space for lipstick—only for fear and effort.
I hail from a small village near Sheffield. Dad worked in a workshop, and Mum was at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just late-night cramming until my hands ached from the cold. When I got accepted, I felt the worst was over. But I was mistaken.
Nothing changed. The local girls still sniggered as I walked through the snow in my only pair of suede boots—not fashionable but warm. They’d pass by me, acting as if I didn’t exist, especially if I stood shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. Initially, they ignored me, then started inviting me for “coffee,” knowing I couldn’t afford it. It was their twisted entertainment to watch me decline with a forced smile.
That’s when I met Tom. Just as much an “outsider”—a countryside lad from near Derby, slim, shy, and quiet. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with a piece of bread, waiting for the hostel lights to come on. We became friends. We were never a couple but true companions. We still keep in touch, actually. He moved closer to his parents, helps on the farm, and works in the village council. As for me, I moved to London to be near my sister—she’s alone with her child, and I can’t leave her.
Years later, I spoke about this for the first time. It was prompted by an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars”—an old university classmate. She popped into my office for work matters. Arrogant, head held high, hands impeccably manicured, exuding an air of constant superiority. She didn’t recognize me at first—or pretended not to. It was as though I once served her coffee. She brought documents—full of errors. I calmly explained everything was incorrect; such papers could jeopardize her, me, and our whole organization. Instead of responding politely, she erupted, yelled, and pointed her finger at me, just like in university.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eyes. In a steady voice, I said, “We don’t shout in this office. Take your documents and leave. Correct them, then come back.” She grabbed her papers and left silently. At that moment, I didn’t feel vindicated—I felt relieved.
I could’ve taken revenge. Could’ve mocked her like she once did me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. Because I’ve grown. Because I have the dignity they once tried to crush. I persevered, despite the sneers, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I got in, graduated, landed a job, am raising my niece, and helping my family. I have true friends, a conscience, and I know that it’s not the place that defines a person, but the person who defines the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of malice. If today I faced that girl with her backpack and fear-filled eyes, I’d hug her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll grow stronger.”
And you know, that’s what matters most—not letting their kind break you. Not becoming one of them. And preserving your humanity. No matter what.
