It is cruel to mock those from humble beginnings—I know this firsthand.
I graduated from the Department of Economics and recently started working as an accountant in a private firm. It seemed like my dreams had come true—a good job, stability, and a chance to start a new life in a big city. However, in the first few days, I was overwhelmed by memories I had tried to forget for years. It was as if I was thrown back to my student days when I was labeled as a ‘country girl’ and faced disdain openly.
I’ll never forget how the girls from my department looked at me—with condescending smirks, as if I were not a person but a scarecrow that accidentally found its way into their pristine, glamorous world. I wasn’t fashionable, wore no makeup, and donned an old coat with a backpack that held not cosmetics but my grandmother’s pies. My concern wasn’t about appearances—it was about not missing the train, not taking the wrong bus, not mixing up building numbers on campus. There was no room for lipstick in my world, only for fear and determination.
I hail from a small village near Reading. Dad worked in a workshop, and mom was at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just months of cramming while my hands ached from the cold. When I was accepted, I believed the hardest part was over, but I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The local girls still mocked me when I trudged through the snow in my only pair of suede boots—not trendy but warm. They ignored me as if I were invisible, especially when I shivered at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they just overlooked me, then started inviting me out for coffee knowing I couldn’t afford it. It was their twisted amusement to watch me politely decline with a forced smile.
That’s when I met Sam. He was another “misfit,” a village boy from outside of Oxford—thin, shy, and quiet. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with just a piece of bread, waiting for the dorm lights to come on. We became friends, not a couple, but true companions. We keep in touch to this day. He moved closer to his parents, helping on the farm and working in the parish council. I moved to Brighton to be near my sister—she’s alone with her child, and I can’t leave her.
Years later, I spoke about all this for the first time. A former classmate, one of those “glamorous stars,” unexpectedly visited my office on business. She entered, haughty, with perfectly manicured hands and a permanent air of superiority. She didn’t recognize me at first—or pretended not to. Almost as if I had once served her coffee. She brought documents—all filled with mistakes. I calmly explained that everything was wrong and that such errors could endanger not just herself, but me and our entire organization. Instead of a courteous response, she erupted, pointing fingers just like back at university.
For the first time in years, I looked her directly in the eyes and said in a steady voice, “We don’t shout here. Take your documents and leave. Correct them, then come back.” She grabbed the papers and left in silence. At that moment, I didn’t feel vindicated—just relieved.
I could have retaliated. I could have mocked her as she once did to me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. Because I’ve grown. Because I have dignity, which they once tried to crush. I stood firm despite all the mockery, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I got through college, graduated, found a job, and now I’m raising my niece and supporting my family. I have genuine friends, a conscience, and an understanding that it’s not the place that defines you, but you who define the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of malice. If today I were to meet that girl with a backpack and eyes full of fear, I would embrace her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You will become strong.”
And you know, that’s what matters the most. To not let people like them break you. To not become like them. To preserve your humanity, no matter what.
