Cruelly mocking ordinary people is something I have personal experience with.
After finishing my degree in economics, I recently started working as an accountant for a private company. It seemed like my dreams had come true—a great job, stability, and a chance to start a new life in the big city. But almost immediately, I was overwhelmed by memories I’d tried to forget for years. It was as if I’d been thrown back to my university days, when I was labeled “the country girl” and faced open disdain.
I’ll never forget how the girls from my course looked at me—with mockery and sneering contempt, as if I were more of a scarecrow than a person who had wandered into their glossy, perfect world. I was unfashionable, makeup-free, wearing an old coat, with a backpack that held not cosmetics, but my grandmother’s homemade pies. I never gave much thought to my appearance—my priority was not missing my train, boarding the right bus, not getting lost on campus. My world had no room for lipstick; it was filled with fear and hard work.
I grew up in a small village near Swindon. Dad worked in a workshop and Mum was at the post office. I got into university with no tutors, no connections, no money—just by studying late into the night until my hands were numb with cold. When I was accepted, I thought the worst was over. I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The local girls continued to mock me as I walked across the campus in my only pair of suede boots—not stylish, but warm. They ignored me, especially when I stood shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. First, they just ignored me; then they started inviting me for coffee, knowing I couldn’t afford to go. It was their twisted form of entertainment—to watch me politely decline with a forced smile.
That’s when I met Stan. He was from a similar “out of place” background—a skinny, shy, quiet village boy from near Bristol. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with a piece of bread, waiting for the lights to come on at the dormitory. We became friends. We never dated but were true companions. We’re still in touch. He moved back closer to his parents to help on their farm and works at the parish council. I moved to Luton to be near my sister—she’s raising her child alone, and I couldn’t leave her on her own.
Years later, I told this story for the first time. The trigger was an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars” from university—a former classmate. She came into my office for business, arrogant, head held high, with manicured hands and a permanent air of superiority. She didn’t recognize me right away—or pretended not to. It was as if I was nothing more than someone who had once served her coffee. She brought in documents that were filled with errors. Calmly, I explained everything was wrong, and that such paperwork could jeopardize us both, as well as our entire organization. Instead of responding politely, she exploded in anger, pointing fingers—a scene reminiscent of university days.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eye. In an even tone, I said, “We don’t raise our voices here. Please take your documents and leave. Return once they’re corrected.” She quietly grabbed her papers and left the room. At that moment, I didn’t feel spite, but relief.
I could have sought revenge. I could have mocked her like she once did me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. Because I’ve grown. Because I have self-respect, which they once tried to crush. I stood firm, despite the ridicule, the cold, the hunger, and the humiliation. I got in, graduated, found a job, raised my niece, and supported my family. I have real friends, a conscience, and the understanding 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 price of malice. If I could meet that girl with the backpack and fear-filled eyes today, I would hug her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll become strong.”
And, you know, that’s the most important thing. To not let people like them break you. To not become like them. And to maintain your humanity. No matter what.
