It’s cruel to mock those who are humble—I’ve learned this firsthand.
I graduated with a degree in economics and recently started working as an accountant for a private firm. You’d think my dreams had come true—a good job, stability, and a chance to start a new life in a big city. But right from the start, I was hit by memories I’d tried for years to forget. It felt as though I’d been thrown back in time to my student days, when they labeled me a “country bumpkin” and didn’t hide their disdain.
I’ll never forget the looks the girls from my department gave me—mocking, disdainful, as if I was some kind of scarecrow that had wandered into their glossy world. Unfashionable, without makeup, wearing an old coat, and carrying a backpack filled not with cosmetics but with my gran’s homemade pastries. I didn’t care about appearances—my focus was on not missing the train, not getting on the wrong bus, or confusing the campus buildings. In my world, there was no room for lipstick—only fear and effort.
I come from a small village near Chesham. Dad worked in a workshop, and Mum at the local post office. I got accepted without tutors, connections, or money—just cramming till my hands were numb from the cold. When I was accepted, I was sure the worst was over. I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The local girls still laughed as I walked through the snow in my only pair of suede boots—unfashionable, but warm. They’d walk past as if I was invisible, especially when I stood shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they just ignored me, then started asking me out for coffee—knowing I couldn’t afford it. Watching me politely decline became their twisted form of entertainment.
That’s when I met Stan. Another “outlander”—a lanky, shy guy from a village near Luton, who understood what it was like to sit in the library with a piece of bread, waiting for the lights to come on in the dormitory. We became friends. We never dated, but we became true friends. We still keep in touch. He moved closer to his parents, helps on the farm, and works at the local council. I moved to Reading to be near my sister—she’s alone with her child, and I couldn’t leave her.
Years later, I spoke about it for the first time. Prompted by an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars”—a former classmate. She came into my office on business. Arrogant, chin held high, with manicured hands and an air of eternal superiority. She didn’t recognize me at first—or pretended not to. As if I’d once served her coffee. She brought in documents—full of errors. Calmly, I explained: everything’s wrong, and with such paperwork, she could jeopardize not only herself but me and our entire organization. Instead of a polite response, she exploded, starting to shout and point fingers, just like back at university.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eyes. In an even voice, I said, “We don’t shout here. Take your papers and leave the office. Fix them and come back when you’re ready.” She grabbed her documents in silence and left. At that moment, I felt no triumph—just relief.
I could have avenged myself, treated her the way she once treated me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. Because I’ve grown up. Because I have dignity, the kind they tried to crush back then. I stood firm, despite the mockery, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I got into university, graduated, found a job, helped raise my niece, and supported my family. I have true friends, a conscience, and I understand that character, not place, defines a person.
I know the value of kindness. I know the price of cruelty. And if that frightened girl with the backpack were standing in front of me today, I’d hug her and say, “You’ll get through this. They won’t break you. You’ll become strong.”
And you know, that’s what truly matters. Not letting people like them break you. Not becoming like them. Holding onto your humanity. No matter what.
