Mocking ordinary people is cruel—I know this firsthand.
I recently graduated with a degree in economics and started working as an accountant for a private firm. At first glance, dreams had come true—good job, stability, a fresh start in a big city. But within days, I was drowning in memories I’d spent years trying to forget. It was as if I’d been thrown back into my student days, branded a «country bumpkin» and treated with open disdain.
I’ll never forget the way the girls at uni looked at me—smirking, noses wrinkled as if I were some oddity that had stumbled into their polished world. No makeup, an outdated coat, a backpack filled with my grandmother’s pastries instead of lipstick. I wasn’t concerned with appearances—only with catching the right train, boarding the correct bus, finding my way around campus. In my world, there was no room for vanity, only fear and relentless effort.
I grew up in a tiny village near Cheltenham. Dad worked in a garage, Mum at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just endless nights of studying, hands numb from the cold. When I was accepted, I thought the hardest part was over. I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The city girls still sneered when I trudged through snow in my only pair of boots—not stylish, but warm. They’d walk past as if I were invisible, especially when they saw me shivering at the bus stop, breathing into my cupped hands. At first, they ignored me. Then they started fake-inviting me for coffee, knowing I couldn’t afford it. Their twisted entertainment was watching me politely decline.
That’s when I met Tom. Another misfit—a shy, lanky farm boy from near Hereford. He understood what it was like to sit in the library with a packed lunch, waiting for the dorm lights to flicker on. We became friends, never anything more, but the kind of friendship that lasts. Even now, we keep in touch. He moved back to help on his family’s farm and works at the parish council. I relocated to Manchester to be near my sister—she’s raising her daughter alone, and I won’t leave her to manage by herself.
Years later, I finally spoke about it all out loud. The trigger was an unexpected visit from one of those «prim and proper» former classmates. She strode into my office, chin high, manicured fingers clutching a file—mistakes all through it. Calmly, I explained the errors could jeopardise us both. Instead of gratitude, she snapped, jabbing a finger, just like back at uni.
For the first time in years, I met her gaze and said evenly, «We don’t shout here. Take your documents and leave. Fix them, then return.» She grabbed the papers and stormed out. I didn’t feel triumph—just relief.
I could’ve retaliated, mocked her the way she once mocked me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. Because I grew up. Because I have dignity they tried to crush. I survived the sneers, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I graduated, got the job, help raise my niece, support my family. I have real friends, a clear conscience, and the certainty that it’s not the place that makes the person—it’s the person who honours the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of cruelty. If I met that scared girl with her backpack today, I’d hug her and say, «You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll be strong.»
And that’s what matters—not letting them win. Staying human. No matter what.