It’s harsh when people ridicule those from small towns – I understand it all too well.
I graduated with a degree in economics and recently started working as an accountant at a private firm. It seemed like a dream come true – a good job, stability, a chance to begin anew in a big city. But almost immediately, I was plunged back into memories I’d tried to bury for years. It felt like I was transported back to my university days, marked as the “country bumpkin” and openly mocked.
I’ll never forget how the girls from my faculty looked at me with a sneering disdain, as if I were some oddity stumbling into their glossy, polished world. Unfashionable, makeup-free, clad in an old coat, carrying a backpack filled with my grandmother’s homemade pastries instead of cosmetics. I didn’t care about appearances – my focus was solely on making it to the train on time, catching the right bus, or not mistaking campus buildings. In my world, there wasn’t room for lipstick – only fear and determination.
I hail from a small village near Littlehampton. Dad worked in a workshop, Mum at the local post office. I got in without tutors, connections, or wealth – just from burning the midnight oil until my fingers ached from the cold. When I was accepted, I believed the hardest part was over. But I was mistaken.
Nothing changed. The local girls still jeered at me, especially when I trudged through the snow in my only pair of suede boots – practical, if not stylish. They walked past as if I were invisible, especially when I shivered at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they ignored me, then began to invite me for coffee, knowing full well I couldn’t afford it. Watching me awkwardly decline became their twisted amusement.
That’s when I met Dan. Another “misfit” – a shy, lanky lad from a village outside of Canterbury. He understood what it was like to sit in a library with nothing but bread, waiting for the dorm lights to come on. We became friends. We never dated but stayed good friends. We still keep in touch. He moved closer to his parents, helps on the farm, and works at the parish council. I moved to Norwich to be near my sister – she was left alone with a child, and I couldn’t abandon her.
Years later, I finally spoke about it out loud. It was sparked by an unexpected visit from one of those “glitzy stars” – a former classmate. She came to my office on business. Arrogant, with her head held high, manicured hands, and an air of perpetual superiority. She didn’t recognize me straight away – or pretended not to. As if I once served her coffee. She’d brought documents – all filled with mistakes. I calmly explained: everything was wrong, and such errors could jeopardize us both, along with our organization. Instead of a polite response, she erupted, waving her finger like back in university.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eye. I calmly said, “We don’t shout in this office. Take your documents and leave. Fix them, then come back.” She silently grabbed her papers and left. At that moment, I felt no spite – just relief.
I could’ve retaliated. Mocked her as she did me once. 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 stood my ground despite all the ridicule, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I got in, graduated, found a job, and I’m helping raise my niece and supporting my family. I have genuine friends, a conscience, and the understanding that it’s not the place that defines a person, but the person that defines the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the price of spite. And if today, the girl with the backpack and fear-filled eyes stood before me, I’d hug her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll become strong.”
And you know, that’s what’s most important. Not letting people like them break you. Not becoming like them. And holding onto your humanity. No matter what.
