Laughing cruelly at ordinary people is something I’ve experienced firsthand.
I graduated with a degree in economics and recently started working as an accountant for a private company. It seemed like a dream come true—a good job, stability, and a chance to start a new life in a big city. But in the first few days, I was flooded with memories I had tried to forget for years. It was as if I was transported back to my university days, where I was labeled as a “country bumpkin” and faced open disdain.
I’ll never forget how the girls in my faculty looked at me—with sneers and scornful smirks, as if I were some scarecrow that had wandered into their glossy world by mistake. I was unfashionable, without makeup, in an old coat with a backpack that carried my grandmother’s pies instead of cosmetics. I didn’t think about my appearance—all I worried about was not missing my train, catching the right bus, or getting lost on campus. In my world, there was no space for lipstick—only for fear and effort.
I came from a small village near Sheffield. My dad worked in a workshop, and my mum was at the post office. I got into university without tutors, connections, or money—just studying late into the night until my hands ached from the cold. When I got accepted, I thought the worst was over. But I was wrong.
Nothing changed. The local girls continued to mock me as I trudged through the snow in my only pair of suede boots—they weren’t fashionable but at least they were warm. They would walk past me as if I didn’t exist, especially if I was shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they just ignored me, but then they started inviting me for coffee, knowing I couldn’t afford it. Watching me decline with a forced smile was their twisted entertainment.
That’s when I met Stan. He was another “unconventional” type—a village boy from a small town, slender, shy, and quiet. He 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 were never a couple, but true friends. We still keep in touch. He moved back to help his parents on their farm while working at the parish council. Meanwhile, I relocated to Cambridge to be with my sister—she’s alone with her child, and I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself.
Years later, I talked about it for the first time. The occasion was an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars”—a former classmate. She came to my office on business, still as arrogant, with her head held high, manicured hands, and an eternal look of superiority. She didn’t recognize me at first—or pretended not to. As if I had once served her coffee. She brought documents that were full of errors. I calmly explained that everything was wrong and that with such papers, she risked causing problems for herself, me, and our entire organization. Instead of a polite response, she erupted, yelling and pointing fingers like back in university.
For the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eye. I said in an even voice, “We don’t shout in this office. Take your papers and leave. Correct them and return.” She grabbed the documents silently and left. At that moment, I didn’t feel triumph but relief.
I could have taken revenge. I could have humiliated her as she once did to me. 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 mockery, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I went to university, graduated, found a job, raised my niece, and helped my family. I have true friends, a conscience, and an understanding that it’s not the place that makes a person, but the person that makes the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of malice. And if the girl with the backpack and frightened eyes stood before me today, I would hug her and say, “You’ll get through this. They won’t break you. You’ll become strong.”
And you know, that’s the most important thing. Not to let people like that break you. Not to become like them. And to keep your humanity, no matter what.
