This is an article about class. About the class system. And Oxford.
Recently, my mum came to visit Oxford. Predictably so, I took her to a formal dinner. We ate our meal in a cavernous, candlelit hall, and she was amazed by the pomp and performance of it all. I, equally, felt enlightened by her presence. Watching someone foreign to Oxford experience this paradigm of the university’s culture spurred my own self-reflexivity.
The high table walked in, forming a long, straggly line and taking their mighty fine time getting up the two steps to the stage. Most of the heads sitting down at the table were balding, grey, and white. We jovially ate our meal, occasionally looking up at the backs of those sitting ‘above’ us. Despite being elevated to an impressive vantage point over the hall, most high-table-ers were far more concentrated on their pheasant than us plebs below them.
There was a man with Down Syndrome on the high table; he was the only one of them who actually did engage with the rest of us. He not only stepped down to the lower level, actually leaving the high table to speak with others, but he also disarmed all he chatted to, table hopping and striking conversations.
Towards the end of the dinner, whilst people not on the high table were still busily eating their desserts, the gavel was banged, chairs were scraped back, and the high table tottered out of the hall as unceremoniously as they walked in. The lights went on, and staff immediately started imploring the rest of us to leave. A visiting student next to me, mid ice cream scoop to the mouth, asked why it’s always the case that formal dinners ended so abruptly (and admittedly, long before the majority had finished eating). I explained woefully that alas, it was because the high table received their meals first, ate first, were finished first, and therefore were ready to get up and go first. And of course, they were the only diners of relevance in the hall; when they’re done, everyone is done.
As the line of high table diners shuffled out of the hall, they talked amongst themselves, not once looking down to clock our faces staring up at them. The same man who had been so friendly during the meal was the only one of the high table diners who took the time to engage with the room. He smiled and waved at everyone standing to watch, and got many waves and smiles in return.
It is interesting that a single neurodivergent attitude – one of friendliness and positivity – was enough to truly shine a light on the absurdity of the high table tradition.
The high table has its origins in the 13th century, a time where class was the formidable front-runner of social stratification systems. In the Middle Ages, the table was designated for fellows, faculty, and ‘distinguished’ guests, with students at the tables below them. Back then, the dining arrangement reflected the academic hierarchy in colleges. Indeed, the elevated high table represented a reverence for educators. This, I think, is understandable.
Today, however, using physical hierarchy to command respect for those who teach us seems slightly out-moded. Why? Maybe it’s because the esteem in which academics are held, as custodians of knowledge, has slowly worn down as knowledge has become more accessible in the era of the internet. For the most part, most of us now couldn’t tell one academic on the high table from the other, and only know a handful of them. But maybe there’s something more that makes the high table feel a bit off. Maybe it’s because the hierarchy of academia it represents hits a bit too close to home. A bit too close to the bitter sentiment in British society towards class domination.
The class system in England is still deep and entrenched. Yet, this entrenchment exists alongside an awareness of, and increasing commitment to, eliminating class barriers. For the amount of emphasis placed on increasing access and opportunity at Oxford, the continuation of the high table tradition sits in striking contrast. This paradox implies that Oxford has embraced the most limited of revisions: we’ll admit a few more people who we once wouldn’t have, but once you’re in, hierarchy and privilege remain as operational as ever.
I think the contradictions at play are what I am seeking to point out. Can Oxford seek to improve access, diversity, and equality whilst it retains traditions that are both symbolic microcosms and physical reconstructions of hierarchy? Barriers into Oxford receive a lot of attention. I don’t think the same can be said of the many exclusive institutions you become accustomed to once you’re in. As access improves, albeit slowly, we might be coming closer and closer to the time where what’s going on behind college walls is reassessed. The relics of an oppressive class system that still stand alarmingly tall in Oxford would be first in line for the chopping block.
A high table, raised above a mass of diners, translates privilege differentials into a literal, physical, and visible hierarchical relationship. All there is to lose from removing high tables is a legacy of exclusion.
