Freshers’ formal. The first black-tie event I attended at Oxford. The golden glow of the candlelight, the grand dresses, tailored suits, and frustratingly elegant food should have been infinitely exciting for me as an incoming student. Yet the overwhelming feeling I remember was not, in fact, happiness or awe, but guilt. The beauty that surrounded me should have been inspiring, tangible evidence of my success, but a sombre emotion sat heavy in my chest.
I could not forget the place I had departed from. I was the first person in the history of my school to be accepted into Oxbridge. I was paraded around in assemblies as proof of meritocracy. Even my own family members repeatedly questioned whether I could truly fit in here. The glittering world of Oxford felt like a faraway land compared with the area I grew up in. Experiencing my success without a deeper sense of responsibility towards my community was difficult. I felt embarrassed benefiting from an institution whose privileges are unfairly distributed, especially while people from my community still did not have access.
I found myself sitting in a majestic dining hall at an Oxford college, wondering what was so different between me and any of the other hard-working girls at my school. What amazing things had I accomplished to be given the chance to sit in these halls as an intellectual equal? I knew I had worked incredibly hard, that I had spent endless hours hunched over a desk in random empty classrooms in my school because we didn’t have a library – but so had so many other people in my area. What differentiated me from them? Was it a lack of access and opportunity?
I believe that such sentiments stemmed from a lack of self-confidence. That is not to say I was confident I would be accepted. I was susceptible to the occasional dose of imposter syndrome. But my uncertainty did not stem from a belief that Oxford was somehow above me. I did not feel out of place at Oxford, nor did I feel undeserving of a place here. I felt guilty that it was me who had been offered an olive branch out of the socio-economic disadvantages of my area, and not the hundreds of other young people who were far more competent than I was. They had just never been taught to be confident in their abilities and that honing them was not an embarrassing endeavour.
I wondered how many of my peers in that formal hall felt the same way. Were they able to enjoy the infinite beauties of Oxford without an ounce of guilt? The invisible burden weighed heavily on me; the emotion was deeper than impostor syndrome. I felt I had to be a flawless representative of working-class students, as proof that people like me have full capacity to thrive in prestigious institutions like Oxford.
I felt that the only way to lessen this guilt would be to repay my community – to go off into the world, become successful, and then return home, proving that being accepted into Oxbridge no longer felt like a random anomaly, but a genuine chance.
I was reminded of this silent burden every time I returned home for the vacation. I secretly felt glad that I did not have to stay there for long, that it would only take six weeks in this temporary space before I could return gladly to a better place. Perhaps I should have wholly enjoyed all the privileges that Oxford has to offer without constantly binding myself with these chains of guilt. After all, could I truly presume that my peers from wealthier backgrounds did not also feel concern for such causes? I still felt accountable to the community I came from, and that assimilating too well at an institution like Oxford could be weaponised as proof of my abandoning them.
There is no way of getting out of the burden of social mobility. One may either wholly embrace the shift, or remain stuck without purpose. Perhaps the only solution to limit the emotion is through direct action: helping disadvantaged communities while recognising our own privilege.
