Coming from Vietnam, a developing country six time zones away, I had braced myself for how money would shape every experience, even before I landed. The British pound is one of the strongest currencies in the world, and Oxford is one of the country’s most expensive cities.
I recall when my program asked me to dress in black tie for Keble’s first formal. I panicked, stared into my suitcase, and Googled: “Can I wear jeans and a T-shirt to an Oxford formal?”
I did not bring any dresses to Oxford. Any.
My suitcase of clothes was packed with three pairs of jeans, two padded jackets, one sweatshirt, a large grey winter coat, and plenty of casual T-shirts. The other suitcase contained all my notebooks, stationery, and skincare products, which I knew would cost a fortune in the UK. I had imagined a quiet life at Oxford: from dormitory to library, and back again. No one mentioned I needed to dress nicely for an impromptu dinner in my college dining hall.
I was deeply anxious as I hadn’t shopped for myself in years. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my mum or relatives, so the experience felt somewhat nerve-wracking. I had never “dressed to impress” and now I was expected to, just to be accepted. Still, I was lucky: I found a great white dress for just £10 and felt proud of my little victory. However, that night at the formal, feeling quietly triumphant, I realised that every other girl wore a black dress. None of us had planned it, but somehow, I was the only one who hadn’t received the memo: it wasn’t just a dress code. It was a reminder that I had missed the memo on how to belong.
There is an insurmountable gap between me and Oxford, wealth and prestige simply represented by money. The money gap divides me from my friends, my dress from theirs, the small city in Southern Vietnam where I grew up, and Oxford.
As I only had one nice dress, I barely went to my college’s formals or accepted my friends’ invitations to theirs. I also withdrew from most of the balls and black-tie events, as I knew I couldn’t afford another outfit, even if I stumbled upon a lovely bargain again.
The money gap even swept me out of certain academic spheres at Oxford. The Oxford Union’s fee of two hundred pounds per term for visiting students was the most apparent financial barrier. Two hundred pounds can sustain me for a month here, and that was just the entrance fee to dress smartly and set foot in the Union’s hall. But what matters more is the “hidden fee” of belonging: buying books, dressing smartly so you’re taken seriously, joining casual pub outings, or travelling for society meetings. All of it costs.
The money gap did not entice me to leave Oxford while I was here, but it had marked me as an “outsider” long before I arrived at the university.
I often could not engage with other students’ conversations. Money and privilege tore us apart from the beginning. I came from a country where we did not read Shakespeare or Jane Austen at school. No Greek or Latin classes were offered; instead, schools provide English language classes, which do not give us an edge in Britain. We speak English with the intonations of our homeland, not the polished manner customary here. I have never worn a suit or attended a prom, let alone an academic ball. I just cannot relate to them, and neither can they.
At Oxford, access is not just about admissions but also about being aware of unspoken codes, being able to afford full participation, and possessing a kind of cultural capital that money alone can’t guarantee.
However, at my lowest, when I nearly grew to hate Oxford and almost dropped my course, I felt at home again in the books, in the classroom, in the tutorial readings. I comfortably debate critical academic topics in my field with my peers, and my voice became more unique when discussing the subject. For example, in Philosophy of Language, my voice as a Southeastern woman speaking an Asian language would challenge all the theories proposed by Western philosophers, who curated their ideas based on their European native languages.
Though we come from different backgrounds and wear different clothes, we sit in the same group tutorial room, united in our excitement or confusion about the topic of discussion. We share the same reading lists, libraries, and even gossip about tutors.
While you can’t pay your way into belonging, but you can read your way in.
