Coming out of the conservative girls’ grammar school pipeline did nothing but ruin me, in a way.
I was always taught I came from the best. That we’d be the best, and that greatness would come to us solely because of who we were. My fore-sisters were future politicians and doctors; the kinds of girls you see with exclusive internships and fantastic careers established by twenty-five. There were no excuses.
I believed this star quality would ensure I landed on my feet after school. I was an NGHS girl - the world was mine. I was rubber-stamped with a good quality seal. I passed a test to be here. I was special and different. I studied hard, had good grades, established extracurricular activities and glowing reports. I ignored that everybody else did too. I was just as special as my peers, even more so. I left sixth form with a ridiculous sense of grandeur over who I was and my academic ability because I kept eating the fattening ethos of my secondary school. It was intoxicating.
I loved that school. I loved being reminded I was intelligent, I loved being completely isolated into this sphere of intellectualism. There were no boys, there were no fights. There was no talking out of line or tearing up of classrooms or back chatting to teachers. We sat at our desks and we learned. Mostly, the learning was all we had. We studied only core subjects; no Food Tech, or Drama or Textiles that suggested a wane in strict academic principles.
I once misplaced my coursework for my History GCSE and sobbed myself into such hysterics that my mother threatened to remove me from school. School, and being good at school, was who I was. I was so sheltered that being clever was my only priority and I behaved like a weirdo (and probably still do a bit) because of it.
In my tiny tram-lined world I needed validation from my English teachers that I was talented and it was worth it. I needed that hit of glowing praise and A* grades. The second an assessment had been submitted I could do nothing but wait eagerly until the exam papers were handed back to us. It was addictive. I obsessed over praise and read it back over and over again.
Assemblies coated us with the dream of greater things. Reach for the stars. Know you are better. Work hard and you will be rewarded. “They will know you are our girls.”
But what happens when you migrate from the suffocating ethosphere of middle class, equestrian-obsessed suburbia and suddenly nobody knows what NGHS means any more?
University humbled me to an extent. It kicked me hard, and I realised that perhaps I wasn’t the literature prodigy that I believed myself to be.
I had gone from being quite good in a small pond, to incredibly average in a huge vast ocean. I was graded against dozens of students cooler than me, older than me, better read than me.
I had no gap year in Thailand. I couldn’t tell you about the indie films of Clio Barnard or how much I loved James Joyce. I remember my first ever seminar when asked whether I preferred The Horse Dealer’s Daughter or The Odour of Chrysanthemums by D.H Lawrence, I answered, “Probably the first. I just liked the plot. It was darker.’ and the tutor stared at me and said, ‘Oh. Right.’
He went on to ask others in the class who gave long, intelligent speeches about tones and language choices. I sat there with my stomach clenching, realising perhaps I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was and was hugely out of my depth. There is nothing scarier than failing. I had never failed at anything.
I quickly learnt to mimic the pseudo-intellect of university seminars. Young people trying to cerebrally outdo each other to gain the respect of a cooler, older tutor. I needed that validation too - I needed the ‘Good work,’ or ‘Fascinating point.’ I needed to prove I was still a good, clever grammar school girl. Surely one of my tutors would notice how perceptive I was and offer me a coveted role as their research intern? Surely I deserved it - I was a grammar school girl.
In my second year during a group discussion, a girl sighed and said to me, ‘I’m glad you’re in our group. You always sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
My ego swelled and threatened to explode. That hit of validation, that tick in the margin, that gold star, was back. It was only a matter of time before something amazing would come my way. I dreamt of moving to London after graduating and working in publishing/ marketing /writing/ journalism. Because obviously, I would be marked out as a spunky young writer and given a platform to speak my mind to thousands. And I would win a Pulitzer or some other prize very quickly, obviously.
Obviously, this didn’t happen.
I did not find a fantastic grad scheme, probably because I didn’t look that hard. No editor got in touch to ask me out for an expensive lunch and offer me an iconoclastic column reviewing films. I did not contact any of them either.
I floated around in hospitality and wrote on my silly little blog expecting someone to headhunt me.
Paying rent became more important and I unhappily settled with the fact that maybe I was meant to be ordinary. I batch cooked my meals. I drove my little car around. I drank too many San Miguels most weekends.
I had spent so much of my life assuming I was going to be spectacular, because that was what school had told me I was going to be. This crippling sense of lost potential followed me like a choking cloud. I hated work. I felt constantly existential and guilty.
I was wasting time, I was wasting my education. I was a good, clever grammar school girl. I should be sitting drinking a coffee and writing a witty, biting political article, not pouring latte art myself.
In hospitality, I often felt detachment; that I was a Louis Theroux figure who was getting experience for later on. Someday I would write about all of this, in a funny anecdote in my column or on Graham Norton’s sofa. In hindsight I realise that was the entitlement of grammar school turning my lived experience into something to prove how clever I was. I was ‘above’ all of this. I was meant to be a high flyer and here I was leading an average life. I was embarrassed and annoyed as to why nothing had happened to me yet.
I was still parading the badge of an institution that had surely forgotten about me now. I couldn’t send them donations or drop in for an inspirational talk because I was not doing anything impressive. I was living a perfectly comfortable life, but my own pride was making me miserable.
After two years of paying council tax and doing 'the big shop', I realised it was my problem. Not the world being unfair. What had I done to earn anything that I believed I was owed? I hadn’t done anything remarkable - I was preoccupied with affluence that was unattainable. In all honesty, I was lazy. I had given up because nothing had come my way, so what was the point anyway? Karma wasn’t going to send a scholarship or luxury internship to me. If I wanted to be a writer, then I had to write. I had to actually do the thing and stop telling myself I was already good enough at said thing. In blunt terms, I needed to grow up and get off my high horse.
I am still not a doctor, a lawyer, or a dentist. I am not famous on the internet. I am not a humanitarian or off to Alaska in the name of science. I do not write for The Guardian (yet) and I cannot put my name against anything of real value. I am not the person I wanted to be at age eighteen.
But maybe right now, I am the person I want to be at twenty-three. I try to be kind. I try to work hard. I keep myself fed and clothed and housed and in these current times, these are things to be more than thankful for and proud of.
I’m in the real world now. There are more important things than pastel coloured flashcards and full marks in your English Language paper.
And maybe I’m still a little bit deluded; I still believe I deserve more. Deep down, I still think the great gleaming break of a lifetime is going to gently slide into my lap on an unexpected morning like a bloated windfall. I’m trying to turn expectancy into cold hard grit. I’m trying to unlearn seven years of priming and pruning and pressure. I am still ambitious, but not in the selfish and entitled way I once was. I still get a bit bitter when I see people doing well, but I’m trying not to whine “Why isn’t that me?!”
I’m still writing; screaming into the void, desperate for someone to notice me. Maybe I need to work harder. Maybe I need to ask and to search and to plead and fight, instead of believing the universe will give me something because of my schooling.
One day I will deflate the ego that school pumped so deep into my brain. And for now, I will eat my batch-cooked curries and read Reddit threads about Netflix reality shows. I am not a Wunderkind. The reason we make a fuss about them is because they’re actually quite rare.
I’m still a good grammar school girl, and I haven’t failed; maybe I’m just climbing a different ladder from the one they built for me.