Class education

Class hatred is, for me, another one of those unsolved mysteries of British life. And, like I've said before, I've been here quite a while.


I hadn’t long started school in England when a bunch of older boys cornered me in the school toilets. I figured they must have heard my American accent and wanted to check me out. I expected them to challenge me on my nationality; instead they broached a subject about which I knew absolutely nothing.

“Are you working class or middle class?” I really had no idea what they were talking about, so I told them "I don't know". It didn’t placate them any. “Are your mum and dad working class or middle class?” I didn’t know that either. “I’d have to ask my mom” I said. “Make sure you do. We’ll be waiting for you after school tomorrow.”

That evening, after dinner:
- “Mom, are we working class or middle class?”
- “Whatever made you think to ask that, dear?”
- “Some boys at school asked me.”
- “Oh, I see. Well, if the truth be known we’re neither. Properly speaking, we're déclassé, but your friends probably don’t know what that means, so to them we’re middle class.”

The next day, they were waiting for me outside the school gates.
- “Did you ask your mum?”
- “Yes.”
- “Well, what did she say?”
- “She said: if the truth be known…”
I rattled the whole thing off pat - didn't skip a word.

The subsequent beating was a harsh experience but it did teach me a thing or two. I learnt that telling the truth isn't always the safest course of action and that my mother had absolutely no understanding of playground politics.

You live and learn.