Coming Out (again, and again… and again)

The idea that a working-class student’s path to university is a struggle, still rings true on many levels. None of my immediate family had any sort of higher education, let alone attended a Russell Group university; the UCAS process was as much of a novelty to them, as it was to me. Moving to the University of Leeds wasn’t just an avenue to pursue my academics, but it was an escape to a diverse setting where I could finally live my own truth — that I was gay.

Coming out was a monumental process, that I staggered over the course of my first year here in Leeds. There was only so much “they can’t accept it”, “it’s their generation” excuses that I could handle and it wasn’t long before it was time for an ultimatum. Accept me or lose me. It wasn’t easy, but eventually I had nothing but support from my family and friends, who were keen for me to do the things they never felt were available to them. In their mind I was living a life that a kid from Blackpool (one of the most deprived towns in the UK) didn’t even bother to dream of.

The idea of me being at a “disadvantage” didn’t really sink in until I was surrounded by peers on my course that I couldn’t fathom emulating. I imagined studying Politics at undergraduate and being surrounded by fellow liberals like myself would be an inclusive and welcoming venture, but what I didn’t expect was frustration and isolation.

I’d never been particularly proud of my roots, or sexuality, but I found myself developing an almost reversed-snobbery.

“Oh yeah mate, I totally get you. It’s the same for me.”

I mean, is it? Your battered trainers and second-hand Ralph Lauren jacket don’t equate us. Your accent, trust fund and three holidays a year seem to tell a different story — and until you’ve feared holding your boyfriend’s hand in the street, I can’t really see the correlation.

I didn’t walk around in a binbag begging for change, I developed a pride for what I’d achieved. For most of my peers, their place here was an expectation — for me, it was an exception. I finally had pride in my underprivilege.

My first year at the University of Leeds was mainly about acceptance. Accepting my own sexuality and accepting that this knowledge and culture gap I faced was not my own fault. So I didn’t have friends or family in high places, but I was just as clever as everybody else — my exam results had proved that. It’s hard to present this intangible feeling; a common understanding and pool of resources available to the people around you that you’ll never be able to truly grasp but not through any fault of your own. It can be dejecting, but it can also be empowering.

We were all lucky enough to be here — but undoubtedly our journeys to get here didn’t carry the same level of financial worry. Often, it’s never meant with any malice, but uni’s faux working class can really begin to make you feel undermined.

Fast-forward five years, and I’m back at Leeds as a postgraduate student. For many, completing a Masters seemed an easy option, so much so that I thought it would be for me.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’ve had to work and battle to get and stay here.

My first jobs taught me so much. Joining a graduate job only restarted my ‘coming out’ process. It was weeks and weeks before I dared to mention my ‘partner’, and then ‘boyfriend’, it made me realise — how many new situations would I find myself in where this mental block would stop me discussing the happiest part of my life? It was a year working in recruitment, and then events that made me realise there were still gaps in my knowledge. A corporate client of mine suggested I’d be suited in the world of public relations, and so I told myself I would do whatever it takes to get myself up to standard.

“You work 25 hours a week? Don’t you want to concentrate on your degree?”

I mean, of course I do — but I’d also like to not starve in the process.

At postgrad, the divide is even more apparent now. Often making that choice between extra study time and living comfortably, the working-class are priced out of postgraduate education, and appropriated by well-meaning, but oblivious peers. My struggle is not some endearing ‘rags to riches’ story, but the sad reality that without parental support — postgraduate education is unattainable to the majority of the working-class.

Despite this, I’m here and I’m doing it. Every day feels like coming out over and over again; whether to assert my right to be where I am or plucking up the courage to talk openly about my relationship and that studying whilst working is a struggle.

Postgraduate study is not only rewarding, but immensely immersive and engaging — returning to university is one of my better decisions, and it’s managed to stoke a fire in my belly that has only been fuelled by my determination to prove myself. We may come to university at a cultural ‘disadvantage’, but we leave far more advantageous than can be comprehended.