In my local comprehensive primary school, my exercise books were held up as perfect examples in my younger brothers’ classes. I was in the top set in all my subjects. I went to extra English lessons for the so-called “gifted” on Saturday mornings, at a local high school. I was a teacher’s pet – academically, at least – who thrived on praise.
When Year 6 came around, I was one of only a few taking entrance exams for “high-achieving” secondary schools – the majority were off to the local Salford comp. Many of us trying for grammar or private schools had tutors to prepare us for the different styles of tests and thinking. It was a pretty big deal to break out of the typical cycle to take a path that promised more opportunity.
I remember my headmaster spurring us on, encouraging me to not take a scholarship I’d earned to the local private school. Instead, I was pushed towards the best of the best – a school on the other side of Manchester, considered the top girls’ school in the North West.
It sounds like a lot of pressure, trying to live up to the expectations of teachers and parents. But getting in, as it turned out, was the easiest part.
The transition from state to private school left a lasting mark – one I still notice in my thirties. I’ve spent the last few years dissecting my low self-esteem, and I’ve realised this experience has shaped some of my core, less-than-desirable, beliefs.
I’m quite sure moving to private school cemented my lifelong fear of inadequacy. Though many anxieties begin in the teenage years – and, sure, perhaps my perfectionism was already brewing as a classic eldest daughter trope – when I reached secondary school, the hit to my self-esteem was instant. It’s taken years of hard work in my late twenties (therapy, medication, self-reflection) to make the self-doubt and imposter syndrome that’s plagued me since teenhood less consuming.
Becky aged 10 in primary school with her brother, left. And at around 14 in secondary schoolMy world turned upside down overnight, really. I went from top of the class to feeling like a fish out of water. Lessons and the work felt alien in a way they didn’t appear to for my peers who came from private primary schools. I felt like everything I was doing was wrong.
My experience isn’t unusual. The “big-fish–little-pond” theory states that our sense of our academic capabilities can be strongly influenced by our peer group. The author, Malcolm Gladwell, in his book David and Goliath, points to research showing that being a top performer in a less elite environment is often better for success and self-confidence than being a struggling, average performer in a prestigious one.
Throughout the years, I was never the best or near the top of anything again – except in art, which was a win for my ego, but never felt to me like the right sort of academic success. In “serious” subjects, I routinely felt like I was scrambling at the bottom of the pile, a failure. I became a chatterbox and a class clown – I now realise this was probably to deflect those feelings.
There were new social rules to get used to, too. It wasn’t uncool to put your hand up in class anymore. Girls were practically fighting to answer questions, instead of staring back at the teacher gormlessly like most of my state primary class used to. The truly out-of-this-world self-assuredness of the private primary kids gave me an inner crisis of confidence. They were loud, gregarious, precocious and just so, so sure of themselves. I wasn’t, and I wanted what they had.
On my first day, I arrived sporting my usual gel-slicked side-ponytail but, it turned out, no one else wore their hair like that here. Though I was “posh” at primary school – my mum picked me up from the computer club in her BMW convertible – I certainly wasn’t thought of as that here. These were kids whose parents bought them Juicy Couture tracksuits and real Ugg boots, with bigger houses than I’d ever seen. I swapped the thick Salford accent I’d developed at primary school to something more neutral (with a posh Cheshire girl twang and over drawling vowels).
Becky says she was ‘posh’ at primary school, but not at secondary schoolThough we were nothing like outcasts, those of us from comprehensive schools stuck together at first, before eventually dispersing into our different tribes. In the end, I assimilated like a champ, leaving secondary school an undeniable private school kid. It just turns out that bravado is easier to channel than genuine self-belief.
Around 7 per cent of UK pupils attend private (independent) schools, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS) and the Independent Schools Council (ISC). There is little data available on how many came from state primaries. The ISC says a third of pupils at its schools are on reduced fees and about 6,000 pupils pay no fees at all (it does not cover every private school in the country, but is highly rated by experts for its research).
I was certainly in the minority – in my Year 7 class of 28 pupils, there were three or four of us from state primaries – that’s 14 per cent. We’re so outnumbered, it’s no wonder the shift was such a shock to the system. I often wonder how this transition played out for others, particularly those who couldn’t assimilate as well as I managed to; who perhaps couldn’t afford the school trips, handle the different pressure, or simply came from starkly different backgrounds.
The fact that I earned all A*s and As at both GCSE and A-Levels without ever feeling as bright or as capable as my peers says a lot about my (lack of) self-esteem. But it also speaks to the “hot house” atmosphere of a high ranking girls school. The hysteria in pursuit of academic brilliance is unmatched. One friend wouldn’t open her exam results for weeks, leaving them in her locker and crying if we told her to open it.
So would I send my children to private school if I could? I’m torn. There were wonderful aspects of being at an all girls school, in particular: the freedom to be your goofy self without worrying what boys think, the keenness to learn, and drive for success.
Who knows, maybe I’m just a private school girl clinging on to the one thing that makes me ever-so-slightly less “posh”, and this is all a vain attempt to play down my privilege. Maybe I was always destined to be drowning in self-doubt, with a screaming inner critic – private school or not. Or maybe I would have been more confident, potentially even more successful, if I’d remained top of the pack at a state secondary. Did my private school education make me or break me? I can’t quite shake the feeling it’s a bit of both.
But whatever education my own children might end up having, I hope I don’t impart the feeling I had of never being good enough.
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