What springs to mind when you think of private schools? Top-of-the-range IT facilities? Cutting edge tech? Vast manicured lawns and sporting arenas?
Maybe. But I’d argue there is one thing that trumps everything for me when I think of private school: the sheer, unadulterated confidence these places imbue into children.
How do I know? Because both of mine went to private school while I went to state school. And while I’m arguably as well read and (almost) as culturally enriched as they are, there’s one thing they have in bucketloads that I never did have: confidence.
My son is 17 and my daughter is 12. The older one has now left private school and is at a state A-levels college. The 12-year-old is in Year 7 at a private school.
The school in question is set in acres of beautiful countryside, up a long, sweeping drive lined with rhododendrons. The sports facilities are vast. There is a swimming pool. There is a pastry chef. They go on trips to New York and do things like pony-riding. At sporting events there is a “match tea” of finger sandwiches and dainty cakes. It’s fabulous.
My life was rather different. I went to the local comprehensive school a 10-minute walk from home. Swimming lessons were at the local, mouldy council-run leisure centre. My “match tea” was a swig from the communal water fountain and a bag of crisps from the bottom of my school bag as I scuffed my way home.
While I made the best of it, went to university and became a journalist and author of four books, I always felt an imposter in my working life. Whenever I met someone with a better education than my own, a familiar refrain would whirl in my head: “You’re not good enough, you’re not good enough…”
In jobs, I’d meet colleagues who went to private schools and went on to Oxford or Cambridge. But even if they weren’t Oxbridge educated, there was an aura about anyone who had been to private school that was almost tangible to me. It vibrated and glowed like a halo only I could sense.
That word again – confidence. I see it in my own kids now. My eldest was in state school until Year 9 when we put him into private school. Our daughter started at the private school in Year 3. Both blossomed the moment they stepped foot in the new school grounds. Smaller class sizes meant they were not left to languish if they were falling behind, and talents never went un-noted.
Then there’s the element of other pupils rubbing off on you. When you’re surrounded by other confident people in small classes, being praised, it works like osmosis: seeping into you, shaping you, changing you.
In weeks I watched as my previously mumbling eldest could suddenly order confidently in a restaurant. Ditto my youngest. I saw them move through life and speak unapologetically, taking up space (as the modern phrase goes) without feeling awkward.
I on the other hand spent my twenties pretending to be something I wasn’t. Realising that in good circles you didn’t say “serviette” but “napkin” and always say “loo” instead of “toilet”.
I strived in jobs with huge determination, working my way up to deputy editor and acting editor on national magazines. It was not just because I was ambitious; it was because I was terrified someone would realise I was a comp-educated girl without much to shout about.
Private school kids don’t have this concern. And I honestly don’t know how the schools do it. It is more than the money spent on facilities and buildings and trips. It’s more than great teachers. It’s something in the air, something you can sense but can’t quite describe. It’s a way of being that just sort of seeps into the students there and gives them a backbone, pushes their shoulders back and makes them ooze a self-assuredness and confidence. If I could, I’d bottle it.
So while I am so happy my kids can enjoy this and start life this way and all the wonderful opportunities it will give them, I have to admit this: I’m envious.
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