A dividing line

Not so bad you should hide in the library...

To be fair, this prejudice was largely justified by my few ventures out on non-student nights. Whether harassed in the street by drunk boys, or equally chatted up and insulted by older men in Pitcher & Piano, or having parts of a fancy dress costume stolen by girls in the Lowther, my experiences of Friday and Saturday nights in York have never been particularly positive.

So when I got a job working with mostly locals, I was understandably a little apprehensive – and disappointed with myself because of it. They were only people, just like me; it would all be fine.

One thing I have discovered about these northern types (and I know I’m being completely stereotypical, but bear with me) is that the women totally rule the men. Where I work, the female supervisors are just downright scary, but the male supervisor just reminds me of a teddy bear. He knows that in a room full of domineering northern women he has no power whatsoever. So all is good, as long as I stay on the side of the brisk older women, right? Well, right. They can be a little rough at the edges but their hearts are in the right place and I know that if they ever correct me they’re not criticising me, just pointing out I’m wrong. They didn’t seem to care that I was a student, and that was just the way I liked it. Maybe it helped that I seemed to subconsciously alter my accent when I was at work.

Yet all my judgements were turned upside down at the end of last term. I was in the changing room with one of the other girls who works there, when she suddenly came out with, “I hate students”. I was gobsmacked. I always thought we’d got along fine, even pretty well. Although she never specified me as one of those students, she continued to rant. Apparently she hates their stupid posh accents (cue rather off impression) and their laughs and the way they look down on her like they’re better than her. At this point one of the older women chimed in. Of course they look down on us, she added, we’re the lower classes.

I couldn’t believe my ears. I had never said I hated locals, and indeed, I do not. My general avoidance of them was a matter of having more in common with students, rather than a preference for one faction or the other. I couldn’t say I hated them, I didn’t know them.

I’ll be honest, I said nothing. I didn’t stick up for students. How could I, when, truth be told, I had had the same thoughts about a few of them myself as I had served them. But deep down I knew it wasn’t true. I’m pretty sure none of the students that came in gave that much thought to the people serving them to reckon themselves superior. The kind of people who do exude that air of smugness and superiority do so because they think they’re better than everyone, northern or southern, rich or less well off.

But I didn’t explain this. I feared being included in this brand of “student-snob” they so derided. I felt like I had to be one of them in order to be accepted.

So I guess student/local rivalries are still very much alive in York. It makes me feel a bit better about avoiding going out on a “locals’ night” - at least some of them are as equally biased.

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