Andie (name changed for privacy) was my first college friend. We bonded over music and TV shows and our secular Jewish need to complain about everything. But after the sheen of the first month of school wore off, I noticed she got agitated when I would suggest going out to eat off-campus, something I did a lot because I chase great meals like a spaniel seeking a squirrel. She didn't understand why we would want to spend money on outside food when we had unlimited swipes at the dining hall downstairs.
At the time I felt rejected, because food adventures were my primary mode of connection. In hindsight, I can see that she not only had a point — there was so much food available, and it was already paid for — but that her reaction was probably rooted in defensiveness about her own financial standing.
As someone who grew up comfortably middle class, I was blissfully unaware of my family's financial nitty-gritty at the tender age of 18. Whereas Andie, who identified herself as poor, was all too conscious of the financial burden her education was putting on her parents back home. But why did it take me 18 years, 3,000 miles, and one fancy private college to start recognizing class differences and my own socioeconomic status? |
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