We like to think of education as being the great leveller in society. Like a big bricklayer’s trowel smoothing off privilege and tapping us down to rest equally on our efforts next to each other. It shouldn’t matter if we’re rich or poor or where our parents were born – as long as we get the marks, we should get the university place we deserve.
CAO points don’t discriminate, after all. They don’t check an applicant’s mother’s LinkedIn to find out if they went to school together. They’re not looking to see if there’s a local TD in the family because the CAO points are trying to get planning approval for an extension out the back.
That’s the beauty of higher education. If you are bright then you will get into university. If you do well at university, you’ll have job offers raining down. Your level of success is determined only by how hard you are willing to work.
That’s what I believed anyway when I headed off to the University of Sydney. I got into the university parents love to say their children got into. It had all the impressive bits needed to be a top university – ye-olde looking stone buildings framing a quadrangle where TV shows and movies were filmed. It had a touch of the Harry Potters about it all. There was Latin written on things. It churned out prime ministers, Nobel prizewinners and bishops. I was hoping for a Cinderella story – to be transformed from a suburban pumpkin into someone who wore a pencil skirt and worked in an office. I didn’t really have high goals for myself at that stage other than to stop wearing a name tag to work.
I would meet new friends and we would read books and talk about them. While wearing black turtleneck jumpers. How sophisticated. But when I got there I realised most people already knew each other. It seemed almost entire year groups from elite private schools had come together.
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They were already so at ease, having spent years popping in and out of each other’s houses and pools and football teams. They were friendly enough but they spoke a different language. They were talking about which internships they were lining up, which classes to take because of which professor’s connections to a certain firm. They were not working three jobs and falling asleep in lectures.
I still believe working hard is key to success but I’m old enough to know there are social and cultural leg-ups that aren’t given to everyone
I had naively assumed that when I became “good enough”, I would be recommended for an internship and a man would come over to my desk and say, “You’ve been a great girleen studying so hard, here’s your form to fill out for your dream opportunity.” It took a kind classmate saying to me that his dad could get me the internship I craved most (which was working for free at a magazine, most likely organising the hand-lotions cupboard). I looked at him like he was selling me magic beans. Someone would give you a job not based on your application but because of a personal connection?
At this stage I had gone a good 20 years of my life not knowing about networking, and even if I had it wouldn’t have helped me. Who was in my network? The only special treatment I got was from my friend’s dad who owned the local late-night kebab stand and gave me free chips. But these kids not only had access to people who could shape their future, they had no problems asking them for help. They knew it was an essential part of life, like brushing your teeth.
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I still believe working hard is key to success but I’m old enough to know there are social and cultural leg-ups that aren’t given to everyone. Education can still be a great leveller but only if we acknowledge the privilege gaps.
“First in family” students, who, as the name suggests, are the first to access higher education in their families, are often more likely to drop out. Research suggests they struggle not only with the financial burden of staying in education but the transition it involves. It can be isolating trying to find your way with no one able to guide you because you’re the only person you know who’s attempted to get a degree. You don’t know which subjects to pick, which scholarships you can apply to, or how to get help when you need it.
The only people I knew who went to university were my teachers at school. I was lucky enough to transfer to a university with a first-in-family programme. I had teachers who put me on to scholarships and jobs and who looked the other way when I had to work the odd overtime shift.
It was that help and understanding, not my marks or the fancy university, that got me into the career I loved.