The window reflected a gradual shift as we traveled along I-95. Urban sprawl morphed into natural landscapes, with thick foliage fortifying endless highways across New England. The palpitations in my chest echoed throughout my body as we veered onto Commonwealth Avenue.
As I approached Stayer Hall, the curated exterior, matched by a parade of crisp cotton blouses, revealed a subtle dialogue between the loitering families. A language where quarter-zips and summers on the Cape define social cohesion, and sweater drapes were an exclusive formality. A certain contention eroded my confidence, revealing that my parachute pants and tank top exposed something that I could never articulate.
As I sauntered into 2150 Commonwealth Ave., it became evident that something was wrong—not in the way that I existed, or in the existence of those around me at the time, but in the polarity between me and a culture I had not so much as glimpsed in my entire life. A culture that illustrated a particular lifestyle I presumed exclusively existed in books and on television, where high society was classically discernible: wearing gold monocles and a distinct cadence.
As students poured ceaselessly into orientation, the fluorescent lights, marble floors, and white walls emphasized the oppressively sterile atmosphere.
There is a transcendent theme at Boston College—a theme that transformed my familial defaults of public transit, schools, and housing into a mode where “private” took on a principal meaning, and an underlying standard attached to schools, lessons, and neighborhoods.
I was intimidated, not by the Lululemon and Loro Piana, but by the excellence that I believed my peers wholly retained. These people were a spectacle of fascination to me because they represented everything I did not have. What they evoked was a sense of psychological conflict. I was finally gaining access to their world, but they would never understand mine. I admired the way wealth had settled into them—quietly, confidently—as if excellence were not something to be earned, but something inherited.
My mental framework hinged on their cultural and socio-economic domination, where money filtered every measurable flaw that an average person could be born with. Private schools developed the intellectual and academic grit necessary to thrive in difficult majors and lucrative fields, and yearly vacations imparted fundamental socio-cultural education that cannot be traditionally taught. High-earning parents fostered a mindset that bridged the gap between academic and professional success, one that I am still learning myself.
Being a low-income student means that class isn’t merely a status but a language where comprehension hinges on ski trips to Aspen, curated Instagram photos, and multiple Halloween costumes.
If you cannot mirror a particular aesthetic, you must find someone who does. This is something that you learn to internalize at BC, where division isn’t solely dependent on race but the tier of wealth you belong to.
While faculty and resources on campus proved plentiful in facilitating my journey into my first year, few primed me for the isolation that accompanied it. Not being fluent in this language signaled a lack of belonging. Not speaking the unspoken language of campus meant being expected, as a racial or socioeconomic minority, to speak for an experience—whether or not it reflected my own.
The cost of access, it turns out, is not just adjustment but isolation—especially when the people whom you socially resemble covertly reject you, and you find yourself in a sea of performative college students who preach equality without execution. For many low- or working-class students, this is the quiet reality of entering college.
Leaving home means crossing into a world fundamentally different from your own, where these differences permeate relationships, classrooms, and academia.
The BC experience encompasses an education that is socially and academically enriching, where one learns to navigate strenuous courses across social, political, and cultural landscapes. While navigating this cultural whiplash can be disorienting, these experiences have imparted many kinds of wisdom—particularly discernment, in learning when to adapt and when to resist becoming palatable for the sake of belonging.
