Illustration by Imogen Edmundson.

When I first sat down to write my Features piece on ‘class at Oxford’ this summer, I was filled with dread. The topic was a serious one, and hugely personal to me. For my first two terms at The Oxford Blue, I’d sat safely in the Lifestyle section, generally free of controversy and strong opinions. Casual pieces on Animaid-themed bar crawls and my undying love for Knoops’ hot chocolate were more than enough for me.

For me, serious journalism was never the plan. It’s an infamously ruthless industry that is disproportionately representative of the population. In 2019, the social mobility charity Sutton Trust found that 43% of the UK’s 100 most influential editors and broadcasters were privately educated, despite only 7% of the population having attended a fee-paying school. It is also wildly unrepresentative geographically—Northern correspondents are expected to cover everywhere from Nottingham to Alnwick, though fewer in number than the journalists concentrated in London alone. This is also reflected in the decline in numbers of independent regional news outlets—and shipping journalists up from London to MediaCityUK, Salford, is no substitute for having journalists who truly understand the area. For people who come from working-class backgrounds, the increase of unpaid internships and the expectation that news can only be created in our capital mean that the industry is undoubtedly becoming less accessible and representative than ever. 

The face of student journalism, especially in institutions such as Oxford, is not much different from that of the national media. When I matriculated in 2021, student journalism appeared more like an impenetrable coterie than an open door to a friendly abode. At least at the top, it seemed to be full of privately educated Londoners who knew each other, had experience and connections, and could be charismatic or cutthroat when required. I felt I was none of those things. A year ago, I had still struggled to order for myself in cafés, and everything here was hugely intimidating. As I sat in tutorials with very little to say for myself, second-guessing any idea I might have, I wondered how on earth I could justify voluntarily publishing writing of my own.

Prior to joining The Blue in Hilary Term of my first year, I’d had no experience in journalism. Attending a failing state-comprehensive school in one of England’s most deprived local authorities, I’d had little opportunity to write in an extra-curricular context, let alone for a prestigious, long-running school newspaper. I had no connections, no famous alumni, and no one that I could contact for advice or work experience—on the contrary, my parents are the ones who ask me for help when writing emails. Writing was likely better left to those who didn’t feel nauseous at the thought of people reading what they had written.

But I dipped my toe ever so slightly into the Lifestyle section as a Junior Editor, feeling incapable of writing anything for the entirety of my first term. Editing, I could do—I’d always prided myself on picking up on small details, and I knew a good article when I read one. But writing? What could I have to say that would be of any worth? What relevant experience would I even have? It’s hard to feel reassured in your abilities when you hardly feel deserving of your role. 

And that’s when I realised the problem. Though people from disadvantaged backgrounds such as my own might get involved with student journalism at a low level, applying for roles like Junior Editor, they often don’t stick at it. The odd critical or belittling comment from someone who presumes they know better than you, or is lucky to have more experience than you, can very quickly have you doubting yourself, making you believe that you aren’t capable of the job. 

What is worse is that, sometimes, your fiercest critic is yourself. Imposter syndrome is, quite frankly, evil. As if you hadn’t worked hard enough to get here, to keep afloat, to balance your degree and your social life and the societies you might join, imposter syndrome will always be there in the back of your mind to suggest that it was all a fluke. Instead of feeling proud, confident, and excited, you’re dubious about starting anything for fear of getting it all wrong. You think: “luck runs out; when it does, everyone will know I’m a fraud”. No one is immune to it. Believe me, ‘I have no idea what I’m doing’ is probably 90% of my vocabulary.

But then again, who cares if I don’t know what I’m doing? Perhaps I didn’t have experience, or connections, or any idea about how any of this worked, but I did and do have enthusiasm which, as the application form for The Blue reminded me, was infinitely more important. The paper itself was founded on the idea that ‘anyone can write’, and we continue this ethos today. My background and experiences mean I have something to bring to the conversation, something that might otherwise go unspoken or even misunderstood. If I have something to say, I will say it.

Still, as you can probably gather, sitting down to write my piece on classism at Oxford was tough. I worried about the opinions of my peers, and the reception my article might get. I worried I might come across as whiny or ungrateful for my spot here. I worried that it just wouldn’t resonate with people, or perhaps not reach those it would resonate with. I watered down my views, which may come as a shock to some, trying to make it palatable to a wider audience. Once the article was out, I sat refreshing the Facebook page over, and over, and over again, counting the little thumbs up one by one. 

The reception was overwhelmingly positive; I received messages, shares, and comments from people I’d never even spoken to before. People shared their own experiences of classism at Oxford with me, and it was easier to feel a little less alone with the challenges I’d faced. Maybe this is how it feels to regularly bump into your former schoolmates while around Oxford, laughing about inside jokes and recalling your shared experiences. 

This is no sappy defence of student journalism. In fact, it is quite the opposite—I’ll be the first to admit that there are plenty of issues and barriers, and it has not always been the most fulfilling experience, nor the most comfortable environment. People might talk over you, mock your accent, and wildly underestimate your abilities. You will likely doubt your own abilities. Even at my own senior position, with much more experience behind me, I constantly doubt myself. As I type now, I’m worrying about this article and its potential reception.

What I will say, however, is this: if we let journalism continue to be dominated solely by those who do not represent us, we will be no better off for it. Our stories will continue to go unheard.

But you lose nothing by trying. And if I have to sit and read 100 drafts of your articles before you feel content in your abilities, I will do that.