Conversations on Class

Sahar comes to visit

8 May 2026

Dear Smythe,

Sahar is gone. She came to visit from Saturday evening to Wednesday evening. I hadn’t seen her in two years, though it didn’t feel like it since we chat so often. Now the flat is quiet.

On Tuesday, we went up to Hampstead Heath—a place neither of us had been. I was saving the place for the right moment, what could be more right than a treasured guest? Upon arriving, I could see what all the fuss was about. It is a wild, magic place overlooking London. There are parts where you become so lost in the wilderness that you forget you are in a city. And then you emerge, and the glittering skyline peeks out. We climbed trees, wandered the woods and hills, and finally settled on a bench by one of the ponds.

The Heath is in one of the poshest parts of London. We chatted about how I had said hello to almost everyone we passed in the park, and the responses ranged from completely ignoring my existence to, at best, a mild flicking of the eyes to indicate (I think) a smile.

“I don’t know what you think,” I said. “But I feel like in England your class matters a lot more. Whatever it is.”

Sahar, a German-born woman with Iranian parents, had spent the previous summer in New York on an internship.

“No, it’s true,” she said. “In Europe we seem to care a lot more about this kind of thing. Where you come from.”

“There are other barriers in the States. Like race, for example. And of course there are really rich people. But nobody cares where you come from, they just care about what you do. Class just doesn’t matter. You can be who you want.”

“I remember when I was on my internship, I kept asking people where they were from. And finally, someone said to me, ‘You know, we don’t ask people where they are from here. We take them as they are.’”

Whatever can be said about the US right now, this is one of the things I miss. Excepting racists and assholes of other varieties, people really don’t give two shits about where you are from. It seems, in England, that whether you are working class, middle class, or of the upper-most crust of society, your roots matter a lot more. Which makes sense, when you think about it, for a nation that still believes that a big man in the sky anointed a royal bloodline to rule over everyone else. If you take away tradition, however poisonous, then the whole society falls apart. It’s different again in Ireland, where almost everyone actually is working class and has collectively suffered under the ruling class. Act like you’ve got notions, and you are ostracized. You are accepted solely for your personality, rather than what you accomplish. In a way, I love this, but there are also massive downsides to such self-deprecation.

Of course these are huge generalizations. But Sahar and I seemed to agree on them. We talked more on our way back to the flat for dinner.

“London is a greater city than Dublin,” I said. “But you can’t really compare the two.”

“But I think you can,” Sahar said. “You can compare them.”

“Well,” I shrugged.

“I think Dublin has more soul,” Sahar said. She had lived there for a while, when we had met.

“You know I agree with that,” I said. “It seems like education, or having an interest in the arts, or writing, or anything intellectual is so connected to privilege here. Remember that artist we spoke to yesterday in Notting Hill? It’s so different from the US.”

“Or from Ireland—so many people there are creatives,” Sahar said. “They have jobs. But they are also artists. And that woman was so dismissive that you lived in Stockwell. Like you lived in the ghetto.”

“It’s so funny, isn’t it? Nobody in Dublin cares where you live. If they say an area is bad, it’s because it really is. Or they look down on you if you live in a really nice part of the city.”

“It’s so true. And besides, Stockwell is nice.”

“It seems like such a sense of entitlement,” I continued. “That her daughter wants to be a writer and doesn’t want to do the whole nine to five thing. I mean, who does? Most of us don’t have that luxury. And the only reason she can afford to be an artist is because her husband is so wealthy.”

“It’s crazy.”

And it is. As an American, the idea that “all men are created equal” is fundamental to how I view the world. The idea that how much money someone is born with, or what “class” they are a part of, defines their opportunities and even what they might dare to want from life is so alien, and yet it seems to be how society is fundamentally structured in England. It seems to be a part of every conversation, even if it is never said. A silent venom. How many have never grown up to become the writers, biologists, astronauts, fashion designers they could have been, because they didn’t even dare to have the dream?

Perhaps you think I’m oversimplying. And you know that I know that it isn’t as simple as that in the US. It might be the land of opportunity, but there are still barriers. If you are sick or disabled, for example. And poverty and race are hugely limiting factors back home. But still…it’s different. I’m trying to put a finger on it.

You haven’t replied to my last letter yet but I’ll send this anyway.

Warmly,

Marguerite