Social Class Voices: Student Stories from the University of Michigan Bicentennial

“Just Because They Show Money Doesn’t Mean They Have Money”: Realizing Social Class

Mom was rummaging through her bottomless pit of a purse, scavenging for the exact coupon that brought us to this store in the first place. The cashier’s impatience mirrored mine and my sister’s, Allison, as it felt like hours went by until mom finally found the coupon. In the same moment that I sighed in relief, Allison, just a toddler at the time, blurts out: “Mom, why are you so cheap?” Stunned by her rude comment, mom grabbed our bags of newly purchased uniform clothing and dragged us to the door and out to the car before she had any time to see the cashier’s reaction. With that coupon, mom had just saved $1 on a $6 uniform shirt I needed in the upcoming first grade school year.

Allison, even from a very young age, was very outspoken about nearly every thought she had in her mind. I, on the other hand, didn’t speak up much and kept many of my thoughts and questions to myself to ponder on before addressing them with mom or dad, or anyone else for that matter. I was painfully nervous for mom’s reaction to Allison’s comment, and we sat silently as she threw bags in the car, buckled Allison into her car seat, and tossed her purse onto its designated front-seat location. Before she started the car, and as Allison and I waited anxiously for her to say anything, mom whipped her head around and firmly stated: “I am frugal because dad and I choose to send you both to an expensive private school and we value your education. It is inappropriate to bring it up in public, and it will not happen again.”

Mom grew up in the solidly working-class, industrial town of Meadville, Pennsylvania. Her parents, John and Sally, were in their early twenties, married, and pregnant with mom’s older brother, Joe, when Sally left school and John was finishing up his English degree at Gannon University. Money and the lack thereof were always on the minds of John and Sally. When mom was a baby, John worked his day job as a high school English teacher in an underfunded school district alongside two extra nighttime jobs, including playing drums in a traveling band, and working odd remodeling jobs to bring in some extra income. Every Thursday night, Sally would travel to three separate grocery stores around town searching for the best deals for every essential food product they may need, dozens of coupons neatly organized in Sally’s handbag.

Allison and I attended a private, Catholic K–12 school in Beverly Hills, Michigan, just a few minutes’ drive from our comfortable white-sided, two-story colonial home located on the very edge of the city of Royal Oak’s vast perimeter. Our schedule was extremely predictable. Mom carpooled Allison and me, along with a couple children who lived closer to school, in the mornings, and the other parent would drop us off after school had ended, while both mom and dad were still at work. They would drive themselves to work each day, arriving home predictably around four or five, just in time for dinner, then soccer and dance practices in the evening. Mom was one of the only mothers at school who worked a full-time job. I never gave it much thought, as mom’s working was to be expected, as it had always been. But mom occasionally felt the uneasy guilt of remaining incapable of picking us up from school every day, coupled with her inability to be readily waiting to provide us with elaborate after-school snacks, like many mothers had the luxury to accomplish.

Allison and I were the only children in the neighborhood to attend private school. Every other child attended K–12 at Royal Oak public schools, and most continued on to Royal Oak High School. I had always found it peculiar that we attended a different school than all our neighbors, making me feel, at times, uneasy and unwelcome in the tight-knit friendships the neighbor kids seemed to possess. I made nearly all my childhood friends at my private school. We all felt so alike, dressing in identical uniforms, each child with their own extracurricular activity, parents ready and able to shuttle their children to and from school. What I had not realized, maybe because mom and dad chose not to talk about it or maybe because I was living in a snug, privileged bubble of stability, blissfully unaware of social class differences, was that not every child came from the same comfortable, suburban lifestyle as mine. What I had not realized was that dozens of children, several in my grade, were bussed in every day from Detroit and other underprivileged school districts on full scholarships. No parent picked them up from school every day; they were unable to participate in extracurricular activities and lived in a very different world than my own.

When Uncle Joe came to live with us, I had not yet understood the extent of our social class differences. Joe received English and Communication degrees upon graduating from Gannon University in 1990. From then on, Joe lived a nomadic life, first settling in Los Angeles, working as a freelance writer while working in the restaurant industry to pay the rent. When the magazine he had been sporadically writing for fizzled, Joe moved back into his college fraternity house in Erie, Pennsylvania, until he ultimately hitched a ride with a fraternity brother to Wyoming, where he spent years couch hopping and continuing work as a cook in various local restaurants.

Uncle Joe called mom when he had reached rock bottom. He had no place to live, no money for rent and food, all the while keeping his struggle to himself for so long to avoid facing disappointment from his parents, John and Sally. Mom and dad bought him a bus ticket, which is what they could afford at the time, and Joe, bringing little belongings, moved in with us for nine months. When Uncle Joe moved in, I did not ask many questions. I took it for what it was: Joe needed a place to stay and we had room, and more importantly, he was family. I never quite understood how Uncle Joe found himself in this predicament. He was college educated, an incredibly talented writer, funny, and unique in every way. Why was my family living comfortably, mom and dad with good jobs, Allison and me in private schools, and Uncle Joe, coming from the same family upbringing as mom, couch surfing, living much of his life on the brink of poverty?

Many of the friends I made at my private school seemed to have much more than me, more material belongings, bigger homes, country club memberships, the list seemed to go on and on. In elementary school, mom and dad couldn’t afford to hire a babysitter during winter and spring breaks, so while my peers were traveling in large groups to sunny, carefree destinations like Destin and Naples, Florida, some even traveling internationally to exotic Mexican resorts, I spent my time off from school hiding away in mom’s office, coloring pictures for her boss and coworkers with a few crayons mom kept in her work desk. I would get frustrated and feel left out, but mom would always remind me, “We sacrifice a lot to send you and Allison to private school.” I knew she wanted to take extravagant trips to sunnier climates, but we Conways are savers, not spenders, as I would continue to learn throughout my upbringing.

Mom and dad had both been brought up learning about the value of saving money for the future, especially when it came to our education. In my middle school years, I became increasingly envious of my seemingly wealthy friends whom I’d accompany to their country club pools on 90° Michigan summer days, those who’d invite me for a weekend spent on lakefront property in the rustically, quaint, and often extremely wealthy, communities of Northern Michigan. After keeping my jealous thoughts to myself long enough, I finally asked dad why we didn’t belong to a country club, why we didn’t have a cottage to retreat to, and why we didn’t seem as rich as many of my friends from school. Dad, always logical and collected, firmly responded, “Just because they show money doesn’t mean they have money.” Little did I know, many families in our community were living extravagant, materialistic lives, while simultaneously drowning in crippling debt.

Dad grew up solidly in the upper-middle class, his family of five moving from place to place as dad’s father, Brian, was regularly relocated to manage various banks along the East Coast and Midwest. Although Brian and dad’s mother, Barbara, could afford many luxuries using Brian’s substantial banking salary, subsidized by Barbara’s various teaching positions, they lived a frugal lifestyle, passing the importance and value in saving money for the future down to dad and his siblings. Being raised by a single, immigrant mother after the passing of his father, Brian became the man of his household, supporting his younger siblings starting at the age of 10 years. His early adoption of adult responsibility molded him into an extremely logical and fiscally responsible man, stressing the importance of saving first, spending second. With Brian and Barbara’s deliberate prioritization on saving for education and the future in general, dad entered adulthood, and fatherhood, a level-headed saver, caring very little about how our wealthy community may perceive our level of wealth.

For my entire upbringing, I had always considered my family to be solidly middle class, but according to our savings, I slowly came to understand that we were much more so upper-middle class, especially when taking into consideration how much money mom and dad had put aside for my and Allison’s college tuitions. Knowing this, I remained conflicted about my class status, especially during high school years. On my 16th birthday, just before I was headed out the door to attend dance practice, mom and dad surprised me with a pearly white, used 2009 Volkswagen Jetta and I was absolutely thrilled. The first school day after receiving the Jetta, I joyfully sped off to my private, Catholic high school in the notoriously wealthy city of Bloomfield, Michigan. My gleaming pride slowly disappeared as I pulled into the school parking lot, an obnoxiously, brand-new black Cadillac SUV parked to my left and a stunning, navy blue BMW sedan to my right, both shimmering in the Michigan spring sunlight. In one moment I was confidently cruising in my cute new ride, and moments later I was embarrassed of my slightly used, seemingly subpar vehicle my parents had graciously purchased for $9,000. Constantly comparing myself with my peers who appeared to be situated in a wealthier class than my own added an overwhelming sense of uncertainty in terms of what social class background I truly belonged to.

Receiving my acceptance letter to the University of Michigan (UM) was a very exciting moment for me and my family. Mom and dad, both proud Purdue University graduates, joked how they dreaded the day they would finally have to come to grips with my attendance at the “wrong” Big 10 School. Their gleaming pride mirrored mine as I prepared for entering the next big chapter in life, never once considering the newest financial responsibility I had committed myself and my family to for the next four years. Mom left Purdue with nine years’ worth of student debt, while like my dad, I would leave with no debt; zero financial burden all thanks to mom and dad’s careful saving since the day I was born.

My freshman year roommate and I were friends from high school, raised in neighboring cities, and experiencing similar social class backgrounds for most of our lives. We had both expressed the relieving feeling of new beginnings as we moved into our 11 feet × 17 feet dorm room, squeezing as many of our belongings into the cramped space as we could manage. Trading in our plush, comfortable housing in the affluent Oakland County (where Royale Oak is located) bubble for tight, uniform-looking dorm accommodations made us feel as though all of us freshmen were starting on the same playing field, all in the same exciting and uncertain boat, all of us pursuing some version of a fresh start. This whimsical idea that all of us freshmen were in the same exact boat once entering college was instantly crushed the moment our dormitory resident advisor (RA) asked my roommate and me: “How does it make you feel that you are so privileged? Do you think you are better than everyone else?” Stunned and slightly offended, we returned to our tiny room, suddenly much more cognizant of how much our privilege might impact this fresh start we were so ready to embrace.

The reality of how unique various students at the university were in terms of social class set in very early during my freshman year. After my RA firmly grounded me in my apparent bubble of privilege, I became much more aware of the unique individuals who populated my dorm and various classes I was taking at the time. For much of my freshman year, I surrounded myself almost exclusively with students I knew from home and their new friends they made on campus. This meant I spent my time with students who, like me, probably didn’t have to worry about paying off student loans, consider working several jobs to support themselves at school, or thinking twice about participating in expensive commitments like Greek Life or taking luxurious spring break trips to Mexico every spring break.

My place on the UM social class ladder was firmly established in my mind over something as seemingly insignificant as laundry. On the same day as I was unloading my clothes from the communal dormitory dryer, an embarrassed stranger sheepishly asked for a few dollars in order to get her laundry started, as her allotted laundry money had run out and she did not have the funds to get by until she received her next paycheck. I swiftly paid for her laundry, as my laundry funds were replenished regularly, thanks to mom and dad, grabbed my things, and made my way back to my room. In the same moment I was lugging my overwhelming sack of laundry into my dorm room my neighbor was preparing to drop her laundry off at a delivery laundry service that was very active on campus. Unsure of what the service fully entailed, I jumped on my computer and was shocked to learn the service could cost upward of $200 per week for someone to pick up dirty laundry and return it neatly folded and cleaned. In a matter of a few minutes, I faced three very different laundry experiences, supplemented by what appeared to be the astonishingly vast range of social class distinctions that persisted, often unnoticed, on campus and in everyday life.

I had occasionally strolled through the Ross School of Business before admittance to UM and during my freshman year, but the feeling I received from stepping through the strikingly massive, crystal-clear glass doors and into the bright and airy first-floor area, commonly known as the Ross Winter Garden, for the first time after being admitted to the elite business school was both overwhelming and exhilarating. The architecturally modern design and comfortably elegant student accommodations screamed money and power. I always had that sense, well before my admittance, yet suddenly I felt a part of this prestigious class of students, a sense of elitism which was inherently promoted by the students, faculty, and staff who roamed the halls, all seemingly confident of their belonging.

Once classes began in the fall of my sophomore year, the uneasiness I felt toward my new Ross business student identity increased more each day as I stepped through those impressive glass doors and took my seat in one of eighty $700 classroom chairs that occupied each of the dozens of classrooms and student study rooms all over the building. The day I found out our classroom chairs cost $700 per chair, I returned home to tell my roommates about how ridiculous that fact was, eager to joke with them about the extraordinary opulence I was surrounded by daily. I was the only roommate in Ross and my friends never let me forget it. They’d comment sarcastic remarks like: “You’re so much smarter and better than everyone because, you know, you’re in Ross,” and “Abby is going to be the richest of us all one day because of Ross, of course.” I knew deep down that they were proud of my accomplishments, but their perceptions of the person I was becoming by studying business frightened me, and always kept me tiptoeing around the topic of my major, even with some of my closest friends.

I enjoyed the security the business school provided in terms of my time during undergrad and looking to the future. Ross, for many years, has possessed an elite reputation, so overwhelming that top employers in the most innovative and desirable fields have been drawn to the school for recruiting the best and the brightest. Although I had initially felt I had proven myself worthy of such prestige merely through admittance to the selective school, my tendency to compare myself to those who seem better off than me, as I had unforgivingly troubled myself with in my younger years, overtook me, especially during junior year internship recruiting. My peers utilized their parents’ social connections, in addition to their academic merit, to capture the most elite internships at powerful banks, selective consulting agencies, and other various Fortune 500 companies around the country. Ever present in my mind was my apparent lack of these types of connections, as mom and dad did not involve themselves in business, mom working as a scientist and dad as an engineer. My self-worth as a business student diminished as I continued to struggle to use purely my academic record to secure an internship, especially as I had struggled to receive high grades in my challenging classes, a problem I had never experienced in my previous schooling.

I had applied and been accepted to study abroad through the Ross exchange program to Buenos Aires, Argentina; this would take place during my second semester of junior year. Unsurprisingly, the process of receiving acceptance to one of nineteen exchange programs was made extremely selective, as Ross staff controlled the decision of which students would be granted this once-in-a-lifetime sort of experience. The process in place, coupled with the multitude of submitted applications, allowed for numerous deferrals and flat-out rejections from the program. Several peers had expressed complaints and worries about their deferrals and rejections, yet one deferral grievance seemed much more somber than the rest. This student confided her troubles to me, explaining the depth to her dismay; how she was paying her way through college, making sacrifices for cheaper housing, taking out several loans to pay for her education, and always dreamt of one day being able to save up enough money to study abroad. Her only option was through the Ross program, as tuition for the program was comparable to UM tuition, and she could not afford any alternative. Instead of the annoyance I felt with other students’ complaints, I sensed an immense guilt that I would be able to go abroad and easily afford the experience, while this student would have to come to grips with never fulfilling her dream, even after saving as much money as she could to ultimately have it all fall short.

Going abroad changed my perspective on social class dramatically. I was supporting myself through the four-month experience, using my personal funds for every outing, purchase, and necessity. I relied heavily on public transportation systems, and exercised mom and dad’s frugal attitudes and behaviors when budgeting which activities I could afford. I returned home with a new perspective, one I had never considered obtaining, as to continue my comfortable upper-middle-class lifestyle. All this ultimately changed the way I acknowledged social class differences in the United States.

Back in Ann Arbor for the start of my senior year, I took notice of the variety of city buses that accompanied the UM blue buses that I learned to love over the past four years, in a sense, reminiscing on my use of public transportation back in Argentina. Mom was helping me move into my new home for my final school year when I asked her if there had been an increase to the number of buses in the area since I’ve been away. A little confused by my random question, she simply answered: “They’ve always been there. You just haven’t noticed them before.” Stunned by my ignorance, I felt as though this experience of obliviousness mirrored my previous confrontations with class differences. My newfound awareness of class seemed to have developed over the course of four months spent living in a completely new world from my own, experiencing monetary limitations, lack of social capital and connections, living in a class so unlike the one I had been raised in and had taken advantage of throughout the past few years in college.

The remainder of my senior year was strengthened through both my improved self-awareness and becoming more cognizant of how social class plays a role in a variety of ways in everyday life. It was bewildering, in retrospect, to think back on my frequent run-ins with class and I reminded myself of reactions to those experiences at the time versus how I felt about them. Whether it was studying abroad or enrolling in my very first sociology class at UM, or a combination of various life choices and events, I have reached a point of clarity where I feel much more aware of how social class impacts my life and lives of those around me.