From North England to Newfoundland: An Immigrant Academic Story
Embarking on my first-generation philosopher story, I must acknowledge that, for years, my immigrant status loomed larger in my upbringing than social class. Born in northern England, my family emigrated to Canada when I was young. My parents were bakers, and they came to Canada at a time when Canadian employers were actively recruiting in the UK. We arrived in Canada when I was four, and I spent my formative years on Canada’s east coast, specifically in Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. My background often puzzled teachers who couldn’t quite place me.
On the east coast, it was the local accent—an accent I lacked—that served as the region’s defining class marker. Canada’s class system also appeared less pronounced compared to England, which was, in fact, one of the reasons my parents chose to move. While not as pronounced as England’s, Canada does have a class system, and a British accent is associated with upper-class education. Not all British accents are alike though in Canada – no one seemed to be able to tell the difference between a northern accent and received pronunciation. My high school boyfriend once made us all laugh by saying that my Lancashire grandmother sounded just like the queen.
Early on, I was labelled as gifted, which further set me apart. My academic success and lack of a regional accent led to the perception of me as a “smart kid” destined for higher education. School environments suited me, and as a result, teachers favoured me. My love for reading and books fueled my academic achievements; I was one of those kids who befriended librarians and ran through all the books in the bookmobile, a van full of books that visited rural communities. In early school we all wore school uniforms which further helped blur any class distinctions.
In Newfoundland, I was educated by a progressive order of nuns, the Presentation Sisters, who Post-Vatican II, entered the classroom armed with acoustic guitars, a passion for books, and a commitment to educating young women. In those days, girls often faced a stark choice: marriage and motherhood or becoming nuns to pursue a university education. Under their guidance, I learned to read, write, knit, and even jump rope. Unfortunately, my penmanship lessons didn’t stick, nor did my knitting skills. And as for choral reading—my apologies to the nuns.
Recently, I stumbled upon my old first-day-of-school diploma. Who receives a certificate on the first day of school, complete with a photo? The inscription reads, “We’re sure that the years between now and your graduation from university will be rich and rewarding.” Reflecting on this, I marveled at the bravery and optimism of those rural Newfoundland nuns who bestowed these beautiful certificates, complete with photographs.
I entered university not knowing much about upper-class backgrounds and I often felt like I was above many things richer fellow students valued. My undergrad aesthetic was 80s punk, and the rejection of nice cars, summer homes, and warm winter vacations all seemed part of the package. I felt it was my academic and political commitments, not my class background, that separated me from richer students. But likely, it was a bit of both.
My first year of university was at King’s College, at Dalhousie, known for its great books program. We also had to wear academic regalia to Thursday night's formal meal and to chapel. Students who poured drinks for faculty were rewarded by being served ourselves the good sherry, the faculty sherry. I got a pretty good grounding in the great books in the King’s Foundation Year Programme. But also, it felt a bit like a ritualistic introduction to the world of the university. After that year, I felt I belonged.
I spent one undergraduate summer in Montreal, sharing a flat with McGill students from Toronto and Vancouver. They complained about being poor, but they spent our pooled grocery money on fresh orange juice, olive oil, and Brie. Their parents were doctors and lawyers, and they had allowances rather than working.
That was the other big difference: working. I worked close to full-time throughout my undergraduate studies and studied hard. I didn’t once attend orientation week. Why do that when you could work and earn money? I also never lived in residence as it was too expensive. My experience differed from that of my classmates from wealthy families but I was never convinced that their experiences were better. My parents were so proud of me and so happy. Their parents nagged and exerted lots of pressure. I developed an excellent work ethic, some very good habits, and really enjoyed my studies. Time spent reading and doing school work felt like a treat. Often, the rich kids seemed anxious and miserable.
My undergraduate philosophy professors at Dalhousie University (where I transferred from Kings) took care of me, mentoring me in the profession and hiring me as a TA in my fourth year of university. I started going to department talks as an undergraduate and was welcomed to ask questions. My professors let me use department offices and computers after hours, so I always had a place to work.
I was first struck by the gap between my family’s educational background and how I was seen when I finished my undergraduate degree. When one of my professors met my parents at graduation, I realized I was seen as coming from an educated family. My philosophy professor asked the next day, “What does your dad teach anyway?” “Teach? He’s a baker,” I replied. “Oh, you pass very well.”
Pass?
Graduate school felt positively luxurious. I was all in once I learned I'd get paid for studying and for being a TA. I studied at the University of Illinois at Chicago and I think I stood out more as “Canadian” rather than anything else. I recall not being sure I could afford to be an actual professor. My professors all complained about how poorly paid they were, but I went to their beautiful houses and was puzzled. Maybe they'd inherited them? They couldn’t have come with the job, could they? I started asking about academic salaries and realized we had very different ideas about being poorly paid.
In my first years as a new tenure-track faculty member, trying to make friends, class differences showed up again. I remember attending a lunch for new faculty, and people were arguing about what version of espresso machine to buy. Was the $500 one good enough? I rolled my eyes. I didn't get a PhD in Philosophy to work with people who argued about coffee and expensive consumer goods, I thought. In that way, I often felt I had more in common with the staff, who were also puzzled by debates about pricey coffee makers and where to stay when one was in Venice (the subject of conversation at a faculty-staff lunch one day!). I never knew whether to tell people I'd never been to Europe, except England, which was home.
Years later, I've come to care about some of this stuff. I've learned to love classical music and opera, for example. I love theatre. When I drink orange juice, I prefer it fresh. And I like Brie. We own an espresso maker. I love to travel. But I still have a scruffy house and unmatched dishes. I'll never be a wine snob. And I’ll probably always like baked beans on toast. Some of this may never change but now it feels like it’s much more about me and my tastes and preferences than about my class background.
In a way, I think I lucked out, falling in love with philosophy. Of all the humanities disciplines analytic philosophy is probably the one that relies the least on one knowing the music and literature of the upper classes. I liked the idea that we read small amounts of things very closely. The kind of abstract thought that philosophy rewards doesn’t rely on a knowledge of social codes and cues. I no longer think that the best philosophy is abstract in this way but it made for an easier point of entry. It's even acceptable, within Philosophy, to be scornful about upper-class things. I think, as a result, that Philosophy is more friendly to people from a working-class background, even if by accident, than say English or Art History.
The other thing I've thought about a lot is how things might have been for me if I graduated with a PhD now rather than in the early 90s. The job market is a different place now. I got that rare thing: a tenure-track job right out of grad school. My job started in July 1993, and I defended my thesis on July 21 1993. I think I would have been practical and taken a non-academic job pretty quickly if I hadn’t been successful on the academic job market. I was offered jobs with two publishers and I would have taken that kind of job, rather than a series of one year contracts or sessional work, which seems to be the norm now in our discipline for people from non-elite schools. I've never been one of those academics who thought this was all I could do. But still, it's a fascinating job with lots of rewards. Academia is a strange place, but I'm thrilled to be here.
Samantha Brennan is a Professor of Philosophy in the Department of Philosophy at the University of Guelph, where she is also Dean of the College of Arts.
