‘I was paying a Black Country accent tax every time I opened my mouth’

Kara Evans talks about her University of Warwick experience and says ‘in seminars, she was placed at the back of the intellectual queue’

In the UK, our accents reveal far more than where we’re from. For those with regional accents, how we speak functions as a kind of social passport – not because an accent says anything about our intelligence, ability, or worth, but because of the assumptions people associate with them.

Our voices can prompt judgements about class, income, education, and social status before we’ve even had the chance to introduce ourselves. And yet, I had no idea I had an accent until I stepped onto the campus of a Russell Group university.

I never understood that my accent could be treated as evidence of where I came from, how I was raised, and where I supposedly belonged at university.

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But to my peers and faculty, my Black Country accent was a marker which signalled everything that made me different. People mocked it. Mimicked it. Corrected it. Some even told me that the way I said certain words was “wrong” and felt the need to repeat phrases back to me for a laugh.

During freshers week, one person on my course refused to speak to me at a society event after realising where I was from. Others hid their subconscious bias behind humour and satire. I was often forced into uncomfortable situations where people tried to imitate my accent, and when I didn’t laugh, I was told I should “just speak properly” if I didn’t want people to comment on it.

And because my voice didn’t match people’s idea of credibility, I was paying an accent tax every time I opened my mouth. My accent meant I was constantly repeating myself, softening how I spoke, and adding context to every statement I made – justifying and explaining why I was “hard to understand.”

It was an invisible price to pay, but every time I thought about opening my mouth I’d already used half my energy up managing how I was going to be received rather than on what I was actually going to say.

In seminars, I was placed at the back of the intellectual queue. When I answered questions, it felt like tutors brushed past my perspective. But when someone else without an obvious accent made a similar point, they were placed on a pedestal that left me questioning my own capabilities.

I didn’t struggle academically at university, but people would often react in shock when we discussed grades in class, and they realised I was doing just as well, if not better.

In part, my working-class background played into people’s assumptions and dismissal of my presence on campus. Britain has historically operated with a class system, resulting in a societal hierarchy of accents where those associated with the working-class rank the lowest.

It was a culture shock coming to campus as a first-generation student from a low-income, state-school background in Dudley.

Where was I supposed to fit in. Well, I didn’t really. My first term at university wasn’t a time I would wish to relive. I struggled to meet people on my course, and when I did, my accent was pointed out more times than I could count.

Throughout freshers week, I became exhausted with the conversations around my accent and feeling like I had to constantly justify something about myself I couldn’t change.

After numerous teary-eyed phone calls home, I started to consider dropping out and taking a gap year or transferring to the University of Birmingham and living at home.

I didn’t stray far from home for university; it was only 50 minutes down the M42, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong. I couldn’t get past that sense of otherness. Even after working so hard to meet the requirements of my contextual offer, I started to doubt whether I deserved to be at the university at all.

And while progress has been made in opening up pathways for people from low-income backgrounds to enter higher education, acceptance remains one of the greatest barriers.

For me, being admitted into university was not the same as being truly accepted. I found my place academically, but socially I continued to struggle. While I did eventually find my people on campus, it felt like the university could have done more to encourage greater acceptance towards students who didn’t fit into the traditional Warwick student mould.

And while classism and accent bias are almost inevitable in these kinds of institutions, it doesn’t mean it should be trivialised, accepted, or normalised.

A spokesperson for the University of Warwick, where Kara Evans studied, said they are “sorry to hear about this student’s experience” and highlighted its social inclusion strategy. “We aim to create an environment in which every student can participate and contribute confidently, regardless of their background or circumstances.”