The puffer jacket feels synonymous with belonging to the highly-exclusive gated society that is Cambridge University. A sea of black greets you as you leave the gates of your college; those wearing their puffers part the crowds of tourists with ease. It is a symbol of power and belonging.

I’m no different. The first time I wore my puffer (on a dog walk in my home town), I felt unstoppable; here, finally, was a physical representation of everything I had worked hard for. It was the first time where I really felt like I had made it, but there was something unsavoury there.

I am aware, more than most, what the real cost of the puffer jacket is. It’s long hours, low pay, mind-numbing work. In my gap year, the only way to afford attending Cambridge was to work at one of the factories in the UK that embroider these jackets and other personalised clothing. While I never worked on the jackets themselves, I did work on the University tennis team’s sports wear and the grammar school crests on hoodies which I have since seen my peers wearing around college. When I wear this puffer, I notice the slight misalignment of the letters, the fraying of the thread, and the other minor imperfections which tell of the person who works in embroidery just like I did.

“The second time I wore my puffer, I felt ashamed. I felt that it symbolised not a sense of belonging, but that I believed I was better than those around me”

The second time I wore my puffer, I felt ashamed. I felt that it symbolised not a sense of belonging, but that I believed I was better than those around me: I was cleverer, more ambitious and distinguished from the flocks of tourists. But I’m not. Getting into Cambridge takes hard work of course, but a lot of it is down to luck – luck on the exam, in the interview, and generally in life: having wealth and people who support you throughout your application.

‘Stash’ has become a divide between those who wear it as a symbol of their position within an elitist enclave and the rest of the world. What began as a show of pride and a way for Ryder and Amies to rinse us of our student loans has become necessary theatre. Without the puffer, you feel like an outsider. Wearing it, you feel embarrassed. As my personal experience in the factory had been such a large part of my effort to breach this University, the two have become inextricably caught up in how I view my own identity. I even found out about my offer while on break at the factory: as much as I have sought separation from the past while studying, it is impossible.

I expected to meet people whose parents earned more during my time here, but I hadn’t considered that so few people would need to take a gap year to work and save money as I and many of my friends from home have. Everyday, the puffer jacket which I inevitably see is a reminder of a difference between what it took for someone like me to get here, and what it took for other people. Many people have financial trouble at Cambridge, and more has to be done to support students, but for me, the puffer has become a focus, one which I see constantly around the city.

“The puffer jacket […] represents the divide created by the privilege of education”

At the end of the day, I’m grateful for my experience working in this way. It’s taught me the value of money, the feeling of a hard eight-hour day and the feeling of being unfulfilled in work which has only made me more ambitious. My savings have enabled me to experience Cambridge and keep pace with the speed (and wealth) at which everything moves here, and I am also fortunate to have family and friends who have supported me.

It has also taught me about the person on the other side of that shopping basket: the person who remains nameless and faceless until she’s walking your university halls and sitting behind you in lectures. It’s all too easy to forget about the human costs of something even as trivial as ‘stash,’ and yet acknowledged or not, it is there. The puffer jacket not only distinguishes Cambridge students from the rest of the world; it represents the divide created by the privilege of education.

I no longer belong in my home town – I’m too changed by the culture of Cambridge. But there’s something uncomfortable about walking the halls here, sitting in the chapel, and working late in the library. It’s my experiences themselves that make me feel like an imposter, and place me on the other side of that puffer; and (I believe this is positive) they make me hesitate each time I wear it.

Coming to the end of first year, after hours of writing and reading and finally feeling as though something is sticking, I’m finally starting to believe this is real, and that I have earned a place here. The puffer emerges sulkily from my wardrobe when the temperatures plunge, but I’ll leave it there most of the time. I believe we should consider why we are addicted to wearing stash and why we think it necessary to advertise our education in this way. When we remove the barriers that we now wear through our clothing, we have richer conversations, are able to step beyond the Cambridge bubble, and better expand our understanding of a more inclusive world.