Lerninhalte in Englisch

Aufgabe I

Aufgabenstellung

1.

Outline Polly Toynbee’s experiences with the British class system in her childhood.

(30 %)
2.

Examine how Toynbee conveys her attitude towards the class system. Refer to the use of language and its effect.

(30 %)
3.

Choose one of the following tasks:

(40 %)
3.1

“Perception is the innocence of a child, seeing the surface of things; understanding is the journey that reveals what lies beneath.”

Comment on the statement, also referring to the text at hand and to materials studied in class, such as the novel Atonement.

or

3.2

You want to take part in the online seminar “Success: A Game of Chance or Choice?” As a prerequisite for your attendance, you have to hand in an essay in which you assess to what extent people’s social background influences their educational success.

Write the essay.

Material

Text: Excerpt from Polly Toynbee, “What My Privileged Start in Life Taught Me About the British Class System” (2023)

1
Children know. They breathe it in early, for there’s no unknowing the difference
2
between nannies, cleaners, below-stairs people and the family upstairs. Children are
3
the go-betweens, one foot in each world, and yet they know very well from the
4
earliest age where they belong, where their destiny lies or, to put it crudely, who pays
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whom. Tiny hands are steeped young in the essence of class and caste. In nursery
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school, in reception they see the Harry Potter sorting hat at work. They know. And all
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through school those fine gradations grow clearer, more precise, more consciously
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knowing, more shaming, more frightening. Good liberal parents teach their children
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to check their privilege – useful modern phrase – but it swells up like a bubo on the
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nose. There’s no hiding it.
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I can summon up the childhood shame at class embarrassments. Aged seven like me,
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Maureen, with her hair pinned sideways in a pink slide, lived in a pebble-dashed
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council house by the water tower. They were at the other end of Lindsey, more
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hamlet than village, half a mile down the road from my father’s pink thatched cottage
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set in the flat prairie lands of Suffolk, where I spent half my time, the other half in
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London, shuttling between divorced parents. I envied Maureen for what looked to
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me like a cheerful large family tumbling noisily in and out of their ever-open front
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door. They never asked me in, so I would hang about the door waiting for Maureen
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to come out and play.
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Maureen and I played fairies in the cornfields, crept about scaring each other in St
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Peter’s churchyard next door, drew hopscotch squares on the road and threw five
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stones on and off our knuckles. One day we had a cart, an old orange box set on pram
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wheels. We took it in turns pulling along the rope harness and riding in the box, up
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and down the flat road outside her house, shouting, “Giddy-up,” and waving a stick
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as a mock whip.
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It was my turn, I was in the box and Maureen was yoked in as my horse, she heaving
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me along making neighing and whinnying noises while I whooped and thrashed the
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air with my stick. Suddenly, there came a loud yell, a bark of command. “Maureen!
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Get right back in the house, now! Right now!” Her mother was standing in the
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doorway with the baby in her arms. “You, who do you think you are, your ladyship,
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getting my girl to pull you around! What makes you think she should pull you, eh? Off
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you go home and don’t you ever, never come back round here again!” Maureen
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dropped the rope and scuttled back home. I thought she’d explain we were taking
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turns, but she was scared of her mother. I jumped out of the cart and ran all the way
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back to my father’s house in tears of indignation. Not fair! But something else in me
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knew very well that there was another unfairness that wasn’t about taking turns, that
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couldn’t be explained away. Somewhere deep inside, I knew it meant Maureen would
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never have the turns I had. And Maureen’s family knew it well enough. […]
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The older children grow, the more refined their social antennae become. You might
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think that at a middle-ranking girls’ boarding school […] every one of us belonged to
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the same social class. In the crude weighing scales of sociologists, that would be so,
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all “AB” demographic children with parents or grandparents able to stump up the
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middle-ranking fees. But from all of English literature, from your own life, you will
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know the importance of subtle gradations of social difference. This was not a school
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for the aristocracy, but everyone knew the significance of money, eyeing the cars and
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clothes each other’s parents arrived in. But the devilry of English class is that money
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is not the whole story. More important than wealth was parental occupation, status
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and education, with that great gulf between profession and trade.
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From high to low, there can barely be a schoolroom in England where children can’t
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rank one another’s families fairly accurately. I have often reported on the misery of
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desperately poor children first arriving in school, branded from day one for the wrong
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uniform, cheap trainers, no lunch box, no lunch money, no PE kit, nothing to write in
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an essay on “My Summer Holidays” […]. But class at my school was subtle and always
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unspoken: too flash parental Jaguars and fur coats were despised as vulgar.
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Nonetheless, the big picture of social class destiny was played out in microcosm even
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in my apparently homogeneous middle-class schoolroom.
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Aged 12, we were divided into A streamers and B streamers; let’s call them sheep
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and goats. Sure enough, the daughters of doctors, academics, scientists, teachers,
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lawyers, diplomats, a Nigerian daughter of the governor of Kaduna, an Indian
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politician’s daughter, one bishop’s daughter and any similar children of highly
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educated professionals glided effortlessly up to the A stream. But the daughters of
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trade were more likely to be relegated to the B stream, often day-girl daughters of
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local Bristol businessmen or farmers from around the West Country. Maybe this was
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unconscious bias on the school’s part, or maybe they simply went by children’s
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results, or their perceived intelligence or intellectual interests. In this subtle grading,
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parents’ education predestined most of us either to the Latin set or to the domestic
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science stream. The Latins were headed, it was presumed, to university, the cooks to
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secretarial college. Since we were usually hungry, the Latins hung around outside the
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cookery room yearning for the pies and cakes the others carried out in silver tins —
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and yet we Latins knew perfectly well that we were glad to be designated A
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streamers. Since I hated Latin and failed it at O-level, I’d have had a better time with
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the domestic science stream, but of course I’d have been appalled at relegation to
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the B stream: social status trumps cakes.


(999 words)
Quelle. Zugriff am 29.10.2024.

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