Part 2
One of the Black trainees, just 20 years old, even introduced me to her mother during a walk home after our first day in class. The next day, she openly and jokingly told the group she looked up to me, aspiring to be like me when she grew up. I felt flattered and told her she would do better than I. She was confident, striking, and openly proud of her mixed heritage—African and Middle Eastern. I treated her like a daughter and understood the validation she sought from her white peers when it became apparent that she had to shift sides. It’s the reality of the system in the UK—we are often made to feel we must either fight amongst ourselves to earn our place.
But by the second week, my daughter/girlfriend became distant, walking past me without a word, ignoring my greetings, yet engaging warmly with every white trainee. I gently asked if something was wrong, like I would with my own daughter, but no change in attitude. It began to feel like a high school clique dynamic.
Still, I stayed focused on the training. I tried not to take it personally. I stayed focused. I asked a trainer for feedback—was I doing something wrong? He smiled and said no, that I was exactly the kind of crew member the airline was looking for: composed, professional, friendly and dependable.
I passed all the exams leading up to the final one. But that last test felt different—like a trap. Given everything I had been juggling—long commutes, financial pressure, and social isolation—it felt like I had climbed a steep mountain, only to find the summit shifting beneath me.
The training spanned from February 12th to March 15th, running six days a week. We received half our salary on February 27th, which helped, but didn’t cover hostel and transport costs I had paid out of pocket.
Then came the final exam—and with it, something unexpected.
We began the test on computers as we had done throughout the course. I had completed 15 questions when we were abruptly stopped. They claimed the system was down and said we would switch to a paper-based exam. It was odd—every other test had been digital, and I had passed them all. This sudden change didn’t feel right.
One trainee, who had failed multiple times and was on her final chance, seemed especially stressed. Unlike computer tests, paper exams could potentially be altered or interpreted more subjectively. Previously, trainees who claimed disabilities were allowed to switch formats, but this unannounced, sweeping change felt strategic. When I questioned it, I was told to stop arguing.
I felt targeted—not necessarily by name, but certainly by circumstance. One trainer blatantly favored a Polish trainee who later turned out to share her nationality. Another, an Italian, avoided eye contact with me entirely after the second week. Even a fellow trainee with whom I had agreed to share a room to reduce costs now distanced herself, physically and emotionally. It was a stark contrast to the values we were being taught—kindness, teamwork, respect. I had apparently missed the part where exclusion was acceptable.
Despite everything, I gave the training my all. I showed up, studied in cramped hostels, bore the silence, and kept my dignity. But when the final moment arrived, the goalpost moved.
The switch to paper wasn’t the only thing that raised alarms. The paper I was given for the resit had a name I hadn’t used in years—one that only appeared on an old CV. My official name had been used throughout my application, background checks, ID, and prior exams. Only one person—the manager who had helped me during a name-ID discrepancy in August 2024—might have seen that outdated name. I had once thought of her as a savior. Now, the appearance of that name on a formal document felt deliberate and unsettling, as if someone was trying to create confusion or manipulate the process.
When I pointed it out, the trainer casually told me to cross it out and write the correct name. During the second retake, I wasn’t even allowed to write my name on the paper. Why would an official exam need to be anonymous at that stage?
I failed again.
I was devastated. With a previous point deduction for not finishing an iPad assignment and three points from the failed test, I was now at five. A trainer, known for his abrasive demeanor, deducted another point that day for “non-uniform appearance”—because my shoes revealed my socks, despite the business casual dress code during training. That brought my total to six. When I failed the resit, I reached seven—the maximum allowed before dismissal.
It was a breaking point.
Still, I chose humility. I apologized to the trainers if I had seemed argumentative. They accepted. The atmosphere shifted slightly, and I was given two days to prepare for the final, final attempt.
Two female trainers—kind and professional—guided me and another candidate through revision. Ironically, the other candidate was the same young woman I had mentored earlier in the course. I had shared notes with her when she was struggling and on the verge of failing a retake. She had told me those notes helped her pass. Yet during our shared revision, she didn’t even acknowledge me. Others, once friendly, now avoided me altogether, some even wearing headphones to dodge interaction.
I couldn’t reconcile the social freeze-out with the values we’d been taught: compassion, respect, unity. I trained to become a Cabin Crew member, not to navigate a silent war.
Nevertheless, I prepared diligently. A flight manager who had previously assessed my failed exam encouraged me to show them who I truly was—to give my best.
On the day of the final retake, the test had been shortened to 40 questions from the usual 50. I focused, gave it my all, and scored 100%.
I passed. I had officially completed my training with the organization.
The relief was overwhelming. Gratitude, exhaustion, vindication—everything hit at once. I thanked God. Because this wasn’t just a professional milestone. It was a personal triumph over a system that had seemed intent on exhausting, isolating, and eliminating me.
My fellow trainees, who had already graduated, didn’t wait for us, the re-takers. We were excluded from the class celebration and not invited to the group photo, and light entertainment of cakes and non-alcoholic champagne. Three of us passed, but we were not acknowledged to participate in the ceremony, not that I particularly cared about the ceremony. I have heard four of those in the past training, so getting deliberately excluded from this small mini orange and juice celebration was not silly, but a thing that made me chuckle.
To be continued
Written by Bess JT
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