What Public School Kids Really Think About International School Students (A Teacher Explains)
It was a Thursday morning, and my eighth-grade English class was supposed to be discussing a poem about identity. Instead, we ended up in a conversation I had not planned—and honestly, one that felt more urgent. One of my students, Maya, had just transferred from an international school back to our local public middle school. Another student, Jordan, asked her, “Was it weird to come back? Like, do you miss the iPads and the fancy campus?”
The room got quiet. Maya shrugged. “It was okay, but everyone there was kind of the same. Here, it feels more real.” That opened a floodgate. For twenty minutes, my students forgot about the poem and talked about the kids at the two international schools across town. They had surprisingly strong opinions, and almost none of them were what I expected.
Most of my students had never attended an international school. Their impressions came from passing by the gates, seeing the black uniforms, hearing rumors about who got in and who didn’t. When I asked them to say what they thought of international school students, the first answers were quick: “Stuck up.” “Rich.” “They think they’re better than us.”
But then the conversation shifted. Jordan, the one who asked the question, said, “My cousin goes to one. She works way harder than we do. Like, she’s always doing projects, always stressed.” Another girl added, “My mom cleans at one of those schools. The kids are actually nice. One of them tried to talk to me in English.” It turned out the most common feeling wasn’t anger or jealousy—it was curiosity mixed with a little bit of pity.
They felt sorry for international school students in a way that surprised me. They imagined them as trapped in a pressure cooker of homework, extracurriculars, and parents who paid a lot of money for them to be unhappy. As one boy said, “They have nicer everything, but they can’t just hang out after school. They’re always being driven to piano or something.”
That made me pause. Here we were, at a school that sometimes struggled to get enough functional laptops for a single class, and my students were able to notice a different kind of inequality—not that they had too little, but that others might have too much of the wrong thing. They saw the appearance of privilege, but they also sensed the lack of personal freedom. It wasn’t a sophisticated analysis, but it was an honest one.
As a teacher, I’ve learned these kinds of conversations don’t stay neat. The reality is that public school students and international school students in the same city often live in completely separate worlds. They might be a ten-minute drive apart but never share a classroom, a bus stop, or even a local park. My students’ perceptions of each other are formed by fragments, rumors, and occasional chance encounters. So when a conversation about them comes up, it’s a chance to untangle what those fragments mean.
What I’ve noticed is that the kids who have the most balanced views are not the ones who have been told “everyone is equal” or “money doesn’t matter.” They’re the ones who have had real, low-stakes contact with someone from that world—a cousin, a neighbor, a sibling’s friend. When they see a person, not a symbol, the generalizations start to crack. That’s not a solution, but it’s a starting point. And it’s exactly the kind of thing parents and teachers can gently encourage without forcing it.
If you’re a parent reading this, you might wonder what you can do. The first thing is to ask your child what they actually think, not what they think they’re supposed to say. Don’t correct them right away. If your kid says, “International school kids are spoiled and fake,” let them say it. Then ask, “What makes you think that?” The answer will probably be specific—something a friend said, something they saw on social media. Take that seriously. You’re not looking for a perfectly fair assessment; you’re looking for the beliefs that are already forming.
From there, try to create a concrete point of comparison. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Maybe there’s a sports match, an open house, or a community event where kids from different schools end up in the same place. Suggest one thing in particular to notice: “Watch how they talk to each other after the game, not during it.” That kind of prompt beats any lecture about empathy.
For teachers, the practical step is even simpler. When the topic comes up—whenever it comes up—hold off on the moral lesson. Instead, ask for examples. In my classroom, we started with the stereotypes and then we asked: “Does anyone know a kid who goes to an international school? What are they actually like?” Unexpectedly, more than half the class did. And the stories they told were dull, in the best sense. They talked about playing games, arguing about soccer, and complaining about homework. The less sensational the details, the more useful they were.
What I’ve also learned is not to overcorrect. Just because some international school kids face pressure doesn’t mean they need pity, and just because public school kids have more free time doesn’t mean they’re down-to-earth heroes. The temptation is to create a neat story where one group is authentic and the other is alienated. But when my students kept talking, the truth got messier. Some international school kids loved their school and had close friendships there. Some public school kids were desperate to transfer, or had parents who couldn’t afford a tutor. Nobody fits their campus.
I still don’t think I gave them any neat conclusions that day. But I did leave them with one question that I think mattered: “If you could switch places with an international school student for one week, what would you want to know about their life?” The answers were telling. They mostly didn’t ask about the facilities or the technology. They asked, “Would the teachers actually listen to you?” and “Is it true you can’t be friends with someone if they’re in a higher class?”
Those are questions about respect and belonging—the same things they care about in their own school. That’s the bridge. When kids from different systems talk to each other, they often realize they’re worried about the same things: being heard, having friends, and not being judged by what they wear or where they live.
This is still evolving. Our school is now trying to set up a shared community day with one of the international schools—not a debate, just a group of students working on a small volunteer project together. It’s not a grand handshake program. I don’t know if it will work. A few kids have already said they’re nervous. One girl said she didn’t know what to wear. Another asked if she had to speak in front of everyone. And yet, they’re all curious. That curiosity, I’m learning, is the real thing to work with. It’s not about convincing anyone that international school students are just like them. It’s about letting them find out—and seeing that maybe the distance between schools is easier to cross than they thought. Or maybe it isn’t. Either way, we’ll know more after we try.
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