Key Sentence:
- The argument between Maeve and Amy about the importance of money shows.
- How complicated financial matters can weigh or even dissolve the best of relationships.
Known for their refreshing, nuanced stories of sex and relationships, close friends Maeve Wiley (Emma Mackie). And Amy Gibbs (Amy Lou Wood) fall above the class in the highly anticipated third season of Netflix’s “Sex Education.” More precisely, the very different relationships, attitudes, and experiences they had with him.
As teenagers, they had little income of their own, Sex Education Show but Maeve, separated from her parents. And living alone in a caravan park, was working-class, while Amy, overcrowded, was more than wealthy. The iconic duo is known for their quick wits and their inseparable demeanor, but their friendship is not without problems because of their class differences.
Since season one, Amy hides her friendship with what’s called “biting the chicken.
Maeve’s cruel nickname at school – so that Maeve’s looks and lifestyle don’t tarnish her reputation. Although Amy eventually gave up the popular mob favoring Maeve, their varied experience presented an added challenge.
In the new series, during an expensive school trip to France, Maeve tells Amy how upset Sex Education Show she is that her sister Anna’s adoptive mother is paying for her travel expenses – “I don’t need any charity,” she says on the offer. But Amy reveals that Anna did not pay Maeve’s fees – Amy asks her mother to pay for it. Expecting Maeve to thank her, she waved the gesture and said, “Don’t worry, money means nothing to me,” but Maeve was furious.
Despite her words, Maeve’s anger has nothing to do with feeling like charity but instead focuses on the injustices and financial inequalities in the world. Indeed, the tension stems from the heartbreaking revelation. That while they are close friends, their socioeconomic class makes them “worlds apart,” as Maeve tells Amy.
It is a heartbreaking realization that I and many others feel.
Growing up, I only had friends like me: the working class. I have a single mother who works hard to make ends meet, like almost everyone in my town. Fortunately, I didn’t realize there was a struggle. But while I was comfortable with it, I was also hit for six when I moved to Surrey for an 18-year-old university and first met the rich. While driving a Range Rover, shopping at Marks & Spencer, and being a tweed art student. A big, fragile, low-income family suddenly freaks me out.
On my first day, I arrived at the hostel with a box full of indecent noodles, canned soup, and frozen beef. My family had embraced him and told me that I would be grateful when the money ran out. But after they left, the contents of my kitchen cupboards invited questions – and some scorn – from others. “I would call Childline if my mother forced me to eat frozen beef,” said one boy. It was a comment without hate but suffocated in privilege and ignorance. He later became close friends, but the petty comments continued, and he never felt less stressed.