The Line Between Two Identities: The Struggle of Being Both LGBTQ+ and Disabled
I'm disabled. I am also a lesbian. My disabled and queer identity are things that I have been acutely aware of since a very young age, and thus has affected a lot of my day-to-day living.
Both identities generally have wonderful communities attached to them. Places where people like myself are able to turn to to feel seen, heard and accepted in ways that we might not be able to otherwise.
I've been disabled for my entire life, for considerably longer than the amount of time that I have known that I wasn't heterosexual. When I finally realised and came to grips with the knowledge that my sexuality was something that wasn't conventional or expected of me, it never really occurred to me was how it would impact my identity as a disabled person.
These two parts of me are so incredibly different; the only thing that they have in common is that they make up a large part of who I am as a person. With two vastly different communities one could ask: how could one identity begin to impact the other, be it negatively or positively? The answer is that it shouldn't, yet it does in so many ways.
Disabled and queer communities have always existed alongside one another, but rarely openly blurring the lines between them. That lack of integration has, sadly, meant that queer, disabled people have been pushed out. It often feels like we don't have a set-in-stone place in either community.
The lack of integration between the two communities has also meant that the safe spaces created for the LGBTQ+ community aren't easily accessible to those that are both disabled and LGBTQ+. Our needs are often overlooked and seen as too much hassle, and so we are oftentimes left out of the agenda entirely. Our existence in both communities being overshadowed leads many of us – myself included – to feel incredibly unwelcome in either environment.
We are consistently faced with deciding which part of our identity we wish to hold onto in certain spaces, because [for the most part] there is rarely space for us to exist as proudly and openly both LGBTQ+ and disabled – two important sides to who we are.
This isn't the fault of either community. It is the fault of the way that the world views disability, and the way the world views sexual and gender identity. Saying that, there are many things that could be changed to make Pride (and the LGBTQ+ community as whole) more accessible, more welcoming, and more understanding of its disabled siblings. While some of the things that need changing warrant a more drastic and system change, things such as disabled friendly queer spaces, wheelchair access, seating areas, sign language interpreters and so much more could change the game in making Pride an accessible event.
I spoke to a friend of mine, who lives in the United States, about vaer experience with Pride events as someone who is both physically disabled and is also autistic.
Vae said: “On the autistic side of things, Pride is just 100% inaccessible, even the ones that are smaller. There are live bands playing at the loudest of volumes that even noise cancelling headphones couldn't dull. It was like being flayed alive. At one point, it got to the point where I had a meltdown and a stranger had to take me three blocks away until the noise was muted enough for me to calm down. The music didn't stop until Pride had ended, and I couldn't go anywhere where there was little-to-no noise.”
Discussing the physical disability aspect to the inaccessibility that vae faced, it was a very similar response: “You can't really fit a wheelchair anywhere because of how small the side walls are, especially if they're lined with booths. You can forget bringing a cane because there are no paved streets, or at least not at any Pride events that I've attended. The streets are too cracked, which makes it so easy to get stuck or trip. There are so very few places to sit or rest, and none that are designated for disabled people only. Which means you need to ask people to move from the very few seating areas there are, which of course isn't easy for those that are non-verbal or people with crippling anxiety, let alone anyone who needs help in those situations.”
When I reflect on my own personal experience at Pride parades, and as a disabled person within the LGBTQ+ community, my experience is similar.
It has been several years since I attended Pride, with my last one being in 2018, for a multitude of reasons [let's be honest here, the reason is COVID-19 and my health, which has been yo-yoing for years with no end in sight], but I highly doubt much has changed since then.
Bristol Pride is considered one of the biggest and the best in the country, so why is it so inaccessible?
My first time at Pride was back in 2017, when my health was a little bit more stable and I was able to walk in the march unaided, as opposed to now where I would require at the very least my crutches, or at most my wheelchair. But even in my more stable health moments, like Pride 2017, I am still very uneasy on my feet and naturally incredibly clumsy. I am also someone who has severe social anxiety, and I'm extremely sensitive to noise.
Pride, by default, is incredibly loud. It is, arguably, one of the ways that Pride is noticed: it is all about the community being loud and proud about being LGBTQ+. I believe some changes should be made in the name of accessibility, but I am not asking Pride to change entirely.
When marching, it's so easy to be pushed around and jostled about. At my first Pride, I vividly remember being shoved and pushed, nearly falling over several times. The amount that my body was jostled also added to the payback* [*the name for how much of an increase in symptoms I get after doing anything big or strenuous] that I suffered after Pride was over.
In 2018, my health was a lot worse, and I couldn't walk easily. I took my crutches, which I thought would not only aid me to enjoy walking in the parade march but would also signify that I am disabled, and that people needed to be a bit more wary of where their stepping and/or how much they push me around because of said disability: I was very much wrong.
I wasn't just on the receiving end of jostling and being stepped on/over, I also got several odd looks, as if it was unbelievable that a visibly disabled person was marching. It was as though I was this kind of mythical creature.
That type of behaviour and treatment, those kind of pointed stares and glares aren't unusual for me – or most visibly disabled people – to experience when outside of their bubble or when we're not in familiar surroundings, and while it does sting every single time, it hurts a little more when it happens at and during Pride. The parade, the event, is supposed to be an inclusive experience for all, and it hurts a lot to realise that the inclusivity that Pride is known for quite often only extends to able-bodied LGBTQ+ people, not those that are disabled.
How inclusive can you really be when you're truly not including everyone? The answer is: you can't, and that is why something desperately needs changing.
Queer spaces are safe havens for queer people. For some, it is their only way of being open about their sexuality without being frowned upon. But, far too often, queer disabled people aren't extended that grace of having accessible safe havens as spaces to belong.
So, what can be done to ensure that Pride becomes – and stays – something that practices what it preaches and is truly all-inclusive? Making accessibility a priority isn't complicated; accessibility should always be non-negotiable.
Make sure that there is easy access to any entrances or exits, and that they're wheelchair friendly, especially if it's taking place indoors.
Inclusive language. This doesn't just extend to Pride, nor just disabled people. We should all strive to make sure that our vocabulary isn't composed of derogatory words and terms.
Be mindful of your space and where you step. Just because might need a little bit more space, especially if we use mobility aids, doesn't give you permission to step in front of us, or move in front of us; and please, please never touch someone's mobility aid to move them without their permission.
Don't be upset if you're behind someone who may move a little bit slower than their peers. This is aimed at people marching in the signature Pride parade. Some disabled people, namely those with mobility issues or chronic pain, may move at a pace slower than that of an able-bodied person, a pace that you, personally, deem respectable. Allow us to move as quickly, or as slowly, as we are able. If you want or need to get past us, instead of becoming frustrated with the speed (or lack thereof) that we're moving at, simply ask if you can go in front. We would much rather not hold anyone up, or annoy anyone by our walking pace. It is perfectly okay to say a simple 'excuse me'.
Make sure that there is a quieter area, somewhere with seating, for those that need to wind down. This might not only serve the disabled people that need it, but those that are abled too. Pride can be a tiring but exhilarating experience for all involved; a place to recharge – even for a moment – could be so useful.
Make sure that there are translations of what is being said for those with hearing disabilities. In situations where there is loud music, performers, and speeches it's hard enough to understand what is being said when you're hearing, let alone when your hearing is something that is already impacted.
LISTEN TO YOUR QUEER DISABLED COUNTERPARTS! If we are saying something needs changing, or if we need help in order to be able to enjoy the experience in its full capacity, society should be striving and trying our best to make it a possibility. This requires able-bodied people to be allies for their queer disabled peers.
Pride should already be accessible. This piece shouldn't have had to be written in the first place, but here we are, and it is so very needed.
Disabled LGBTQ+ folk should not be, and should never have had to consider, giving up something that should ordinarily be a wholesome and enlightening experience. Disabled LGBTQ+ people should not have to forgo the feeling of being special, included, and seen due to inaccessibility. Many people have no experience of their health, wellbeing, and safety being disregarded and therefore put at risk due to a lack of accessibility. Yet disabled people are often made to compromise our health in the name of inclusion or opt out of attending. Why?
Queer and disabled people make up a small portion of the community, but that doesn't negate our needs; it doesn't mean that we don't deserve to enjoy Pride just as our able-bodied LGBTQ+ siblings are able to.
Our accessibility shouldn't be an afterthought. We shouldn't have to fight to access these things. Think about us. Fight for our right to go to Pride and feel safe, seen, heard, and accepted. We shouldn't be stepped on, stepped over, knocked down, leaned on, pushed around, ignored, and tossed aside.
We deserve a space that we can exist in peace, without fear of judgement and ableism, a space where we are able to feel the sense of community that our non-disabled fellow members of the community are able to experience.
It's 2022. It's time to make a change. We can fix this. You can help fix it – if you are willing to try.
Written by Phoebe Jenkins
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