How to be both: the complexities of being LGBTQ+ and disabled
This blog was written by Laura Pettenuzzo.
I’ve been disabled all my life and have had a name for my disabilities (cerebral palsy and generalised anxiety disorder) for as long as I can remember. Understanding that I’m part of the LGBTQIA+ community, however, has been a much slower process. And finding a way for those identities to co-exist. That’s an ongoing challenge for two main reasons. The first is my internalised ableism and homophobia. The second is the inaccessibility of many queer spaces and events and the implied assumption disability and queerness don’t co-exist.
Am I disabled enough? Am I too entwined in heteronormative ideals to belong with other LGBTQIA+ people? These are questions I ponder every day. I’ve made a lot of progress and can now genuinely say that I accept my disabilities (thanks, disability pride). And, through my friendships with LGBTQIA+ people and some wonderful allies, I’m chipping away at my internalised homophobia, too. I used to paint my nails and wear dresses because I believed that doing so meant that the homophobic people in my life wouldn’t suspect I was different from them, and that my adherence to gendered norms and stereotypes would protect me from their mockery. Now, I wear dresses and paint my nails simply because those things make me feel good.
In the past few years, I’ve read many books by queer authors and with queer characters and followed queer disabled activists on social media. They’ve shown me that I don’t need a label to define me. I don’t need to have been in a certain number of relationships or tick any real or imagined list of queer criteria to be enough. I already am. And yet, that’s hard to believe when queer spaces are so often unsafe for disabled people.
A few years ago, I worked for the local government to support the disability community. I was keen to get to know other LGBTQIA+ people in the area, but when I asked around, I was told that the only designated queer space was a pub that could only be accessed by climbing several flights of stairs. I’m not the only disabled person with this experience. Queer-disabled writer Jess Walton regularly advocates for the accessibility of queer spaces through their social media. For example, they attended an event in June that was supposedly wheelchair accessible, but the first part of the event was – again – up several flights of stairs. The challenge of queer spaces, though, extends beyond physical accessibility.
Though many events shifted online during lockdowns, they were often missing audio descriptions, captions, sign language interpretation and regular breaks, meaning that disabled people were excluded. Crucially, as governments have lifted COVID-19 restrictions and in-person events have resumed, the safety of disabled people is forgotten and our experiences erased. Many disabled people (myself included) are aware of the potentially life-ruining impacts of a single COVID infection, let alone multiple. Each infection increases our likelihood of heart attack, stroke and Long COVID. We’re only 4 years into the life of this pandemic, and the ongoing impacts of Long COVID are uncertain. My cerebral palsy means that I exert 4 to 5 times the amount of energy as a non-disabled person on any given task. I can’t afford to add COVID fatigue on top of that for an acute infection or – I shudder to think – the rest of my life. We continue to wear masks and rapid antigen test (RAT) and meet in outdoor or well-ventilated spaces because we must. And every time queer people gather indoors, and unmasked, disabled people get the message, loud and clear. We’re not safe, and we’re not welcome.
It wouldn’t take much effort to keep us safe, but it would make an enormous difference to our – my – sense of connection, inclusion and belonging. LGBTQIA+ people are more likely to experience disability and poor mental health outcomes due to our marginalization. Approximately 18% of Australians are disabled, and as of 2019, 11% are LGBTQIA+. The recent Royal Commission into Violence, Abuse Neglect and Exploitation of People with Disability found that LGBTQIA+ disabled people experience higher rates of violence and abuse. Given the compounding marginalisation at the intersection of queerness and disability, the lack of accessibility and inclusion in queer spaces is particularly disappointing.
The creation of Inclusive Rainbow Voices, a Victorian organisation that “represents and advocates for the human rights of all LGBTQIA+ people with disability” gives me hope that things might be starting to change. The CEO and Board of Inclusive Rainbow Voices are all LGBTQIA+ disabled people, and the existence of the organisation illustrates that the intersection of these two lived experiences not yet well recognised or understood.
My LGBTQIA+ friends are among the most respectful of my safety and access needs. Often, they wear a mask and do a RAT without me having to ask. Even if they’re not as cautious as I am, even if they’re sick of wearing a mask or don’t care about COVID, they care about me.
I am disabled. I am LGBTQIA. I am learning to be and embrace both elements of my identity, and I hope that the LGBQTQIA+ community can learn to embrace both too.