Hello,
I was going to write this newsletter about the countless micro instances of ableism I’ve experienced this week and how they’ve been weighing on me, but to be honest I just couldn’t face summoning rage or having something interesting to say about it beyond “do better, world,” which didn’t really feel like a whole piece.
But it got me thinking about how big the little things are. And how that’s true for both the bad stuff and the good stuff. The tiniest things can make a world of difference - both to mundane experiences and how you feel about yourself.
I’ve really noticed this as I’ve been going to more queer events, and in particular, the community’s approach to accessibility. Don’t get me wrong, there is a massive access problem that can basically be summed up in the word “Soho,” meaning that a lot of the bigger and better known places are a no-go for me, but at a grassroots level the community is knocking it out of the damn park. And I have to say that, in a relatively miserable few weeks, seeing one of my communities show up for the other one has bringing me so much joy.
In particular, one of the best things is the liberal availability of access info. Do you know how rare it is, generally, to click on an event listing and know instantly if I can go? How often I have to call up, or trawl google for a mention of a disabled loo? How often I end up paying for an extra ticket because there’s no way to ask about free PA ones? And yet, browsing tiny community events, all the info I need is there, presented as openly and easily as opening times. And people are so happy to help, it leaves me a bit stunned; I DM’d one organiser to ask whether they use strobe lights and since then, every event she’s listed has included lighting info.
Obviously, this makes life immeasurably easier. It’s nice to be able to decide if I want to go somewhere based on the *vibes* and not whether I can get through on the phone to ask about a ramp. But it also makes me, a queer disabled woman very used to having to ask or, often, argue for inclusion, feel welcome. Actually, properly welcome. Possibly (outside explicitly disabled spaces) for the first time since university.
If I think about it too much it makes me want to weep. I’ve always believed in my core that ensuring access for each other is just another way to express love, and here it is in glorious abundance.
Feeling welcome isn’t just nice and warm and fuzzy. It’s somehow, unexpectedly profound. And something I’ve really noticed is that it makes me… braver. More outgoing. Happier to try new things.
Again, it’s the little things. At an event the other day, in a crowd of people, I suddenly realised that not a single person had given me a funny look all night. Before I knew it, I was happily chatting away to a group of women I’d just met. In a bar. I cannot stress how unusual that is for me. Even more unusual, I cheerfully volunteered to take part in the karaoke we were watching. For a girl who until just a few years ago hated her speech impediment, that actually wasn’t such a little thing; in fact, it felt huge.
Of course, some of this newfound bravery has simply come from the very acts of realising who I am and coming out. I have been in very accessible spaces before and still not spoken to a soul, so I don’t want to make it sound like I’m comfortable in queer spaces just because they’re accessible and advertise it. I’m comfortable in queer spaces because I’m queer! But there’s extra magic in the fact that my disabled self is just as welcome as my queer self; altogether, that’s a little, huge, brilliant thing.
And with that, I’m off to sort out my costume for a queer Halloween party I’m going to tomorrow. I am so excited.
Speak soon,
Lucy
I wrote a book!
That’s right! My debut book is NOW.
It’s a memoir about life as a disabled woman, how ableism and sexism interact in complicated and multifaceted ways, and how we often have to fight to be seen as women at all. Find out more here.
I put my heart and soul into this book and I’d love it to reach as many people as possible. Please do grab a copy or share the link with anyone who’d be interested.
I too have been finding great solace in the smaller, grassroots, self-organized queer spaces where I live. Folks who post videos of the venue, showing where to find ramps, loos, and what the seating looks like. Orgs that make sure to book venues that have space for a quiet room. Organizers making masks mandatory and providing ear plugs, masks and stim toys. Also, I am finding what is on offer just...nicer. Smaller markets with more genuine hand-made stuff (rather than cheap tat ordered in bulk and available at every booth) and shows with a great mix of drag, burlesque, and spoken-word/poetry with more of a heart connection to the performance.