Part 6 of 8
(…a continued reflection on Datable by Jessica Slice and Caroline Cupp)
This may come as a shock to nondisabled people, but most of us disabled folks enjoy having sex. As Slice so succinctly puts it, “the sexless crip is a tired and painful trope” (p. 149). It may also come as a surprise to know that a significant number of disabled people are also trans and/or queer.
Yet, for some people, it’s more challenging to come out as disabled than it is to come out as LGBTQ+. Slice, who became disabled later in life, writes, “I think that if you’ve never experienced a dramatic shift in your body’s functioning, it can be hard to understand how long it takes to accept and integrate changes” (pp. 98-9). I also became physically disabled later in life, and it took me about a decade before I began to really come into my identity as a disabled person. I knew I was queer, however, since about age 9.
There’s a LOT I can say about being queer and disabled, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll focus on the lack of accessibility in LGBTQ+ spaces, since this is part of what this book explores in its chapter on the subject.
The authors rightfully point out that historically, LGBTQ+ communities had to hide their culture and identities. This resulted in a lot of spaces being tucked away into back rooms, basements, and other often physically inaccessible locations. Even when accessibility is addressed, it’s treated as “an afterthought at best and an inconvenience at worst is utterly soul-destroying. Facing inaccessibility, as a person with disabilities, feels like wearing an irremovable post-it note on my head with the words ‘I don’t belong here’” (p. 147).
Considering LGBTQ+ individuals are far more likely to experience isolation anyway, this inaccessibility can force trans and queer disabled people even further into the margins. The goal of accessibility “should be dignity, not just checking off boxes and doing the bare minimum” (p. 148). As an LGBTQ+ community, we can, and need to, do better.
While I haven’t experienced as much inaccessibility as some LGBTQ+ people, it’s always a part of my logistics and decision-making around attending events and locations. It shrinks my dating pool even further, as I’m limited not just by accessibility needs. In addition to the increased trend of people swiping left on my profile, I am restricted in how far I can travel due to physical restraints related to my chronic pain’s impact on my ability to drive and use public transportation.
While I still live close to one of the queer meccas of the United States, it’s just far enough away that many of those dating prospects are simply out of reach unless they’re willing to travel to me. At that point, others begin to see me as a burden, which I then internalize. I start to assume I’m not worthy of that level of accessibility and care, despite the enormous benefits I bring to a relationship. With each new barrier, my dating pool begins to shrink as a queer disabled woman.
I have been fortunate to find people over time who can see what a catch I am. They see me as worth dating, not despite my disability but because they see it as an integral part of who I am and what I bring to the relationship. The reality remains, though, that as a queer crip, I will always face more challenges in dating than my nondisabled peers.
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