Why safe spaces are so special

(Content warning for discussion of Orlando, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, racism and ableism. If it's too difficult to read about these topics, I understand, and please don't trigger yourselves. However, if you feel able to, it would be much appreciated, as this was rather hard - both emotionally and physically - for me to write. Love and thanks.)

I have debated over the past near fortnight whether or not I should write this, and have still been debating today over whether to upload it. This doubt has stemmed from two sources:

1) So that I may write honestly, in the knowledge that this post is likely to be read mostly by people who have no idea about my sexuality (including family members and some long-term friends), I believe I have to come out as bisexual (which, for me, means that I am attracted to people of the same and different genders to myself) before going any further with this post. That act doesn’t feel too safe in the current climate, even if it’s ‘just online’, especially now that we’ve left the haven of equality that is the EU.

2) A huge part of me feels that the Latinx LGBTQUIA+ community don't need another white person sticking their oar in following the tragedy at Pulse if it won't make a real contribution to the discussion. Yes, it touches all of us who identify as anything other than heterosexual, but the voices of POC within the community are sidelined enough as it is, and I didn’t want to perpetuate that unnecessarily. I’m also extremely conscious that it is important to acknowledge that this is by no means an isolated incident, and in fact is merely the most widely reported example of attacks that happen worldwide every day. 

    

I mentioned these doubts to several LGBTQUIA+ friends (who I won’t name, out of respect for their own safety and comfort), though, and they have persuaded me to upload this, on the basis that, if I have found reading other people’s thoughts helpful at this time, then it is entirely conceivable that others would find some solace in reading mine. I obviously have no experience of being a person of colour (white privilege readily and firmly acknowledged) – yet I do understand what it feels like to be another ‘minority within a minority’. LGBTQUIA+ disabled people (or ‘queer crips’, as the more radical of us call ourselves in an effort to reclaim two of the slurs frequently levelled at our social group) are vastly underrepresented, both in the mainstream understanding of LGBTQUIA+ people and within the community itself. This is due in part to a combination of ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ and ‘compulsory able-bodiedness’ (cf. the work of McRuer and others for further information if interested – or just message me!), as well as to the perception of the disabled body as inherently asexual (and, by extension, undesirable) that is so prevalent within the general social consciousness. These phenomena made it incredibly tricky for me to navigate my sense of self growing up because, whilst I knew logically that there had to be others like me ‘out there’ (pun most definitely intended!), I had no clue where to find them. It is only in very recent years, and following a lot of research, that I have managed to unearth some semblance of a community, online but also (at last!) face to face. I know how hard it is to seek for safety, security and recognition – and I know the joy that is felt when it’s found. So if by publishing this post I can make that journey of discovery easier for even just one person, then it’ll be worth it, whatever the potential ramifications.

Now for the piece proper. I have never been to an LGBT club, mostly because the vast majority in London aren’t that accessible, and the price of a taxi to from campus to Coventry as an undergraduate was prohibitive. This may change now that I’m living in Leamington (if I manage to make it to one of the Zephyr Lounge nights) but at the moment, it’s true, so instead I’m going to write about another kind of safe space for which I am and will be forever grateful – Pride Parades.

I don’t really remember my first Pride – I was five, after all, and I think my biggest concern that day was how loudly I could blow my rainbow-striped whistle without hurting the ears of whoever happened to be carrying me on their shoulders at that particular moment. I was also very keen on the glitter. Even then, though, the sense of community and solidarity was palpable – and, whilst I definitely didn’t have the words to express it, I felt a huge amount of relief when I caught the eyes of other children, and I grinned at them, aware that we had a similar experience of family life. As I’ve got older, the glitter has remained important, but (now that I can readily articulate my emotions) it is secondary to the feeling of freedom and safety that comes from knowing I am not merely accepted but understood. This was most evident at London Pride last year, when I found out about the wheelchair safe space, where my (ambulant) friend and I could join the parade together. We ended up next to another wheelchair user and his two daughters, and the smiles on their faces reminded me of my own once upon a time. Moreover, even in previous years, when we’ve had to trundle and trudge around the same block of Soho several times because I couldn’t find anywhere to get off the pavement, we didn’t really mind, because it was a legitimate reason to stay longer in a place where no-one looked twice at a wheelchair user in a nearly see-through rainbow top and her friend wearing a ‘love your inner lesbian’ t-shirt.

This isn’t to say it is always entirely happy (one mustn’t forget that Pride is, at its essence, a protest) – and the atmosphere at all of the events across the world this year will be tinged with grief. I couldn’t be in London today, but I was there in spirit, and I was extremely grateful to be in Coventry last weekend for the second ever Pride, because it showed me that, despite our fear and sadness, we could still come together as a community and be strong. There’s great power in celebration amidst tears, and I’m so thankful to have helpers who were supportive enough to come along with me.

To my five-year-old self - I hope you’re proud of who I’ve grown into being today. To my fellow ‘queer crips’ – thank you for helping me to feel safe and valid. To all my friends (both LGBTQUIA+ and non), I love you and I’m grateful to have you in my lives. To anyone who might want advice on disability and sexuality, visit: http://www.regard.org.uk/

We must keep on loving, and laughing and living, because love wins overall. Happy Pride!