On Being Queer and Disabled : A Personal Essay

One of the pitfalls of both the LGBTQ community is our complacency in understanding how each individual’s queerness can be affected by other aspects in their life. Being black and transgender will always be different than being white and transgender. The trials of lesbians will always be different than those of gay men. One of the most frequently forgotten group of people are those of us who are both queer and disabled.

We hear stories of trans people avoiding doctors offices because of the pain of being misgendered and dead named by healthcare professionals. Yet we never hear stories of chronically ill trans people who see multiple doctors each week. We never acknowledge the reality of a hospital stay where having your birth name thrown around hurts worse than the surgery. There are no stories of trans people who’s illnesses make surgeries impossible. We hear stories of people who waited years for top surgery, but never stories of those who don’t have the option.

My friends often ask me why I stopped wearing binders and why I abandoned my dreams of testosterone. When I tell them that it’s medically impossible, I see pity flash across their faces. But when I tell them that I’m happy just the way I am, their pity turns to confusion. As a teenager I harbored hatred towards my body for being feminine. When I see myself in the mirror today, I don’t see myself in the same way; my body has fought so hard to stay alive that I could never bring myself to hate it.

Growing up in the south, I often found myself scared of how I would be perceived. I was terrified of being stared at for holding my girlfriend’s hand. I lived in fear of myself, and like anybody else it took a toll. How do you take care of yourself if you are terrified of being. When you’re chronically ill your survival depends on your ability to take care of yourself. I had no other choice but to bite the belt and move forwards.

The most surprising realization that I came to is that LGBT safe spaces I flocked to before would not accommodate me. It’s three years after my very first Pride and they can’t fit my wheelchair onto the float. We forget such a large portion of our community in everything we do. We forget that you can be queer and disabled because those of us who are can’t fit into the space you have created, and it all goes both ways. We see picture after picture of husbands and wives at each other's bedside. We rarely see a woman bringing flowers to her wife in the hospital, or a trans person painting their flag on their cane. Photos of rainbow spokes on wheelchairs are few and far between, just as we rarely see lifts on Pride floats.. It is easy to forget those of us who are queer AND disabled, if both sides so often forget the other.