No Inclusivity without Accessibility: Jill Nelis on Being Queer and Disabled in Dublin
When I came out, six years ago now like most queer people, my first worry was to do with acceptance. It hadn’t yet occured to me at the time that I ought to also worry about accessibility. Indeed, as someone who was born disabled, it’s always been looming in the background of my life and where I was able to go has often varied from where I wanted to go. However, like most in my situation, I made do by focusing on the people who make somewhere a good time rather than the place.
However, with the realisation that I was queer came the comfort in being both queer and disabled. After all, statistics show that over a third of the queer community is disabled, so for the first time in my life, I thought that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my desire for a social life with like-minded people for accessibility. Oh, how wrong was I?
In 2021, I stepped (metaphorically, of course) into the Dublin gay scene, expecting to find a space halfway between The L-Word and RuPaul’s Drag Race. I was filled with hope of going to targeted queer nights out like ‘Dykon’ and ‘Honeypot’, but much to my surprise and disappointment, each time I messaged them in recent years, I was met with messages such as “We’re accessible in this section, where we have a table in the corner. So if you’re comfortable staying in that one area, yes you can buy a ticket” or “Yes... only one floor is accessible.”
This left me with a tough decision to make. Would going to these events and staying in one place where they had limited accessibility provide me with the life experience that I so desperately desired, or would it only succeed in breeding more disappointment? After repeated attempts at attending these events over the past three years, I find that I was being met with more disappointment than acceptance, which left me with one crucial question: Is queerness accessible?
Ultimately, it is, but only to a point.
I don’t know what is more to blame, the architecture in Dublin or the companies themselves. Interestingly, many queer events advertise themselves as places of acceptance and claim to be open to all while only being accessible to some. This is by no means a criticism of any person, but it does beg the question, shouldn’t we be trying harder and practicing what we preach?
The short answer is yes. However, that answer is not without nuance. You can only try as hard as you can before you are defeated by the preexisting infrastructures, and there are only a handful of accessible venues on offer, so I understand that not every event can be accessible no matter how strong the intent is. A sentiment I would like to share with organisers of these event is the following: make your accessibility information obvious and make a conscious effort for the part of the community that you may not always be able to accommodate. It goes a long way.
Everyone deserves to be proudly queer. If I were to resume the queer and disabled experience for younger people out there I would say: you will experience love and loss, and you will experience it all in your own unique way because you are queer and disabled. Don’t let that deter you.
Oh, and also, it’s normal to feel unhinged from any lesbian break-up.. A word of advice? Stay away from listening to ‘Waiting Room’ by Phoebe Bridgers in public at all costs for the next six months, but well… that’s a story for another day.