Last year, an Instagram post promoting a queer burlesque pride celebration caught my attention for all the wrong reasons. The event promised a safe, supportive space that welcomed a diverse community. However, the venue was in a basement with a steep set of stairs and no elevator, making it inaccessible to many disabled individuals, including myself.
I commented on the post, highlighting the contradiction between the event’s inclusive messaging and its inaccessible location. The organizers acknowledged the issue and expressed their commitment to finding a better solution in the future. Their response sounded sincere, and I hoped that next year would be different. Unfortunately, this year, the event was held in the same inaccessible venue, with the same promises of inclusion.
The Ongoing Struggle for Accessibility
This is not an isolated incident. I have had similar conversations with organizers of various LGBTQ+ events, from drag shows to Pride celebrations. Each time, I am met with explanations about the difficulties of finding accessible venues, the high costs, and the realities of grassroots community events. While I understand these challenges, I cannot reconcile the fact that accessibility consistently loses out.
Every time I encounter an inaccessible event, I am asked to understand and give grace. I am expected to reassure everyone that it’s okay, to accept that accessibility couldn’t win this time, and to be grateful that people tried. However, I am tired of being expected to accept excuses and defenses for ableism. Disabled people have been saying the same things for years: we need accessible bathrooms, seating, shade, water, information ahead of time, ASL interpretation, captions, sensory considerations, accessible transportation and parking, and more.
The Historical Context of Exclusion
LGBTQ+ community spaces are not just fun; they are essential for queer individuals who often grow up feeling isolated. These spaces help us figure out who we are, meet our partners and chosen family, and learn that we are not alone. However, the history of the LGBTQ+ movement has been complicated regarding disability. For decades, homosexuality was classified as a psychiatric disorder, and disability was viewed as a problem to be cured rather than a part of human diversity.
As gay liberation movements fought to prove that homosexuality wasn’t an illness, many embraced respectability politics, distancing themselves from disability and mental illness. This strategy helped advance rights and acceptance but often reinforced stereotypes and stigma. During the AIDS crisis, queer and disabled communities became deeply intertwined, fighting for survival, home care, bodily autonomy, and accessibility. However, as the mainstream queer liberation movement continued, it often separated itself from the sick and disabled.
The Current State of Accessibility
Research has shown that disabled LGBTQ+ individuals are significantly less likely to feel connected to their communities than their non-disabled peers. Many describe discrimination and poor treatment within LGBTQ+ spaces themselves. Even spaces created specifically to serve LGBTQ+ communities often fail to provide meaningful access for disabled people. According to the 2018 LGBTQ Community Center Survey, many community centers still lack basic accessibility features like accessible restrooms, parking, paths of travel, and communication access.
Disabled LGBTQ+ people also experience disproportionately high rates of loneliness and psychological distress. A 2018 Stonewall survey found that 59% of disabled LGBTQ+ people had felt that life was not worth living during the previous year, compared with 31% of LGBTQ+ people without disabilities. Additionally, 28% had self-harmed and 8% had attempted suicide during the previous year.
If nearly half of LGBTQ+ adults are disabled, why is accessibility still treated like a special interest issue? Why are we still talking about it as though disabled people are unexpected guests who crashed the party? As a community, we generally recognize that some barriers are fundamentally incompatible with the values we claim to hold. We don’t spend years defending them because they are inconvenient to remove, nor do we celebrate the intentions of the people who created them. We understand that exclusion is unacceptable, even when fixing it is difficult.
However, when disabled people are excluded, the conversation somehow shifts. Accessibility becomes just one consideration among many. There’s the budget, the history of the building, the community organizing, the atmosphere, the performers, the location, the volunteers, the vibe, the sound system, and the fact that queer spaces are disappearing. Accessibility is treated as one value to be weighed and balanced against everything else. Too frequently, it falls to the bottom of the pile.
But not all of us have the privilege of treating accessibility that way. Because when accessibility is lost, disabled people don’t get a slightly worse experience. We don’t get a less convenient seat or a less ideal view. We don’t get to come. When people talk about accessibility as one value among many, disabled people experience it as the difference between being inside the room and being left outside of it.
