In the Whose Rainbow? project we have been asking LGBT+ staff, students, and self-declared ‘allies’, about their experiences of higher education. One major finding from our interviews was the vast amount of additional, often uncompensated, labour required of LGBT+ staff and students. This ranged from personal efforts to be correctly recognized in their identity to expectations of being a source of expertise on LGBT+ issues, often without formal acknowledgment or compensation.
The labor of ‘being out’
As is well documented in LGBT+ literature (e.g. Formby, 2017), ‘coming out’ is not a singular event, but a continuous, and often exhausting, process. Participants’ accounts pointed to the complexities and labour of coming out in higher education. Participants spoke of the desire to be recognised and addressed correctly in their place of work/study. For trans participants, this could mean reminding people of their pronouns multiple times a day. Al, a doctoral student, felt forced to come out in order to explain why some forms of international travel for fieldwork wouldn’t be safe for them as a trans person. Ida, a staff member, described how prior knowledge of a colleague’s homophobia, alongside a need to ensure that she was given the reasonable adjustments that she required as a disabled person, meant that coming out as pansexual didn’t feel possible.
Becoming a spokesperson
Another recurrent issue was the assumption that any LGBT+ member of staff/student could act as a spokesperson for all LGBT+ people. As well as being asked to contribute to Equality, Diversity and Inclusion (EDI) initiatives, and approached by individual colleagues for advice, teaching staff often found that students interested in LGBT+ issues were sent their way, even if this wasn’t their academic area of expertise. Yet, despite being frustrated (and often exhausted) by this, staff in particular also felt a responsibility to make the university a better place for LGBT+ people, and therefore conflicted about how much of their labour to give to the university. As Aarto put it:
‘It’s a difficult one to navigate. It’s like, I shouldn’t be expending the emotional energy to explain this stuff to you but if I don’t, you’re probably not going to go and look it up. You’re probably going to find something on the internet that’s wrong or offensive or goodness only knows.’
The frustration of being ignored
Although staff felt they were often asked (and expected) to contribute to LGBT+ initiatives, this didn’t mean that they felt their views were listened to. As Felix, a lecturer, put it, ‘we do surveys after surveys and, yeah, that’s the only way we have of expressing anger and it doesn’t really seem to do anything’. Many participants described long-winded efforts of trying to make very small changes within their institutions, such as updating gender options on HR forms. Participants also gave examples of university ‘EDI’ policies being used to stop change being made (something Sara Ahmed [2006] calls ‘non-performativity’). Alissa, for example, described being told that their undergraduate curriculum couldn’t be made more trans inclusive, because the trans inclusion policy was still in the process of being written. For students and increasingly numbers of precariously employed staff, change often never came within the time they were at the university.
Trade unions & labour relations
Interviews were taking place during a time of industrial action over pay and working conditions from the University and College Union (UCU). For some participants, this was brought up as an important context for their Equality Diversity and Inclusion (EDI) work. Felix, who had sat on numerous EDI-related committees, for example, worried that their EDI work was undermining the work of their union. As they said, ‘these initiatives, they seem to be a way that the university can avoid talking to the union by saying oh we’re already doing this in our own way’. Felix wasn’t the only one to feel this way – Andrew described how he had publicly resigned from all his university EDI roles during union dispute, feeling it was more productive to put his time into union work. Aarto described their time with UNISON as feeling ‘more like activism’ than their university EDI work. They pointed particularly to their time being compensated for when working for UNISON, whereas universities expected them to do it alongside their day job.
The complex role of rainbow symbolism
So, how do rainbows fit into all of this? For some participants, seeing a colleague wear a rainbow lanyard offered a sense of safety, signalling an ally or confidant. However, as explored in the previous blog post, rainbow symbolism often lacked clear meaning. Rainbows could be part of hollow HR initiatives or worn by individuals without understanding of LGBT+ struggles. In institutions where change is slow and LGBT+ people are expected to perform extra labour, the widespread use of rainbow imagery could feel frustrating; the symbolism of the rainbow was overshadowed by the lack of tangible support and change within these institutions.
Dr Tig Slater is a Reader in Queer Disability Studies at Sheffield Institute of Education.
A longer version of this blog post, along with other findings from the Whose Rainbow project, is available at http://whoserainbow.wordpress.com You can also follow the project on Twitter/X @Whose_Rainbow
References
Ahmed, S. (2006). The Nonperformativity of Antiracism. Meridians, 7(1), 104–126. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40338719
Formby, E. (2017). Exploring LGBT spaces and communities : contrasting identities, belongings and wellbeing. Routledge.
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