This is the final of three blog posts about the Whose Rainbow? Project, which explored what the rainbow means to LGBT+ staff and students in higher education. If you’re interested and want to find out more about the project – and about Equality, Diversity and Inclusion in universities more broadly – we will be launching our findings report, alongside a host of other interesting speakers, during an online event called ‘Equality for Who? The Politics and Practices of University Inclusion’ on Thursday 24th October, 4-6pm. You can find out more and book your place here (feel free to share with students).
In my previous blog post, I explored the labour involved for LGBT+ staff and students in higher education. For many participants, finding or creating LGBT+ community within higher education was a valuable way to reduce the burden of this labour. Community sometimes came from formal networks, such as LGBT+ staff groups and student societies, but at other times, isolation persisted even when such networks existed. Indeed, some found their most meaningful connections through informal, serendipitous encounters. This blog post explores some of these themes.
Staff networks & student societies
Many participants mentioned staff networks or student societies at their institutions. For some, these groups provided a much-needed respite from the heteronormative environment of their daily work or study. For instance, Sarah, an undergraduate, shared her powerful experiences of learning about queer history through her LGBT+ society. Dawn, another student, found it valuable to have access to the LGBT+ society through a WhatsApp group before starting her course, and has been an active member ever since, helping to guide new students. Some staff also appreciated LGBT+ staff networks, noting their role in providing a visible LGBT+ presence. Marcus, for example, valued his staff network for its grassroots inclusivity, particularly speaking of its importance in challenging a decision that was made at his university which was going to impact negatively on LGBT+ people. However, the role that staff networks played varied considerably. Whilst some networks, like Marcus’, were more autonomous and perceived to be able to challenge university decisions, others were linked to HR departments and perceived to be more performative – something that the university had to do to display their inclusivity. Annie, who has worked at various institutions, observed that many staff networks felt like semi-informal socialising groups focused on internal awareness raising, rather than trying to create organisational change. Furthermore, often reliant on voluntary labour, networks could have bursts of activity, then quickly become dormant, exacerbated by staff’s precarious contracts, high workloads and a lack of appetite and/or capacity for anyone taking on the leadership.
Rifts & exclusion
Participants also reported that staff networks and student societies sometimes catered only to certain ‘types’ of LGBT+ people. Nicole felt that as a bi person in a heterosexual-passing relationship, she might not be fully understood or welcomed. Annie noted that most networks she had attended were “very white, middle class and able-bodied”. She speculated that this led to an apolitical environment:
“While there were points of shared identity, they didn’t feel particularly political or interested in changing the status quo because the status quo seemed fine to them.”
Like other EDI initiatives, some participants felt staff networks’ main role was to perform inclusivity for the university, rather than be useful to LGBT+ people. Carla, for instance, distanced herself from a staff network, after they scheduled an event on a day where many staff were on strike. Andrew criticised staff networks for their lack of influence. He cited the London School of Economics (LSE) decision to sever ties with Stonewall against the wishes of both the staff network and the student union as evidence of this powerlessness. Andrew did, however, feel that the voluntary basis on which networks ran could afford them some leverage. He gave the example of a whole staff network publicly resigning after the university failed to deal with an act of transphobia. Perhaps ironically though, this resulted in the collapse of the staff network, with nobody left to run it.
Student societies also faced criticism for sometimes being exclusionary and apolitical. Diamond, an asexual student, avoided LGBT+ societies as she felt some may not see asexuality as a valid identity within the LGBT+ umbrella. Others found student societies unwelcoming due to their focus on alcohol. The most positive feedback came from societies offering diverse activities. Unlike staff, students we spoke to didn’t mention the organising labour involved, perhaps due to their differing relationship with the university.
Alternative spaces
For many, community was found outside of formal LGBT+ networks and societies. Alissa, an undergraduate, found LGBT+ support in her drama society. Thomas, a trans academic, relied on an external network of trans colleagues for peer support. Erin, a remote undergraduate, used a Facebook group and Twitter for community but found these platforms insufficient when facing institutional transphobia. Indeed, participants often felt that community was most vital during moments of institutional conflict. Many academics researching LGBT+ issues valued connections with colleagues in similar fields for mutual support. One student, John, who was also working in the area of LGBT+ studies, pointed out that these spaces were very difficult to find as a Masters student.
Conclusion: community as a political tool
Participants highlighted both the challenges of isolation and the significance of community in higher education. Access to a supportive community could mitigate the labour required of them, ranging from personal pronoun reminders to efforts aimed at institutional change. While some found solace in staff networks and student societies, others, particularly those who were multiply-marginalised, found these resources lacking. Alternative spaces could fill the gap, though isolation persisted for many. When available, however, community became a useful political tool for creating necessary change within higher education.
Dr Tig Slater is a Reader in Queer Disability Studies at Sheffield Institute of Education. Their work draws on disability, queer, trans and gender studies to consider relationships between disability gender and the body. They are also interested in critical explorations of developmental discourse, issues of access/accessibility, and institutional Equality, Diversity and Inclusion Policy. 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
Leave a Reply