Behind the Mask

BEHIND THE MASK BEHIND THE MASK BEHIND THE MASK BEHIND THE MASK

The subtle inaccessibilities of nightlife for people with invisible disabilities.

Words by Teddy Webb

It is, to put it mildly, very knackering to be a chronically ill young person. You’re out there just trying to live your little student life, watching your peers do the same, while the back of your mind is constantly whirring with the subconscious task of managing your illness. Regardless of the developments technology makes, there’s an additional weight on your shoulders: the knowledge that, alongside assessments and making rent and all the dramas of new adulthood, you’re responsible for keeping yourself alive. I want to make it clear that it’s not always the fault of my disabilities, either, but the fault of the world around me failing to accommodate me and my disabled siblings in the slightest.

I have the privilege of being white and middle-class, and therefore at less risk of falling into poverty or having to choose between food and insulin. Diabetes is invisible too, meaning I don’t “look disabled” to a lot of people - unless they catch me injecting in the middle of Taco Bell, they’re unlikely to make snap judgements about me because of my chronic illness. Nevertheless, invisible disabilities pose their own challenges. It’s never fun to have untrained nightclub bouncers argue amongst themselves about whether you’re allowed to bring your life-or-death medication into the club, or to be told you’re acting too drunk to be served when, in reality, your blood sugar has hit a devastating low and you’re just after a full-sugar coke. Put simply, having your experience or identity doubted is a disturbingly common facet of the chronically ill experience. Disabled people aren’t a monolith, of course, and we face our own needs. For instance, wheelchair users are ridiculously uncatered for in nightlife; it’s as though if someone’s seen as unable to dance about in five inch heels, they’re not worth considering. I had a wonderful experience recently at Poly Glamorous, enhanced by the fact that I saw a large group of wheelchair users seemingly having the bloody good time they deserve, but it’s upsetting that I only have one memory like this in my three years in Brighton. Invisible access needs are often different, but they’re still access needs. I get that venues want to make money, and that people bringing in food isn’t exactly conducive to their snack sales, but if I’m told off one more time for trying to bring my, really quite important, hypo treatments in. I’m going to abandon civilisation and become one with the moss.

I’m not saying accessibility is always easy in terms of logistics, but planning events with us in mind isn’t a burden – and neither are we. Believing us when we say what we need is the best place to start. Once again, our needs aren’t all the same, so you might get some conflicting reports, but intent is the route to impact. Allow disabled clientele to make informed decisions. Accessibility information should be published on a venue’s websites and updated regularly. If a space may or may not be a feasible setting for your night out, as Alanis Morrissette says, ‘you oughta know’. Fundamentally, accessibility feels like a dialogue. The people it serves should be kept in the loop on how they are being cared for and included in our nightlife spaces.

Credit: Rae Garvey

Rae’s Comments: Komedia is genuinely just a weird building. I don’t know what the legs are there for, but you can’t really ignore them. I just think they’re neat honestly.