In the blurb to “Queering the Countryside: New Frontiers in Rural Queer Studies”, there is a sentence which, despite talking about rural queerness in America, applies just as much to the UK.  

“Rural queer experience is often hidden or ignored, and presumed to be alienating, lacking, and incomplete without connections to a gay culture that exists in an urban elsewhere.”

The book, an intriguing read that shares the perspective of rural queerness in other countries, caught my attention and given my experience, is likely going to be on my To-Be-Read for the future.

This sentiment, while not the experience of everyone on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum who lives rurally, sums up the main issues with being queer in rural areas. Add to that the extra element of disability, and you get the perfect cocktail of inaccessibility to queer spaces, with people in this demographic feeling locked out of their own community.

So, what would you count as rural? Yes, a lack of infrastructure and facilities but also rurality relates to the little villages in the countryside, often forgotten about by administrative bodies and councils, as they focus on towns and cities.

The problem surrounding queer spaces in rural areas is twofold; firstly, while they may exist, they are often inaccessible for people with disabilities by public transport. Secondly, due to this lack of attendance, it’s particularly hard to sustain.

Several studies, including those from the University of Cambridge and the Office for National Statistics, have found a clear link between neurodivergent conditions and queerness. With such a strong link between neurodivergence and queerness, so much so that 40% of the queer community has some sort of disability, it is shocking to me that there is still not a single fully accessible queer space in the UK.

Also read: Being Autigender: Autism & Gender in a Neuro-Hetero Normative Culture

Reports into this intersection and the problems they face note a number of issues, which, despite provisions within the Equality Act 2010, persist without enthusiasm for change. For those not in the UK, the Equality Act is a piece of legislation which, in theory, makes it illegal to discriminate on the basis of protected characteristics, i.e. disability, sexuality and gender identity. This results in a lack of facilities like step-free access, and in queer bars and clubs, accessible spaces are being used for storage without a shred of consideration. Where there aren’t facilities, it is often because buildings were built before legislation regarding disability-based discrimination was introduced in 1995; however, not always.

As someone with epilepsy, I feel for others in queer spaces with my condition, whose seizures are often triggered in these spaces by the consistent use of strobe lights for ‘atmosphere’. Not a problem I face myself; however, unlike in other contexts, such as cinemas and eating places, there is no appetite to provide regular provision of disability-friendly events, where sensory stimulus, often the heart of queer spaces, is reduced.

Also read: Creating Inclusive Queer Events for Those with Social Anxiety

Throw into the mix the complication of living rurally, and you might as well give up on having permanent, accessible queer spaces at all. Along with the stereotypes of being one of the only queer people in the village (thanks to Little Britain), independence and mobility in these areas are lacking, meaning that even if there is the smallest amount of provision for disabled people who fall under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, the likelihood of being able to access it without arranging support, often posing another challenge, is slim.

For the average disabled person who is also queer in rural areas of the UK, this adds up to a number of additional steps to take: finding out if it is at all possible to get there and back by public transport, relying on family or friends, who may have conflicting and packed schedules, or arranging potentially costly support to take you to such events and venues. From my own experience, I am reliant on family or, if I’m lucky with timings, the bus that passes through my neighborhood only four or five times a day. If it’s on Sunday, although unlikely, public transport does not exist to get into town at all. 

Some of the common stereotypes perpetuated are like the one around being the ‘village gay’ (or bi or pan or whatever). I, myself, am the village pan, and yes, often they are, at least, somewhat realistic. There is also a certain amount of erasure when it comes to rural queerness – a belief that we simply do not exist. Furthermore, much of the sensitized media currently in existence about rural queerness focuses on the US, leaving the UK without an example of what is accurate, perpetuating stereotypes.

Furthermore, it is argued that much of queer identity is entrenched in urban culture, complicating “dominant models of queer identity”, perhaps the root of the lack of acceptance and consideration in rural areas, cutting out the voice of disabled queerness apart from in exceptionally rare circumstances.

In 2021, the Museum of English Rural Life aimed to challenge the persistent connection of urbanness to queerness; however, it found that while there were attempts to normalise rural queer narratives, urban spaces are much more compatible with the community and, too, the disabled community. It is often the case that the challenges with accessing queer spaces as a person with disabilities fade, to an extent, in urban spaces, due to the concentration of funding for access being focused on cities. Because the rural, disabled queer doesn’t exist, right?

This is the attitude taken by many decision-makers because the typical tropes of queer identity are intrinsically linked to urbanity. Further, while based on American statistics, the likelihood of disability is higher in rural areas, where the further disabling effect of rurality leads to decreased mobility and travel. Looking at this through a social model lens, there is a real need for a flip in thinking about accessibility to queer spaces.

Paul Ruiz of the University of Delaware, proposes that starting in the mid-twentieth century, queer spaces were created by the community in spaces where their apparently deviant lifestyles were sheltered from the rest of the city; a sort of anonymity which was enshrined in queer culture, hence the urban link. Nevertheless, this left the narratives of those who are queer in rural or countryside spaces with little voice or opportunity, despite which there was no intention to exclude them intentionally.

Aside from queer spaces, there is the unfortunate effect that having Disability Pride Month (July) right after LGBT Pride Month (June) has, although not in relation to rurality. As someone who fits into both, I hold both with equal importance, even if others do not; however, the perception is that Disability Pride Month must take a back seat. Perhaps this is because LGBT Pride Month is more established than Disability Pride Month; the former was founded in 1994, and the latter in 2015. While there was, for many years, a Disability Pride Day on the anniversary of the passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act being passed into law, it did not have the global reach it needed.

Also read: Queering Disability

The problem with one after the other is that particularly for those who fall into both minorities, although arguably this applies to everyone, that after LGBT Pride Month, everyone is ‘prided out’, so to speak. With little energy left, it is no wonder that Disability Pride Month does not receive the attention it deserves.

The intersection of the two, a place where I fall, is a tricky balancing act. It is, in the end, a fight between the Pink and the Purple Pound. While the Purple Pound, the spending power of people with disabilities in the UK, is worth more (£249 billion a year to the UK economy), it also costs more to rural businesses and venues to make their premises fully accessible to the disabled market. The Pink Pound (worth £6 billion a year to the UK economy – the estimated spending power of queer folx in the UK) requires little adaptation, and as such, it is far easier, particularly in rural businesses with lesser footfall, to cater for a market that requires little investment and is easier to attract.

That’s what it comes down to in rural areas; a matter of funding and footfall and, to an extent, fanfare due to the niche space being disabled and queer takes up, attracting little mainstream attention. . The queer community attracts more business, while being both disabled and queer is, perhaps, seen as being too complicated for many rural venues and business owners to cater to.