Access Is Not Everything

Last month, my partner and I went to the Joffrey Ballet’s Winning Works program at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MCA). The program is designed to promote a “Joffrey For All” by increasing access to underrepresented and often overlooked minority choreographers. We walked into the MCA about fifteen minutes early, with just enough time to use the bathroom before settling in to the show. My partner eyed the women’s restroom right away, tucked conveniently next to the coat check station. I looked around for a moment, noticed a sign for “all gender restrooms” by the staircase, and we split off towards our respective lavatories.

As I turned toward the stairs and began ascending, I heard someone yell, “Excuse me!” I, along with about a dozen other people in the lobby including my partner, turned around instinctually. I noticed a staff member coming out from behind the coat check without fully realizing what was happening, so I continued up the stairs. “Excuse me!” I heard again and then, “Where are you going?! You can’t go up there!” This time I realized the staff member was talking to me so I stopped and started walking back down the steps. My partner, witnessing the whole thing, intercepted the staff person and said, “She’s going to use the all gender bathroom. There’s a sign.” Overhearing this, I pointed to the sign, hoping that would resolve the situation. The staff person paused, looked at me and then my partner, and said to her in a slight whisper, “She can just go in there,” gesturing to the women’s restroom. “No,” my partner replied. “She’d prefer to use the all gender bathroom.” “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. She can go in there,” the woman said again, seemingly trying to convince my partner that I would be safe and comfortable in the gendered bathroom.

As their negotiations unfolded, I quickly assessed my next move. Should I just go ahead and use the women’s restroom or dig in my heels and insist on using the all gender restroom? I was standing next to the sign after all. Or, do I bail on the whole thing and wait until we drive the 45 minutes back to Evanston to use the bathroom? As I weighed my options, I watched the staff person talk to another staff person and then, finally, walk towards me and say, “Okay, come on. I’ll take you.”

I gave a weary smile to my partner and followed the woman up one large staircase, across a gallery floor, and up two more floors in an elevator before finally arriving at the single-stall all gender restroom tucked around the corner at the end of a hallway. I went to the bathroom as quickly as possible and then took the long, awkward journey back with the staff person, followed by a security guard. When we got to the first floor, I thanked the woman for about the tenth time and told her how much I appreciated her help. We got to our seats just in time for the show to start.

This situation, while not always played out in this particular way, is not new to me. I’m certain it’s not unfamiliar to the trans, genderqueer, nonbinary, and masc-presenting folks reading this either. There are variations of reactions from others when I do use gendered bathrooms—my favorite being very genuinely asked “Is this the women's room?” And there are variations in my own willingness to use certain bathrooms depending on where I am and who I am with. I very rarely assume I will have access to a bathroom that feels comfortable and safe, and I am often surprised at the extent of my relief when I come across an all gender bathroom like the one at the MCA.

In some ways, this is a story about access and about how access to inclusive spaces can often feel incomplete or constrained. We could ask ourselves why, for example, the all gender restroom at the MCA is located on the third floor, and apparently closed off during public events. We could ask why they haven’t converted any of their gendered multi-stall restrooms to all gender restrooms, like Steppenwolf or Northwestern’s own Institute for Sexual and Gender Minority Health and Wellbeing. And we could ask why staff haven’t been trained in some basic competencies around gender, such as what to do should a guest to the museum need to use the bathroom (without shouting at them from fifteen feet across a crowded lobby).

For me, though, this is not a story about access. It is a story about belonging. There was an all gender bathroom at the MCA, but my experience of attempting to use it meant there might as well not have been one at all. The whole ordeal was embarrassing, sure. But more than that, this experience was a reminder that the world was not created with people like me in mind—people who do not fit neatly into the gender binary, who are not easily categorizable, who won’t just use the gendered bathroom so as not to inconvenience others or, worst yet, cause a scene. I am reminded here of a quote by Alok Vaid-Menon about language: “What about those of us for whom there are no words?” We can ask similarly, what about those of us for whom there is no space? When I think of space here I am thinking of physical space, of course, but also space within our collective societal imagination. Are we legible to others? Is there room for us?

In last month’s newsletter, Robin incisively laid out the many ways DEI is under attack. Many of the bills moving through state legislatures are about restricting access—to DEI offices, to academic freedom, to certain courses and majors, and to institutions of higher education altogether, as in the case of affirmative action and DEI statements in hiring. We must pay attention to access always. But we cannot stop there. We must also always prioritize belonging. Creating access, whether by removing barriers or constructing new physical spaces, will only take us so far if we do not also attend to how our campus environment makes people feel. We can, for instance, have an all gender restroom on every floor of every building but that alone doesn’t mean our gender expansive community is going to feel as though they belong at Northwestern. The work of belonging is about more than box checking. It is about more than signs, and more than spaces. It is about asking ourselves: will everyone who walks through our doors, or under our arch, feel as though they have a place in this world of ours?

There is no shortage of research demonstrating that a sense of belonging among college students is tied to an increase in retention, better adjustment to college, increased self-esteem, and decreased risk of suicidal ideation, depression, and anxiety (Wilson & Liss, 2020). This is true for all students, but is particularly important for underrepresented students, including LGBTQ+ students.

A sense of belonging on campus can also serve as an important buffer as our broader national climate becomes increasingly hostile for queer and trans folks. In a recent poll released by The Trevor Project, 86% of transgender and nonbinary youth say recent debates around anti-trans bills have negatively impacted their mental health. As a result of these policies and debates in the last year, 45% of trans youth experienced cyberbullying, and nearly 1 in 3 reported not feeling safe to go to the doctor or hospital when they were sick or injured. What’s happening around the country impacts all trans and gender expansive people, even those in Illinois and other seemingly “safe” places. Especially in a moment like this, we need to be doing all we can to create a campus climate that can be a balm for our community rather than another space of conditional acceptance or outright exclusion.

It can be hard to know how to do this, but there are things each of us can do right now. See May 2023's  Diversity Tip for how to create more gender inclusive spaces.