One of the strongest lessons I’ve tried to live by is to not listen to what people say, watch what they do. This could be because I consider it one of the most important things my father taught me. What this means is that when I’m in a space that talks about being safe, or welcoming, or accommodating, I don’t listen to the words anymore than it takes to recognize that they’re wishing for the space to be like that. I watch what they do. And quite often, the two things are completely different.
A good example is my college. I’m finishing my master’s degree in Religious Studies at a public college in my state. The values and core beliefs include “cultural competency” and they talk a good game about being a welcoming, safe place for a diverse student body. My experiences in many regards have been anything but. As a disabled student, the menu of accommodations was sorely lacking. In fact, there was only one thing they could do during my undergrad, and nothing during my graduate studies, which left me having multiple panic attacks each week. The college, like shingles in the commercial, did not care.
I’m used to it really. Though I have been employed full-time for around 25 years, only recently moving to part time when the company I was with began to wind down, I’m used to Fortune 500 companies turning their back on disabled employees, refusing accommodations or ghosting them all together, and that is in a large part why my therapist and I have discussed how working full time for a company, where I wasn’t in control of the amount or volume of work or how it got done, would be dangerous to my health. You see, when I can create a space that is sensory friendly (no overhead lights is a great example) and doing work that feels aligned with my values and that I can control, I easily slip into “the zone” and it isn’t difficult at all. (So much so that I often forget to take my anxiety meds, which is an endless source of amusement around here. I can chase down a website problem or some tricky technical thing on my end for hours without anxiety, but put me with a customer on the other end working for a company that often doesn’t treat me well, and it’s panic attack city. That’s what cPTSD does.)
Why am I telling you all of this? Why am I being so honest and vulnerable here?
Because I recently was in a group where it was impressed that not only was this a safe space where everyone was honored and we were to meet one another where we were, but also, it was said that we would become close, really close, as if that was the expectation. And as a neurodivergent, disabled individual the things I heard in that space, specifically the use of mental health pathology or even a hefty dose of judgment from people who are in the caring professions, immediately flagged the space as not safe for me.
I work very hard to give everyone compassion and grace. We’re all just walking each other home, after all. But I am finding that in certain situations, and especially among those who do not have to think about things like sensory needs or PTSD triggers or even physical access, that there is also the belief that saying a space is open and safe automatically grants it that status.
My purpose for this blog isn’t to complain about the situation, but rather to point out that we cannot proclaim a space as safe for everyone all the time. And if people aren’t willing to work at creating a safe space, such as being able to set aside their own biases or training, then the space will never be safe, especially for those who are marginalized.
I am still learning to speak up in the moment about these things. That’s something that I need to work harder on and be willing to do, despite my past trauma in that area. But mostly, I just want to let able-bodied, neurotypical folk who may find this blog know that calling something a safe space doesn’t mean it is safe until actions align with the words.
