On disability and not fitting into the sapphic scene

One evening dating while disabled in an ableist world

This past spring, I was so burned out on dating apps I decided to take a break and try other methods to meet people instead. If I wanted to meet someone in-person, I knew I probably needed to go to events likely to attract other queer women. Did it sound exhausting? Honestly, yes. But if I was nixing swiping and hoping to nix being single, in-person socializing was my other option.

An opportunity soon presented itself: a friend invited me to a sapphic cocktail and game night at a chic restaurant and bar. A $30 ticket covered admission and unlimited pours of 3 different types of cocktails alongside mocktail options. The description also specified that the venue was wheelchair accessible, so I thought, okay, this might be an especially accessible event!

I don’t drink alcohol because it’s a trigger for MCAS and sometimes makes me very ill. I also can’t socialize while standing (courtesy of POTS) so I bring my rollator when I go to events like this so that I’ll definitely always have a place to sit. I knew most of the ticket was covering the alcohol, but I figured at least I’d get some good mocktails. I decided to go. I wasn’t going specifically to meet potential dates, but it was a chance to dip my toe into the sapphic scene.

I went with 3 friends, and when we arrived, the restaurant was packed. The very limited seating was all occupied, and large groups of people stood drinking and half-dancing to the loud music. We made our way through the venue, surveying the scene.

My friend ran into three people they knew within minutes of arriving, and I ran into dozen’s of strangers’ ankles with the wheels of my rollator, because the place was really far too crowded to navigate with a mobility aid. When we finally excuse me!-ed our way to the back, we found three bartenders frantically making cocktails, lining them up on the bar in small plastic cups. Yelling over the music, I asked which were the mocktails.

There weren’t mocktails. They told me I could order a mocktail and pay the price on the menu. I said, “no, thank you” and walked away. My friends and I found a spot around a standing table at the front of the venue.

It’s so hard to know when to make a fuss out of something; people get uncomfortable, and it can change the vibes of a whole night. But I was angry, and I knew this would stick with me, so I went up to the staff member at the door and told her about what happened—the promise of mocktails included with the ticket in the event description, and how there weren’t any available. She called the bartenders at the back and told them to make a mocktail for me free of extra charge. I fought my way back to the bar. I felt awkward asking for the mocktail. They were so busy, hurriedly trying to keep up with the cocktail demand, but one of them stopped to make a drink just for me. She put it in the same tiny cup as the cocktails, filled mostly with ice. It was good. I knew in an equitable world I’d have access to unlimited (albeit tiny) mocktails, and I also knew I wouldn’t ask for another.

While my friends kept bringing each other another round of cocktails, I tried to savor my mocktail, growing progressively weaker as the ice melted.

The only available game we could find was “Sorry,” which requires about as much active participation as “Candy Land,” but we had fun. We made a game out of asking and answering questions every time we rolled the dice.

Waiting in line for the bathroom towards the end of the night, a stranger waiting behind me was talking about heading to aloho afterwards. I said I didn’t know it, before realizing ALOHO is the cool kid acronym for A League of Her Own, one of the queer bars in town. Oops. I actually had been there once, years before when I was visiting the city. It was before I’d stopped drinking. I’d ordered a beer I thought was a cider. Upon realizing its true identity, I’d promised it to my friend who actually liked beer, and then spilled it all over the floor before he could drink it. Back at the sapphic game night, I opted not to tell the stranger in line behind me that I had in fact been to ALOHO. Having been but not recognizing the acronym felt somehow more embarrassing than just not knowing the place.

Dating has definitely brought up some of my internalized ableism. There’s a big outdoorsy/athletic scene among queer women, and to an extent I fit in with that group, but I can’t totally participate because I’m disabled. I think even people who recognize that their partner doesn’t need to have the same hobbies as them still want to date someone who likes to exercise and be outside because they see it as a shared value, not just a shared interest.

Then there’s the mainstream queer social scene, notoriously centered around alcohol. I realized there’s some part of me that thinks I’m not desirable because I’m not “fun.” I don’t drink. I don’t stand by bars flirting with strangers. I never dance into the night, or do much of anything into the night because major deviations from my regular sleep schedule come with major physical consequences.

That night, when I wasn’t just with my friends, I felt a little like I was faking it—trying to pretend I fit in somewhere I actually felt totally left out. When the event ended, my friends went off to ALOHO, and I went home to bed.

There’s this concept in psychology called intersectional invisibility. The idea is that we tend to think of marginalized identities only one at a time, and we sometimes can’t even imagine or don’t see the people who have more than one marginalized identity (e.g., when we think of women we tend to imagine White women). I’d say disabled queer folks are not the most invisible intersectional identity, but there’s still a long way to go. In my experience, disabled communities tend to be relatively aware and inclusive of queer identities, but queer communities often aren’t thinking about or actively trying to include disabled people.

I’m not sure it’s enough just to know that internalized ableism is making me question my adequacy in the queer dating pool. I know I’m a catch, but I guess my next task is figuring out how to feel like one.

P.S. Have a thought or experience to share? I’d love to hear what this post made you think about!