“You’re asking too much of us. Tone it down.” That’s what my 8th grade science teacher said to me when I came out as transgender. 

It was a quiet confession after school in the classroom. I wanted help being recognized by my correct name and pronouns and for the school to curb the bullying I was receiving from peers. Even though this wasn’t the first time I had come out to a teacher, having been in and out of the closet for several years, it was the first time I expected full support and was met with rejection. My teacher and I eventually came to an understanding, and they became my biggest supporter. But during periods of self-doubt, those words still echo in my head.

In 9th grade, I trusted a chemistry teacher with the details of my disabilities. I was going out of state for intensive medical testing and would miss the chemistry semester final. I confided in him that I was scared and didn’t know what to do. He assured me I could take the final when I came back and told me everything would be okay. While I was gone, he learned I was transgender. The day I returned, newly diagnosed and still scared, but hopeful for the future, I asked to take the final. He refused. I failed chemistry that year, and it has affected my credits so much that I wasn’t able to graduate high school on time. I’m still finishing my senior year. 

Since coming out, I have constantly battled to have my accommodations met and to have my trans identity taken seriously. I had even considered dropping out of high school, forgetting my passion for all things science, and giving up on my dream of going to college and becoming an astrophysicist. But that all changed when I found community and support with Queer Science, an organization that connects LGBTQ+ high schoolers interested in science with university researchers and industry scientists at the University of Minnesota. (Disclaimer: Both authors are members of the Queer Science group).

Through Queer Science, I regained the confidence to continue in my academic journey and connected to a large support network that advocated for all aspects of my identity, not just the preferred ones. Immediately coming through the doors for my first event, I felt welcomed. The group leaders had already taken care of my accessibility needs by providing shorter lab benchtops, floor plans specially designed to help me navigate in a wheelchair, and multiple types of instructions that allowed me to participate. I didn’t have to fight for what I needed because someone had already thought of it and provided it. I was relieved; I could just be myself and have fun that day instead of having to play the disability advocate all the time. 

“‘STEM loves ‘objectivity,’ which often means erasing the humanity of the people who actually do STEM work in favor of a ‘neutral’ adherence to the status quo and [to the] existing structures of power in the academy.’”

The types of accommodations I received aren’t the norm in STEM. “STEM loves ‘objectivity,’ which often means erasing the humanity of the people who actually do STEM work in favor of a ‘neutral’ adherence to the status quo and [to the] existing structures of power in the academy,” Ri Zoldak (they/them), a disabled trans scientist in industry says in an interview with Lady Science. Cisgender and able-bodied scientists and educators have designed labs and classrooms based on their own needs and their vision of the average person, instead of building spaces welcoming and accessible to everyone. “If you're unsuited to those structures [people assume] it must be because you don't deserve to be there.”

Accommodations I’ve requested in high school to mitigate my mobility impairment and sensory processing issues include more time to move between classes, more time to complete class assignments, and captions and transcripts for class videos. While these are common requests that are easy to arrange, they haven’t always been provided. High schools aren't the only institutions that struggle to make accommodations for disabled people. Many research lab managers have never considered the accessibility of their lab spaces before they receive an accommodation request. Because they lack training and resources, they see providing accommodation as additional work for them. If labs planned for inclusivity from the beginning, disabled scientists could seamlessly become part of the team.

Disabled trans people often have our transness treated as a disability while our actual disability needs remain ignored. Vic Forrest (they/he), a disabled trans graduate researcher, explains, "When I mention I have mental health struggles, my transness is called into question [and treated] as if it's an extension of my mental illnesses, something to be dismissed as attention-seeking."  

I’m often forced to choose between having my basic access needs met while my gender identity and emotional safety are ignored or being called my correct name while being pushed out of the system by ableist infrastructure. Burdened by this impossible choice, I usually check my gender identity at the door. At school, I remain quiet and often closeted, passing as cis, never saying a word when teachers and students debate if trans people are human. 

This is unfortunately a common experience. Fellow disabled trans graduate researcher Liz Aulino (she/them) says, “If I [am presenting as] an outwardly disabled person, I am far more inclined to keep any micro (or even macro) aggressions [related to my gender identity]  unaddressed. If I've recently gotten involved in something related to trans/queer rights, I will probably quietly endure pain or any of my body’s failings.”

Most higher education programs don’t provide professors or teaching assistants with significant or meaningful training on diversity or disability. Leading scientists and institutions must value such training instead of viewing it as something separate from and unrelated to courses in their academic field. Some graduate programs offer courses on “preparing future faculty” that emphasize best practices for inclusive teaching, and they should be embraced by graduate students, postdocs, and faculty.  

“Above all else, educators and scientists need to remember the people needing accommodations have been through a lot just to reach the labs and classrooms.”

When architects design public buildings, they are expected to follow guidelines that make them accessible to the largest number of people. Likewise, educators and scientists should approach designing lab spaces and classrooms similarly. For instance, educators should consider spatial awareness, making sure benchtops adjust to multiple heights, areas are clear of clutter for mobility access, and the space is prepared for service animals. Lectures can be recorded for people unable to attend every day, and video lectures should be captioned, which can be easily done with Google Slides’ free, built-in captioning. Mental health and diversity resources should be posted alongside other lab procedures. And lastly, lab schedules need to be flexible because it allows folks with different needs to take care of themselves and come in when they are most productive.

Above all else, educators and scientists need to remember the people needing accommodations have been through a lot just to reach the labs and classrooms. Like me, they’ve learned what they need and know what works best for them. While exact accessibility needs are different for each person, having a basic plan ahead of time will make addressing individual needs much simpler. Additionally, communication is key to letting students know they are supported. Even these small actions can be the difference between someone giving up on STEM, and that same person going on to a successful career. 

Receiving accessibility accommodations shouldn’t be as difficult as the field itself; it’s up to educators, scientists, and others in positions of power to ensure that it isn’t.

Image credit: Woman sitting in a chair next to her service dog by Jordan Nicholson (Disability:IN | CC BY-ND 4.0)