A reflection by Shira Devorah, Women’s Center Student Staff 

Going to the doctor is never fun; most people dread pesky checkups getting in the way of their day. While medical appointments can feel like a nuisance to some, for many people in the LGBTQ community, just seeing a doctor can be dangerous.

Saying that structural health inequity in the U.S. is a problem is an understatement, as many people face huge barriers when it comes to receiving adequate care. Women, people of color, people with lower socioeconomic statuses, fat people, elderly people — the list goes on and people continue to suffer. While I’m specifically highlighting a few of the issues surrounding queer care, it’s important for people to know that this is just one flawed aspect of a flawed system. To fight for justice, we must demand competent care for all people.

So before we all go kicking down the doors of the nearest hospital, let’s discuss what the issues actually are. Why is it so difficult for queer people to get the medical help that all people deserve?

Here are just a few reasons:

1) There’s a large element of risk that queer people must face when it comes to taking care of our health.

Stigma, discrimination, violence, and even denial of care are all real issues that can dissuade people from seeking help in the first place. According to Lambda Legal’s 2010 survey, over half of LGBTQ respondents felt discriminated against when receiving care. Getting to receive care at all, let alone good care, can be very difficult for queer individuals who have poor access to health care. There are huge health discrepancies in LGBTQ populations, especially for older people and transgender individuals. 

Credit: Maureen McNabb, wordpress

As a queer person who usually isn’t read as queer, I’m very lucky that I haven’t had to fear going to the doctor (besides a healthy fear of getting shots). Here’s why:

• I’m a lazy femme, so I don’t get the strange looks from doctors assessing every inch of me that gender nonconforming individuals might get.
• If the doctor asks about my sexual history, I may blush, but being a bisexual cis woman in a monogamous relationship with a cis man means that the kind of sex I would be discussing wouldn’t be considered outside the bounds of heterosexuality.
• I haven’t had reason to fear outing myself through discussing my experiences.
• If I have a problem with my genitals, I only have to worry about the coldness of the speculum, not that my gender identity is being questioned or invalidated.

These are just some reasons why going to the doctors is so difficult for many people who do not have this privilege.

Credit: Philadelphia Lesbian Virtual Magazine

2) There’s a huge gap in medical knowledge, especially for queer people and women.

No matter how nice or accepting a medical professional is, they may not always  know how to treat a queer person. Medical schools in the U.S. spend so little time on LGBTQ-related content. Often times, medical students are taught that sexual behaviors of LGBTQ people are risky, which perpetrates the narrative that gay people are ‘diseased’. Doctors aren’t free of biases and such misunderstanding can get in the way of someone getting adequate care.

Many doctors have very limited experiences with transgender issues. Insurance companies will refuse to sign off on HRT or surgeries that some trans people really need. On the flip side, the medicalization of transgender identities suggests that all trans people have to have surgery to be considered more “legitimate,” which is not possible nor desired for many trans people.

Credit: “When Healthcare Isn’t Caring” Lambda Legal 2010 Report

3) Gender and sexuality are areas in which medicine can be negligent.

A lack of medical knowledge surrounding certain populations is a problem, and not just for queer people. Did you know that there is a huge gender gap in medical research and clinical trials? Medical research is lacking valuable data on women’s issues.  We don’t even know for sure what a heart attack looks like for a woman because of countless misconceptions. This gap in knowledge, coupled with gender biases, seriously affects medication, care, and diagnoses that women receive.

credit: Transgender Law Center

When gender and sexuality collide (as they often do in most humans), things get complicated. Aspects of personal identity intersect, creating an even bigger gap in medical knowledge. Medicine has historically failed queer people, and a lot of effort is required to improve care for the future.

Okay. Deep breaths all around. This is some heavy stuff.

Luckily, there are also a lot of options where LGBTQ healthcare is pretty amazing. There is a substantial list of resources at the end of this post, so check them out! Good options do exist, even though access to these options may be limited for many.

Students here at UMBC have pretty accommodating facilities. University Health Services has a very dedicated and helpful staff of professionals who are trained to work with all kinds of student populations. Almost the entire medical staff is made up of women, and personally I’ve found the practitioners to be gentle and attentive. UHS is consistently making an effort to improve, and while it is by no means a perfectly accessible center, attempts are being made.

Our medical space on campus may be generally positive, but we also have to be aware doesn’t change the negative experiences that many people can face elsewhere. Some may be too scared of going to UHS because of past trauma or maltreatment. Even though UHS is a great resource, the training and education for all medical practitioners is still lacking, and it’s possible to come into a campus medical center without being fully prepared to treat all kinds of people.

In Peer Health Education, the  inclusiveness of LGBTQ issues is lacking, especially when it comes to discussions of sexual health. A big initiative that the sexual health committee is undertaking now is to revamp the current programs to be more inclusive to people of all sexualities and gender identities. Recently, I created a survey in order to assess how LGBTQ people feel about sexual health education on campus. I’m hoping that this will foster a productive discussion with other queer UMBC community members so that we can work together to make important changes to the  health education curriculum. While this is in no way a quick fix the huge problem of LGBTQ health disparities, it’s always good to think globally and act locally.

HAART poster, discussing how stigma against people with HIV can be incredibly damaging.

Everyone has the right to be treated respectfully and competently when accessing health care. Even though my experiences with doctors have been generally positive, I can’t say the same for many other queer people. What I can do is speak up about the problems that I know exist, and do my best to contribute to change. As a peer, as a queer, and as a person devoted to justice, I want to use my privilege and opportunities to work towards a better system. I just hope that one day the only thing people have to fear when walking into a doctor’s office is as simple as a shot.

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Check out these great resources!

• Chase Brexton Health Care has locations all around Maryland, with a main branch in Baltimore. This clinic has a health center that specializes in the specific medical needs of LGBTQ people.
•  GLMA has a provider directory that can  help guide people to LGBTQ competent doctors and services, including psychologists and counselors who specialize in LGBTQ mental health.
• The National LGBT Health Education Center at Fenway Institute has a continuing education program designed to educate medical professionals on how to address the needs of LGBTQ individuals. The American medical association has this comprehensive
• LGBTQ resource list  full of helpful information- from patient resources to statistics and studies done on disparities in LGBTQ care.
• Do you identify as LGBTQIA? Come to a roundtable discussion about LGBTQIA+ issues in health education on April 20th from 4:30-5:30pm at the Women’s Center, and help Peer Health Educators make more inclusive changes to health education on campus.

A Women’s Center blog post by staff member Daniel Willey 

Note: I hope what I’ve learned can be applicable to other people, but I know my experience isn’t universal. I use a lot of action verbs in my post, but I don’t intend to make assumptions about what a body can do. I encourage readers to challenge their ideas of how one might “feel” and “wiggle” and “tend” and “look” and “know” in different ways, and how you as an individual do these things in a way that is unique to you and your body.

This is a twelve-step program designed to teach you how to be tender to yourself.

1. Have a Major Body Event.

Have surgery. Be or become disabled. Learn to use new assistive technology. Get fitted for a prosthetic. Gain weight. Lose weight. Start a health challenge. Buy new clothes. Get new hair. Have a child. Age.

2. Lose your body.

What is your body? What does your body mean now? What did it mean before? Is it different? How is it different? Why? Is this still you? Where are you?

3. Recognize your new body.

This is your body. Look at it. What do you see? Locate yourself. Are you in your thighs? Are you in your shoulders? Where are you? You are here.

4. Know that this will be hard.

How does your body challenge you? What about your body makes it hard to be tender? Hold these things in your hands and know this will be hard. Take a deep breath.

5. Begin to unlearn.

“To be alive in this world at all: indeed to be queer, a person of color, a person with a disability, trans, a woman or poor, is to have self-hatred non-consensually woven into your education in personhood before you’re even aware the air you are breathing.” –Lila (for Autostraddle)

“Your education in personhood” is fraught. What has the world taught you about your body? Why? Where did you learn these things?

6. Begin your affirmations.

“All bodies are good bodies.” What can your body do? What can your body not do? What does your body do differently? Your body is a good body. Revel in this.

7. Allow yourself to be angry (upset, frustrated, sad).

Let the heat fill you up from your toes and let it tingle on your skin. Draw out all the ill feelings and let them swim in your anger (sadness, frustration). Know these feelings. Take a deep breath and push them out of your lungs and your eyes and your nose and your fingers and your knees and the top of your head. Acknowledge them as they leave.

8. Fill the empty spaces.

Where did your ill feelings live? What do their empty homes look like? Tuck forgiveness in your belly. Fill your back with strength. Dab pride behind your ears.

9. Know that this will be hard.

“Your education in personhood” is woven into your roots and your ill feelings have grown roots too. It will take time to make them leave. Some never will.

10. Tend ill feeling weeds.

Get to know your weeds. If you can’t make them leave, learn where their roots go. What do the weeds look like? How do they smell? Are you irritated by thorns or stray root hairs? Soothe with aloe. Remind your weeds: “You are a visitor here. I own my body.” Accept your weeds. Know they are with you but they are not you. Accept your weeds. Be tender where they grow.

11. Touch your body.

Feel how soft your earlobes are. Delight in the bumps and the lumps and the humps. Wiggle your toes if you can. Stretch and feel your body expand. Take up space! Oh it feels good to be a body! Drink cool water on a hot day. Take a hot shower on a cold morning. Revel in sensation.

12. Repeat.

Your body will change over and over again. Excite in this. Know it will be hard every time. Know it can get easier. Take someone with you next time. Be a good body with another good body. Find joy in exuding love outward and pouring love inward. Know love does not mean always loving, always delighting. Know love means patience. Love is sometimes found a little deeper than you would like. Your body is a good body. Revel in this.

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13. Know that everything in your life will work against you on this journey.

via robot-hugs.com.com/under-2

I recently had top surgery….

….it was really hard to make myself rest. Don’t let this photo fool you. I was full of pain meds at the time.

These twelve steps take a lot of energy. As students, workers, homemakers, parents living in a world that praises us for pushing ourselves to the limit, setting aside time and energy to care for ourselves can be a radical act. We talk about self-care and self-love all the time in the Women’s Center and as feminists because prioritizing oneself requires so much unlearning.

Mothers are expected to be Super Mom — PTA, soccer, bake sale, appointments, dinner, laundry, carpool, work, school — and be totally selfless about it. Women who set aside time to take care of themselves are “high maintenance.” Companies like Dove use self-love and body positivity to market their products while profiting from self-hate by selling skin-whitening products. Even much of the body positivity movement expects you to love yourself all the time as if you haven’t been born into a society that feeds off your insecurity.

As a student at UMBC, I am having to make the difficult decision between keeping a pretty big scholarship and maintaining my mental and physical health. It’s taken me a year to get to this point, but I’m finally choosing myself. So many people have suggested I “just try harder” and “quit everything but school,” but very few have acknowledged the strength it takes to say “I matter. My health and wellbeing are my priority.”

Though UMBC resources like the Counseling Center, UMBC NAMI, UHS, and Retriever Wellness take steps to help students manage stress and mental health, there’s still much to be done. Academic rigor and attitudes about academic success can create a toxic climate for students and often our resources are funneled into praising students who do well rather than helping and uplifting students who need help.

Even as feminists who firmly believe in treating ourselves, it can be so hard to say “no” when it feels like you’re the only one who will say “yes.” Burnout is a big issue in social justice work not only because it is so emotionally taxing, but also because we who do the work feel like we need to be doing all the work all the time. This comic does a great job of talking about how we as activists can better manage our projects and priorities.

It’s also important to remember that self-care can be a privilege. Single mothers, Black folks, people on welfare or food stamps, and many others are expected to not engage in self-care or self-love as if doing so is a sign of incompetence or laziness. It is becoming increasingly more clear the traumatic effect racism has on people of color in the U.S. and it’s statistically proven that people in poverty experience consistently higher levels of stress. As Audre Lorde said, “caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” As a queer Black woman and a mother, caring for herself was a radical act of resistance.

Don’t forget to check out the Women’s Center’s Self-Care Day event at the end of each semester and these related Women’s Center blog posts!

A blog reflection written by Women’s Center student staff member Meagé Clements. This post is an expansion of her statement in the UMBC Women’s Center and Women of Color Coalition’s “I’m Not” anti-stereotype campaign for the Telling Our Stories project, which we posted about here.

It’s been over a year since I first read recent UMBC alumna and former Women’s Center student staff member Bria Hamlet’s blog post Blackish: Telling My Story and her words continue to resonate with me. She described how she often felt that her blackness was invalidated by others because she didn’t fit the “stereotypical Black mold.” Her blog post made me recall my own experiences with microaggressions and respectability politics, even before I had words to describe what I was facing.

Upon thinking about my “favorite” microaggressions to include on my anti-stereotype poster for the Telling Our Stories Project, a million ideas popped in my head; several about my name, a few about my natural hair, but most were about me being — or not being — “Black enough,” and how other people often take it upon themselves to decide when I am capable of being associated with my blackness.

Growing up, I attended predominantly white schools, but I had always surrounded myself with a small yet diverse group of friends. I remember several times when my Black and non-Black friends alike would joke about how my “Black card should be revoked” or how I was “barely Black” for any number of reasons.

Most often, it came down to the fact that by being an introvert, I couldn’t possibly be Black. Because I wasn’t the stereotypical “loud Black woman,” I wasn’t Black enough. Because I grew up in a two-parent household, I couldn’t be Black. Because I “spoke like a white girl,” I wasn’t deemed Black enough.

Since when did each of these things become associated with Blackness and why were they the determinants? What exactly did it mean to be “Black enough?”

Due to stereotypes associated with being Black, people often assume that there is a singular Black experience and that there is a set of definitive criteria to test one’s blackness. If someone doesn’t appear to conform to X,Y, and Z, they are deemed less Black. At the same time, it seems as if people regard stereotypical white traits as “good,” and stereotypical Black traits as “bad,” which further perpetuates harmful dichotomies.

Consequently, Black people become torn between the societal pressures to assimilate to “mainstream” culture and the pressures to embrace their cultures and express themselves freely. My grandparents are Black, my parents are Black, and I have always identified as Black, too. Yet as I grew up, I found myself constantly attempting to “prove” my blackness in one way or another.

My name is Meagé and I’m not “barely Black.”

However, I soon realized that this was useless. Living in a society where appearance and first impressions are so influential, I learned that no matter how I act, I am always going to be Black and I am going to continue to experience the discrimination associated with being a Black woman. Whether I “speak like a white girl” or not, my voice coming from my body is still subject to scrutiny. I am going to continue to experience discrimination because of my “Black-sounding” name, and, regardless, I am going to continue to embrace being a Black woman.

Most importantly, I learned that no one is capable of defining me but myself. I’ve always been Black, I’ve had the experiences of a Black woman and I have nothing to prove. People need to recognize the diversity that exists among Black women. We have different skin tones, talents, quirks and, most importantly, we have different personalities and traits that make us unique. Instead of policing Black women and attempting to define their blackness with a finite set of traits, we should “celebrate the fullness of Black womanhood” and realize that we are more than the media misrepresentations, the stereotypes, and the assumptions.  

To talk more about this topic and other issues impacting women of color, Women of Color Coalition meets weekly on Tuesdays at 5pm. This Women’s Center discussion-based program is open to all self-identified women of color in the UMBC community.