kaberett | Today has been actually vile.

Cissexism, ableism, outright fucking lying to my fucking face.

Today started with arriving in the room for my departmental welcome, to find that - in spite of the department knowing I use a wheelchair - there was nowhere for me to sit, unless I hovered sadly at the back, well away from any tables; or pulled a chair out of the way. I made a small polite fuss; a chair was moved for me, leaving me stranded, all alone, in the front row, behind a table that had to be cleared of paperwork in order for me to sit there.

The welcome proceeded. Our swipe cards were handed out, one by one; the name on them is called out.

My name is not called out. The director of postgraduate studies holds it in his hand, and stares at it: the pause is long enough that other people in the room later remark on it. He eventually hands it to me, commenting "You like to be called by your third name, don't you?"

The welcome pack I am handed at the same time is made out to [firstname] [surname]. This is relevant: Alex is my third name.

The DPS proceeds to run through the list of "welcomers" (existing PhD students) and the people they will be showing around. He gets to me: "[oldname] [surname] -- no, Alex [surname]." "We should really fix that," he adds, loud enough for the room to hear.

I have just been outed to every incoming PhD student in my department, and a significant subset of those existing. My preferred name has been listed as "Alex" since my application in February. When he interviewed me, he did so as Alex. And yet my swipe card is still made out to "Mr [fullname]", in despite of the fact that I have been asking them to fix it since, yes, February.

It is just gone 11 a.m.

The first thing the student giving me a tour does is say "Alex, not [firstname], right?"

Approximately the second thing she does is grab hold of my chair when we are going up a slope. I manage not to snap too viciously.

A small while later, we are heading along a heavily cambered pavement, with my bad arm on the downhill side. I am offered help. I have to explain, again, that being pushed is an uncomfortable and intimate loss of control.

I go to the Student Hub and talk to them about my swipe card - they promise, grudgingly, to see if they can get one with my use-name on it printed - and tell me that in order to get my proof of earnings form filled out, for my Housing Benefit application, I have to go to the abusive Head of the Disability Advisory Service.

I go instead to my department administrator. She stares at the form, sucks her teeth, and says she can probably do it, and I should bring it in once I've filled it out for her to stamp. I ask her, in passing, whether she can make sure that the name sign to be printed for my desk is actually correct.

She says no: I will have to take it up with some-unspecified-one else once it's gone wrong.

There is a safety induction. It is in a room with a door barely wide enough for me to get through; the second half of the door is locked. I am glad my chair is not 5mm wider.

The lecture hall is, again, set up such that I cannot sit anywhere sensible. There is at least a small moving portion of desk, but the wheels are locked and I can't shift it by myself; to my humiliation and my gratitude, other students jump up to help me move it.

We are instructed to tick the boxes on a form he has handed out as he covers the points. He does not mention that people who need a Personal Emergency Evacuation Plan should contact the Disability Advisory Service or Occupational Health. As he wraps up, he instructs us to make sure that every box on the form is ticked. (I am sat at the front of the room. I am visible. He makes eye contact with me at least once.)

I arrive at the Great Hall for our welcome from the Provost late, because the safety induction was moved 35 minutes later with no notice, and the speaker only budgeted enough time for people to walk across to the Great Hall - and nowhere near enough for me to navigate all of the slow-moving lifts I need to in order to leave the building.

There are no designated spaces for wheelchairs to occupy. I am left sitting awkwardly in the aisle.

The talks - like the rest of my day - include seemingly endless references to situations being "crazy" or "insane", by which they mean "busy" or "in multitudes". The President of the Student Union, instead of talking to us, shows us a dynamic, happening video - in which the soundtrack is someone speaking over ceaseless thumping bass. I am nauseated and disoriented and cannot process any of what is happening: I just want to get out. And I very nearly leave, before I realise that sticking my fingers in my ears filters out the music but leaves me still able to hear the information-containing level of the audio track.

As far as other students - including those who did their undergraduate degrees here - know, every single accessible toilet in my building is currently undergoing renovations.

I finally manage to log on to my e-mail. I find that my new GP has sent me e-mail addressed to "MX [FIRSTNAME] [SURNAME]", requesting that I make an appointment.

I head over. I tell them my date of birth, and my name. "I can't see you," says the receptionist. "Oh, wait," she says, "are you [firstname]?"

No. I am not.

We proceed to have a... discussion. I explain how very upset I was to receive an e-mail made out to my first name. I explain that if it happens again I will cry. They insist that it is because of the NHS, and that I cannot just go changing my name "willy-nilly", and that they need to see proof - legal documentation - of my name change. That I changed it in 2011 is not enough. That I have academic publications under it is not enough. That I do not answer to [firstname] is not enough. That I wrote it down on my registration form is not enough. I cannot just go changing my name willy-nilly.

I do not swear, and I do not raise my voice, and I can see them thinking about exactly how close I have come to violating their no-tolerance policy regarding abusive or threatening behaviour.

I burst into tears twenty metres down the street.

It's a little while after that - enough for me to have mostly dried up - that a small child throws himself under my wheels. (He does at least have the grace to look embarrassed and to mutter an apology.)

It's a little while after that that I am crossing a road on a steep camber, with a slope up the other side, when someone - I can't see who, they don't announce themselves - grabs hold of me and starts pushing.

This time, I do snap.

I yell, "NO. GET OFF." I brake as hard as I can. I come to a halt.

And then I recover myself, and explain - with a smile on my face - that I appreciate that he was trying to help, but it's just a little unsettling to have someone walk up unannounced, where I can't see them, and start shoving me around.

He doesn't apologise, of course, and neither does the woman he is walking with.

This is what it is like, or what it is like in words.

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From:

beckyc

Ugh, that sounds utterly vile. I hope things improve.

From:

only by balancing move

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