Preface

I would like to preface this piece by noting that I identify as a bisexual, cisgender, feminine presenting White woman. While my experiences have been challenging, I also possess numerous privileges that have benefitted me throughout my career. The reflections I present do not begin to describe the doubly difficult harms that are done to others (e.g., LGBTQ+ folks of color and transgender people specifically). Additionally, my experiences are not those of all LGBTQ+ people and I don’t aim to have my words represented as such.

Getting In

This Fall will be my fifth year at my institution and my sixth-year post-PhD working in academia. In that time, I have navigated varied academic worlds and have begun to reflect on how the academy can limit the progression of LGBTQ+ academics. As a social scientist, my first instinct is to frame the issue with data on the number of LGBTQ+ academics and their experiences. Unfortunately (and perhaps telling), there is no systematic nationwide data collection regarding sexual orientation, and most certainly not at the specific level regarding the prevalence of LGBTQ+ academics. This lack of representation in large-scale data collection efforts makes it difficult for LGBTQ+ people to have their concerns represented and to understand relevant community needs.

This lack of data has a practical influence on academics when they are looking for jobs. There are safety and wellbeing issues that LGBTQ+ people have to consider when choosing a place to work. Without demographic information, it makes these decisions difficult. When I started searching for jobs, I had to do excessive due diligence to research and figure out sometimes subtle indicators of whether certain institutions were safe potential employers. A simple website search for “LGBT” can be a telling experience. Institutions range widely from those that return zero results, to those that have LGBTQ+ student groups, to those with entire LGBTQ+ centers. There are also various religiously affiliated universities that actually prohibit their employees from “same-sex” behavior. I discovered the Campus Pride “Worst List” which was helpful in finding some places to avoid.

While the dominant stereotype is that universities are liberal havens, it might seem unbelievable that there would be many universities that do not support LGBTQ+ people. These stereotypes are often drawn from large schools and ivies that are not representative of the experiences of people that work at smaller colleges and universities, particularly those in rural places or at religiously affiliated institutions. This perception also runs counter to the reported experiences of students, faculty, and staff at institutions of higher education. Nationally representative data demonstrate that approximately 35% of LGBTQ+ faculty fear disclosing their identity due to possible repercussions and that 20% have experienced some type of harassment because of their sexual or gender identity. Moreover, 60% of all faculty reported witnessing instances of LGBTQ+ harassment on their campuses.

These data suggest not only that unwelcoming campuses exist, but that outwardly welcoming campuses have created atmospheres that are not inclusive. I experienced this myself throughout the job search experience. I was open in self-identifying on applications. My goal was to weed out potentially hostile institutions (assuming that I wouldn’t be invited for an interview if they harbored anti-LGBTQ+ sentiments). To my surprise, this strategy wasn’t wholly successful. I had a number of interviews where there was an outward attempt to be inclusive, but the execution of the attempt fell short (e.g., being told that the department was aware of my “alternative lifestyle” or being left alone in a hallway to talk with an alumnus who had no connection to the role except for the note that he lived in the town with his husband). Other places never discussed my identity or did so in hushed tones. It was clear that silence on sexual identity in those places was the norm.

It confused me at first as to why these places would have invited me at all, but I think it was a mixture of reasons. In some cases, they were organizations trying to be more accepting, but not prepared with the tools, knowledge, or infrastructure. Now having served on hiring committees, I know how a small group of faculty can have a large influence on hiring people from diverse backgrounds even at a university that doesn’t have broader support. I also believe these interviews are a part of the reality that in many places, the faculty body doesn’t represent the student body. Institutions are awake to this and some that cared little for faculty diversity before are trying to bring faculty to their campuses who will connect with students. However, this can create one of the worst-case scenarios for faculty who come to be a token at their university with little support.

Surviving Inside the Halls

The challenges for LGBTQ+ faculty don’t end once they have landed a position. Biases invade their day-to-day experiences and present continued barriers to success. It has been well documented that students are often biased in their evaluations of faculty members, particularly faculty of color and women. Yet even this well researched area only contains a few studies examining students’ perceptions of LGBTQ+ faculty. Of those scant studies, they do suggest that LGBTQ+ faculty likely are subject to student bias as well. The realities of bias can impact many of the key aspects of any faculty member’s success. Some faculty may face restrictions on what or how they teach in the classroom (this is a growing concern across the country with pushes to ban certain topics such as Critical Race Theory and education on topics of gender and sexual identity not only in K-12 classrooms but also universities). Research on certain topics may also lack institutional support, limiting the success of those faculty. This is likewise a national concern evidenced in that, when excluding the topics of HIV/AIDS research or sexual health topics, less than 1% of NIH grants went to support research on LGBTQ+ health more broadly. Even decisions on tenure and promotion can be influenced by such biases.

Another main challenge of being an “out” faculty member is the additional emotional labor that comes with the job. This aspect of the job is hard to discuss as a challenge because mentorship is what I’m passionate about, but when there are so few LGBTQ+ faculty, many end up as a constantly tapped resource for students. This is the nearest and dearest part of my job, but it leads to burnout because of the extra work it entails. It also leads to feelings of guilt if I’m unable to help because I know that there are few others that can or will. There is also a revolving door of diversity, equality, and inclusion-related services that becomes exhausting, particularly when faculty feel that they keep advocating and seeing a lack of progress.

Surviving Outside the Gates

The community context beyond the walls of the university in which faculty work is equally relevant to how many perform their jobs. The university doesn’t exist in isolation, although sometimes it is treated as such. Faculty (and their partners) work and live in the surrounding communities as well, which can be less welcoming than the universities themselves. As a developmental psychologist, I find myself at daycares, community festivals, afterschool programs and the like recruiting child participants for research studies. I also serve as the Service-Learning & Community Engagement Coordinator at my university. This places me squarely in the community trying to connect community organizations with our academic curriculum to enrich our students’ experience and improve the lives of our community residents. Being situated in a highly conservative place means that I frequently interact with and serve those that I know hold disdain for me.

This became clearer this year when I joined the founding board of a new local pride organization. I was not prepared for the backlash that would follow. Soon there were online groups calling us names, making violent threats, and trying to get the event cancelled. Libraries were targeted to get pride displays taken down and have other pride programming cancelled. A very LGBTQ+ supportive business that started hosting drag events was continuously targeted, employees harassed, and their business protested. Finally, this came to a head when pictures of all board members were posted calling us “pedophiles” and “groomers”. I was single out in particular as a faculty member of the university.

I spent weeks sinking into sadness, anxiety, and anger that affected me in all aspects of my life. I wanted people to understand that these experiences have real consequences not just for me personally, but for my ability to do my work. If there are people or organizations that will not work with me because I’m gay, that impacts my ability to do research or teach my courses. It is also a constant emotional burden to worry about whether I am safe or accepted in the places that I go and the people I interact with. Situations like pride and the hate that followed impact my ability to focus and get my day-to-day work done. We cannot be our best when these things occupy so much of our head space.

What’s Next?

Many of these things I’ve described are not unique to academia, but some are. At least, the context and structures of academia make these all the more challenging to navigate. For example, the overwhelming lack of jobs, the high demands to relocate for jobs, and the small networks of some fields make selecting an institution less flexible and difficult to just “find another job” if you don’t like where you end up. If you’re lucky enough to find another job, I don’t think it can be overstated how difficult it is to start over a research program somewhere new (especially when you do community-based research). There is also the fear that those that sit on a tenure committee will not appreciate you or the work you do and you’ll be faced with no job after investing all you had for 6 years. All of these and more make academia a difficult place to be LGBTQ+ and thrive.

I hate discussing social plights without suggesting a path forward. While I don’t have perfect answers, I believe there are concrete things that those working within the halls of the academy can do.

1. Be an educated and informed ally. It is beyond meaningful to me when I speak with others who I can tell have done the work. It communicates their concern.
2. Take the time to check in on your colleagues and ask if there are ways you can help. Sometimes we might not ask, but an offer can start a conversation.
3. Speak publicly about issues of inequity. Smaller conversations are important, but also use your privilege in public ways to help shift the culture.
4. Do not remain silent. Don’t ignore the transphobic joke someone made or the comment about a “diversity hire”. Silence communicates to those making those comments that they are acceptable. When there are issues in your community, reach out to your colleagues as well. Silence from colleagues who witness ostracism but say nothing creates a culture where LGBTQ+ people don’t know who they can trust.
5. Offer your time to contribute to service work that may fall to the same small group. See number 1. You have to be educated and informed to advocate.
6. Don’t discount the work that you can do in the community that can impact the lives of your colleagues.

Without recognition of and support for the challenges that LGBTQ+ people face, this is not a sustainable career for many. This is what is meant when people say that universities are good at getting underrepresented groups to campus, but not good at helping them thrive. It’s setting people up for exhaustion, burnout, and failure. But with intentional and diligent work, I think the academy can be an agent of change for the better.