#all i'm asking for is a youtuber who won't do a “charity” stream without any research on which charities don't funnel money to hamas

[hilacopter]

the list of safe creators to watch gets slimmer and slimmer with each day

[invisiblefoxfire]

I used to be a superfan of a particular YouTube channel. I watched every episode over and over again. I signed up as their patron and paid them more than I could reasonably afford, an amount I had to budget for, so that I could watch their patron-exclusive live streams and hang out and chat with them. The channel was run by a couple of abled cis white guys, very privileged, but they were different! They were proof, to me, that the most privileged people can still be compassionate and make a difference in the world. They laughed at homophobes and transphobes. They told off people who left toxic comments. They talked endlessly about how empathy is the most important human trait. Every year they'd participate in a charity run to benefit a group helping disabled kids.

But their videos weren't subtitled. They were multiple people talking in very different accents over a noisy background, and I missed a lot of what they said. So during one livestream, when the guy I was watching had been bragging for ten solid minutes about how the money they were getting from patreon allowed them to rent and remodel a fancy new studio and buy all new equipment and make the best videos they could possibly make, I asked, hey, what about subtitles? A lot of your fans struggle to understand your videos without them. Like me. I miss a lot. Surely you can invest some of that money to commission some good subtitles?

His answer felt like a punch to the gut. They hadn't really looked into it despite regular comments from viewers asking for them, because it seemed like kind of a hassle. It'd be expensive, and they'd have to spend the time checking them and fixing them, and was it really worth it? He was pretty sure most people didn't need them anyway.

Shut up and go be disabled somewhere else. That's what I heard.

I thought, okay, maybe springing that on him during a live stream wasn't fair. I sent them a message directly (via patreon, where they could see how much money I was giving them), thanking them for being so thoughtful and considerate, for caring about people less privileged than themselves. I laid out in brief the reasons why subtitles are important and asked them to please try to prioritize them. That I appreciated that they raised money for a disability charity but this was something they could do directly for their fans. They never responded.

When a new series was released on their YouTube channel, the audio was so poorly mixed that I couldn't understand a word they said. While the video was still in patron-only early access, I left a comment saying please, if you won't put subtitles on the videos, can you at least be careful about the audio mixing? I can't understand anything and I won't be able to watch this series.

They hid the comment from public view.

Shut up and go be disabled somewhere else.

It's so easy to say you care. It's so easy to say everyone should care. And it's absolutely devastating how often it turns out that's all someone is willing to do. The moment it would take actual effort, suddenly it's weeeelll you know, we have limited time, we have a limited budget, we have to be efficient with our resources, we can't devote any energy for such a "small" portion of our fanbase, it wouldn't be fair to the rest of them. You're Asking Too Much. Hey, we do a charity fun run once a year and get our photos taken and get lots of praise and pats on the back for being Good People. Surely that's enough.

I dropped my patronage and stopped watching their videos. They won't even notice, I'm sure. But after all the love and promotion and money I'd given them, I feel like my heart is broken. They never cared. They were never different. And I'm so tired of that happening over and over again.

You know... I had an experience about two months ago that I didn't talk about publicly, but I've been turning it over and over in my mind lately and I guess I'm finally able to put my unease into words.

So there's a podcast I'd been enjoying and right after I got caught up, they announced that they were planning on doing a live show. It's gonna be near me and on the day before my birthday and I thought -- hey, it's fate.

But... as many of you know, I'm disabled. For me, getting to a show like that has a lot of steps. One of those steps involved emailing the podcasters to ask about accessibility for the venue.

The response I got back was very quick and very brief. Essentially, it told me to contact the venue because they had no idea if it was accessible or not.

It was a bucket of cold water, and I had a hard time articulating at the time quite why it was so disheartening, but... I think I get it a little more now.

This is a podcast that has loudly spoken about inclusivity and diversity and all that jazz, but... I mean, it's easy to say that, isn't it? But just talking the talk without walking the walk isn't enough. That's like saying "sure, we will happily welcome you in our house -- if you can figure out how to unlock the door."

And friends, my lock-picking set is pretty good by this point. I've been scouting out locations for decades. I've had to research every goddamn classroom, field trip, and assigned bookstore that I've ever had in an academic setting. I've had to research every movie theater, theme park, and menu for every outing with friends or dates. I spend a long time painstakingly charting out accessible public transportation and potential places to sit down every time I leave the house.

Because when I was in college, my professors never made sure their lesson plans were accessible. (And I often had to argue with them to get the subpar accommodations I got.) Because my friends don't always know to get movie tickets for the accessible rows. Because my dates sometimes leave me on fucking read when I ask if we can go to a restaurant that doesn't keep its restrooms down a flight of stairs.

I had one professor who ever did research to see if I could do all the coursework she had planned, and who came up with alternate plans when she realized that I could not. Only one. It was a medical history and ethics class, and my professor sounded bewildered as she realized how difficult it is to plan your life when you're disabled.

This woman was straight-up one of the most thoughtful, philosophical, and ethical professors I've ever had, one who was incredibly devoted to diversity and inclusion -- and she'd never thought about it before, that the hospital archives she wanted us to visit were up a flight of stairs. That the medical museum full of disabled bodies she wanted us to visit only had a code-locked back entrance and an old freight elevator for their disabled guests who were still breathing.

And that's the crux of it, isn't it? It's easy to theoretically accept the existence of people who aren't like you. It's a lot harder to actively create a space in which they can exist by your side.

Because here's what I did before I contacted the podcasters. I googled the venue. I researched the neighborhood and contacted a friend who lives in the area to help me figure out if there were any accessible public transportation routes near there. (There aren't.) I planned for over an hour to figure out how close I could get before I had to shell out for an uber for the last leg of the trip.

Then I read through the venue's website. I looked through their main pages, through their FAQs to see if there was any mention of accessibility. No dice. I download their packet for clients and find out that, while the base building is accessible, the way that chairs/tables are set up for individual functions can make it inaccessible. So it's really up to who's hosting the show there.

So then and only then I contacted the podcasters. I asked if the floor plan was accessible. I asked if all the seats were accessible, or only some, and whether it was open seating or not. Would I need to show up early to get an accessible seat, or maybe make a reservation?

And... well, I got the one-sentence reply back that I described above. And that... god, it was really disheartening. I realized that they never even asked if their venues were accessible when they were booking the shows. I realized that they were unwilling to put in the work to learn the answers to questions that disabled attendees might have. I realized that they didn't care to find out if the building was accessible.

They didn't know and they didn't care. That, I think, is what took the wind out of my sails when they emailed me back. It's what made me decide that... yeah, I didn't really want to go through the trouble of finding an accessible route to the venue. I didn't want to have to pay an arm and a leg to hire a car to take me the last part of the journey. I didn't want to make myself frantic trying to figure out if I could do all that and still make the last train home.

If they didn't care, I guess I didn't either.

If they'd apologized and said that the only venue they could get was inaccessible, I actually would have understood. I know that small shows don't always get their pick of venues. I get it. I even would have understood if they'd been like "oh dang, I actually don't know -- but I'll find out."

But to be told that they didn't know and didn't intend to find out... oof. That one stung.

Because.... this is the thing. This is the thing. I may be good at it by now, but I'm so tired of picking locks. I'm tired of doing all the legwork because no one ever thinks to help me. I'm tired of feeling like an afterthought at best, or at worst utterly unwelcome.

If you truly want to be inclusive, you need to stop telling people that you're happy to have them -- if they can manage to unlock the door. You need to fucking open it yourself and welcome them in.

What brought all this back to me now, you may be asking? Well... I guess it's just what I was thinking to myself as I was tidying up my phone.

Today I'm deleting podcasts.