A singer without a stage

Many months after building this website, and I’m only just getting around to writing another blog post… Don’t scold me, I do enough of that to myself! I do want to maintain this blog, to share my adventures in perhaps a more personal and immediate way than I’m able to do through YouTube, and now is a perfect time to start.

On Saturday the 22nd of April, I participated in my very first singing competition. Many months ago, I called to inquire about the accessibility of the venue and to inform the organisers of my wheelchair needs. I was told there would “not be a problem” getting me on the stage. So I excitedly went about making my plans and practicing my songs.

In the week before the competition, I received a phone call. Apparently, I had been “misinformed”. There was no wheelchair access onto the stage. I would have to sing from the floor of the theatre. Fortunately my wheelchair can raise up so I could get a bit of height and be more in the sight-line of the judge. But it was very disappointing news.

When I spoke to my counselor that week, I shared my heartbreak at the fact that there so often seems to be just a few stairs that separate me and the rest of the world, and those few stairs seem to create a great divide. She asked me if ‘The Great Divide’ would be the name of my next song. We laughed about that (and then I started writing the song a few days later, so I’m sure she’ll say “I told you so”).

On the afternoon of the competition, there was confusion about the facts. I told my pianist, someone familiar with the theatre, that I wouldn’t be able to join him on the stage. He was surprised, as he was sure there was access. I started to get hopeful. He ran off to speak to someone, only to return, downcast, to admit he had forgotten about a few steps at the top of a ramp. It reminded me that so many people just don’t take notice of accessibility, even in places they feel familiar with.

My feeling of exclusion continued to grow as we prepared, and I had to receive special treatment. The stagehand asked me if I would need the fold-back speaker on the ground with me, and I answered that I would, because it’s difficult to hear yourself and your music with a speaker behind your head. This seemed to make things more frustrating and inconvenient for everyone, as they had to work out where and when they could move the speaker for my four performances scattered throughout the afternoon.

At the beginning of my section, all competitors were asked to come backstage to prepare. I, of course, could not go backstage and warm up. Let’s all sing “one of these performers is not like the others…”

When it came time for me to perform, I swiveled my chair around, in between the stage and the front row. I waited awkwardly as they carried the fold-back speaker from the stage to the floor, and brought down a microphone stand. I elevated my chair to get as much height as possible. They couldn’t adjust the stage lights, so I was only illuminated by the house lights. Still, I tried my best to own my ‘stage’.

And I must have done a damn fine job. I ended up winning a 1st place prize for my performance of ‘Let’s Misbehave’, as well as a Smile Scholarship and a Highly Commended. However, instead of being able to join the other five competitors on the stage as they received their prizes and shook the hand of the adjudicator, the best I could do was scoot to the edge of the stage and have my prize handed down to me. Again, the feeling of exclusion cut into me sharply.

This isn’t the fault of the Eisteddfod. They don’t own the theatre, and they can’t afford to hire a platform lift just for one competitor on one day. They were as eager to get me on that stage as I was.

A theatre not having wheelchair access to a stage is in breach of the Disability Discrimination Act, and therefore illegal, however it is not entirely uncommon. Many venues, be it theatres, churches or convention halls, have full accessibility – if you are a member of an audience or congregation, but not if you are a performer, preacher or speaker.

There seems to be an unspoken assumption that people with physical disabilities won’t be engaging with these spaces in these roles, and as such only the most passive accessibility needs to be provided. People with disabilities can come in, sit back and enjoy the show – but don’t expect them to be a part of it. However, I am a part of the show. I’m a vibrant, talented, award-winning part of the show, and I deserve to be on that stage.

Following my experiences, I contacted the theatre manager and the secretary of the local arts council, letting them know my personal feelings about what I went through, as well as my concern that our local council-owned theatre was breaking the law. I questioned why this theatre, situated in an area with a higher-than-average population of people with disabilities, didn’t already have permanent wheelchair stage access that was known and celebrated in the disability-needs community.

The arts council secretary responded with heartfelt apologies and let me know that they don’t have a lot of control over what happens to the bones of the theatre – they can make suggestions, but they can’t make decisions. However, he promises to bring it up at their next meeting.

My response from the theatre manager was more helpful. He, too, offered profuse apologies. He also said the theatre had recently received some grants to improve access, however they hadn’t acted on them as they were building an addition to the theatre – a smaller venue that was entirely accessible. The older building wouldn’t be updated until this new building was completed. He offered me a personal tour of this new building.

He explained that the theatre was built in 1988, four years before the Disability Discrimination Act was put in place, and the structure of the theatre was not built with accessibility in mind, making any attempts at accessibility difficult now. It was a thorough response that answered a lot of my questions.

But not all. There are some huge structural changes that they’re planning to make to the old theatre, and they’re waiting until the new theatre is finished before they start these big projects. Understandable. But how long does a wheelchair lift take to install? Did that have to wait the six years that the new theatre took to build?

Not to mention that the Disability Discrimination Act is now 31 years old. There has been time. I understand that a small town theatre might need to wait for government grants to do big projects. But how much does a wheelchair lift cost? Could we not have done some community fundraising?

I just find it very difficult to understand why my wheelchair was unable to get on the stage in 2023. I know I was given reasons, but those reasons have holes in them. The people I spoke to have only been in their positions for the past five years, so they have been left with the jobs and decisions half-done and half-made from the people before them. This is not their fault. This is industry-wide, community-wide.

And it needs to change.

-Nell-