Identity and Classism in Academic Spaces
Recently, I went to an academic conference that was sponsored by my university. The theme of this conference was “all roads lead to intersectionality.” I learned a lot, and went to transformative and unique panels. I had opportunities from this that weren’t readily available, and if you’re interested, you can read my notes from the workshops here.
I’m not here to talk about what I learned. I’m here to talk about intersectionality, and how unfortunately, some spaces will always fall short of being truly intersectional. This conference did a great job of providing spaces for LGBTQIA+ people, disabled people (to the best of my knowledge — I am relatively able-bodied), and people of color (again, to the best of my knowledge). It seemed like many people were working as hard as possible to make sure that this conference was as inclusive and intersectional as possible.
There was one glaring omission, and I believe that this wasn’t necessarily the fault of the conference organizers, but the nature of academic conferences and academia in general. And I’m going to talk about it.
Think for a second about the average college student. They’re educated, probably white, they follow trends and have the necessary possessions to complete a college education. They may have a car; they definitely have a phone and probably a laptop. They have clothes to wear, food to eat on campus, and a dormitory to live in. The average college student has a family to go home to on academic breaks. It makes sense, then, that they probably come from a family that is relatively financially stable, and the student has had the necessary opportunities to receive a college education. There are poor college students, and there are people who have been influenced by systemic, generational poverty in academia: I do not want to omit their existence.
What I’m saying is that the average college student is probably middle or upper-middle class, maybe even from a comparatively wealthy family, depending on the college. While some college students come from a working-class background, the majority are middle-class or above. This is true of myself as well, and this is probably true of a significant portion of the conference attendees.
Let me quickly run down the amount of money I spent on this conference. I come from a place where this was a financial sacrifice for me, but it was achievable. My university worked with students to lower our attendance cost, including flight, to $40. I spent $55.32 on food (mostly fast food and campus dining), bringing my total conference cost to $95.32 not including the hours I took off work and the money I could have made by choosing to stay and work instead of going to the conference. I do not live and have never lived in poverty, but I do live on a budget, and $100 is a huge financial commitment for me. I tried to live as cheaply as possible, but food costs money, and that’s unavoidable. Not everyone can afford to save a hundred dollars to attend an academic conference for a weekend. The people who are left out of the conference because of financial barriers are critical voices in a conference about intersectionality.
This cost barrier leaves out a critical group. When we’re talking about intersectionality, we have got to talk about social class and poverty. We must acknowledge that the issues we’re talking about — homophobia, transphobia, sexism, racism, ableism, etc. — are often accompanied with class and poverty issues. People who are oppressed in one way are so much more likely to be poor, and it is imperative that their stories are told, their voices are heard, and their issues are addressed. Classism intersects with other –isms and identities in so many ways, and to exclude people based on class is to lose out on that intersection.
When their voices are missing from a conversation because of class barriers, their perspectives are omitted. It’s hard to speak accurately for and about an experience you’ve never lived. It’s hard to understand generational poverty, growing up in poverty, food insecurity, hunger, homelessness, and other directly class-related issues if you haven’t lived them. Academia tends to be a pay-to-play experience, especially as tuition costs soar, and that creates a barrier for people who can’t pay. Their voices are missing. Can we truly be intersectional with voices missing?
Whether intentional or not, academia creates a barrier for people who are unable to afford participation. Losing out on their voices and experiences means losing the chance to be truly, completely, absolutely, intersectional. My challenge is this: if you are interested in intersectionality, create spaces and opportunities that are lower cost than a hundred dollars a weekend and open to people who live in poverty. If you are interested in intersectionality, offer scholarships and grants that include meal tickets, lodging, and travel costs to and from a conference. Or better yet, work towards making academic spaces centered around intersectionality accessible to everyone.
