Inclusion Is Not a Buzzword

Taj Donville-Outerbridge’s Call to Transform Education

Taj Donville-Outerbridge’s opening speech at the IGLYO Proud Pupils Conference was not just an address — it was a moment of rare, radical clarity. It was one of those speeches that doesn’t simply offer perspective — it demands a shift. And in doing so, it exposed just how far many institutions still are from meeting the needs of the very communities they claim to serve.

Delivered with precision, emotional intelligence, and lived authority, Taj's words were a necessary disruption in a sector where “inclusive education” is too often diluted to metrics, surface-level reforms, or optics. Their speech was a reminder that inclusion — when properly understood — is not about integrating marginalised students into unchanged systems. It’s about transforming those systems entirely.

“When we talk about inclusive education, we are not just discussing pedagogy or curriculum—we are discussing justice. Dignity. And the right of every child to be seen, to be safe, and to thrive.”

This statement reframed the room. Inclusive education is not a matter of policy fine-tuning — it is a justice imperative. It is about dismantling systemic structures that were never built to hold the realities of Black, queer, trans, disabled, poor, or migrant students. It is not about asking marginalised students to adapt — it is about institutions evolving to meet them where they are.

The global context backs this up. According to UNESCO’s 2022 Global Status Report on School Violence and Bullying, nearly 70% of LGBTQ+ students experience bullying in school environments. In some countries, this figure rises to over 80%. Trans and gender-diverse students report the highest rates of violence and discrimination, particularly in countries where gender identity is criminalised or unrecognised in law.

These are not isolated instances — they are patterns. And they are reinforced by school environments that are not just ill-equipped to support LGBTQ+ students, but often actively hostile to their presence.

Taj named this explicitly:

“Despite my demonstrated academic ability, possessing these intersecting identities meant thriving would be near impossible for me.”

This is the part institutions often don’t want to hear — that academic excellence does not shield you from systemic bias. That marginalised students can be gifted, capable, and high-achieving — and still be pushed to the margins by educators and institutions that see their identities as deficits rather than dimensions of strength.

This is especially true when those identities multiply.

“I’ve been in systems that knew how to support an LGBTQ+ student, or a disabled student, or a poor student—but not someone who embodied all of those things at once.”

This line speaks to the exact point where most inclusion frameworks break down: intersectionality. While many institutions have developed programs that address specific forms of exclusion, few have designed systems that account for students who sit at multiple, overlapping axes of marginalisation.

Intersectionality is not optional — it is foundational. And failing to operationalise it isn’t just negligent, it’s harmful. When institutions force students to separate their identities in order to access basic rights, what they are offering is not inclusion — it’s conditional belonging.

Data confirms this reality.
In the UK, Black LGBTQ+ students are less likely to feel safe, less likely to report incidents, and less likely to see themselves represented in curriculum content. (Stonewall, 2017).
In the U.S., GLSEN’s 2021 National School Climate Survey revealed that students who are both LGBTQ+ and disabled face significantly higher levels of school discipline, exclusion from extracurricular activities, and administrative indifference.
In Canada, recent reports show that racialised trans youth experience near-total invisibility in curriculum and teacher training, alongside heightened rates of mental health distress and school disengagement.

So when Taj said:

“I have never sat in a classroom that reflected the complexity of my identity. This is why I have fought—hard—to create those spaces for others like me.”

—this was not a personal anecdote. It was a political diagnosis.

When students are forced to build their own spaces of safety and care, it is not a triumph of resilience. It is evidence of systemic abandonment. And yet — around the world — youth are doing exactly this. From student-led mental health initiatives to mutual aid networks, from trans-inclusive support groups to QTIPOC collectives, young people are filling in the gaps left by institutional neglect. These initiatives are not add-ons — they are the front lines of truly inclusive education.

But the reality is: youth should not have to do this alone.

Taj Donville-Outerbridge’s speech makes it impossible to continue framing inclusive education as a matter of good intentions or slow reform. It is a matter of urgency — because exclusion has consequences. It leads to school dropout, homelessness, criminalisation, intergenerational poverty, and preventable deaths.

In the UK, LGBTQ+ youth make up 24% of the youth homeless population, despite being less than 10% of the overall population.
In the U.S., trans youth are more than twice as likely to attempt suicide if they do not have access to affirming education environments.
Across Europe, LGBTQ+ students from migrant and refugee backgrounds are systematically excluded from both language support and culturally competent mental health resources.

These are not theoretical harms. They are everyday realities.

And yet, many governments and international agencies still resist investing in the most basic infrastructure of inclusive education:

• Comprehensive and affirming curricula

• Peer-led support systems

• Mandatory teacher training on intersectionality

• Legal protections for trans and gender-diverse students

• Accessible, multilingual mental health services

• Long-term funding for grassroots youth-led initiatives

Instead, inclusion is often treated as a pilot project, a side initiative, or worse — a branding exercise.

Taj Donville-Outerbridge’s words are a direct challenge to this complacency. They did not ask for recognition. They demanded structural change. They reminded us that lived experience is not anecdotal — it is evidence. It is expertise. And it should be shaping not just the margins of educational policy, but its core.

Their speech called on every institution — from school boards to UN agencies — to get serious about the work. That means:

• Funding grassroots organisations not as supplements, but as system leaders.

• Embedding intersectional design in every layer of education systems, not just programming.

• Moving away from short-term projects and toward long-term commitments.

• Valuing youth-led knowledge not just in feedback sessions, but in governance.

• Thinking globally — beyond Europe and North America — and learning from queer and trans youth organising in the Global South, where the stakes are often life and death.

Inclusive education cannot begin and end with visibility.
It must mean transformation. Redistribution. Protection. And power.

Taj Donville-Outerbridge did not offer a hopeful metaphor.
They delivered a mirror — one that demands institutions either rise to meet this moment or acknowledge that they were never serious to begin with.

The choice is clear.
If we are not centring the students most at risk, then we are not doing inclusion — we are preserving exclusion by another name.