I am a parent of a disabled teenager. My son is in and out of hospital and school. His learning disabilities and behaviour issues are a barrier for him, and he is teased on campus. At home, he swears and punches me.
He is on a waiting list for his disorder which contributes to his anxiety. Meanwhile, there are hospital appointments to manage, at least four consultants on the go, and an imminent transfer to adult services. The bureaucracy of caring keeps me busy.
I used to work in the theatre industry but had to quit when my son kept getting excluded from school. I never expected that my life would turn out like this. But now, amazingly, I am doing a PhD at a Russell Group university，looking at nonwhite protagonists in historical drama. It is fascinating: underrepresented characters! Hidden histories! Diversity!
I am starting to win awards for my research and I feel like a success story. Almost. There's just one problem: I can't get funding. I keep missing out on studentships and scholarships. These awards—which are mainly funded by research councils or universities directly—are worth about ￡14，000－￡16，000 a year and usually include a fee waiver (saving a further ￡5，000). That's a lot of money.
But the funding tends to go to students half my age with straightA academic results—not to people like me, who have taken an unusual path to academia. When I was turned down for the last studentship I applied for, I asked why. The decision maker—a professor in my department and the head of a research institute—told me "it all comes down to excellent academic results"．
They don't say this on the application forms: it's all about the originality of your project, your research statement, your supervisor's supporting statement, the panel that considers you, the level of competition. But when it comes down to it, this is clearly what they want. Someone with my background is never going to get a studentship if the decisive criteria are undergraduate and master's results.
When I started my PhD and realised that I would need financial help, I went to the student advice office and told them that I am a carer. They asked what that meant and then offered me advice on benefits, but not funding. I went to the student union advice service—they referred me back to student advice. I went to the graduate school. Same response. I spoke to a vice dean and a chaplain. I had to tell them what a carer is. You get the picture. I was invisible. So I gave up, decided to apply annually for the studentships and kept my parttime job.
UCAS announced this year that young carers will now be able to identify themselves in their applications, so that universities will be able to support them. But how is this going to happen if staff at these institutions don't even know what a carer is?
The student welfare vicepresident at the union has finally agreed with me that carers are an undersupported and underrepresented group on campus. We are going to ask student records to add an option to the equality and diversity monitoring section, so that we can identify as carers and hopefully raise awareness. Wish us luck.
