Arts & Entertainment
Nonbinary physician fights COVID-19 without legal protections
LGBTQ healthcare workers are stepping up, saving lives


Dr. Scott Nass and Dr. Ly Pham are LGBTQ physicians on the front lines of the pandemic fight, but only one is protected from workplace discrimination. While Nass is fortunate to be a gay cisgender man practicing in California, Pham is a queer nonbinary doctor working in Louisiana without legal protections.
āShreveport is a level one trauma center similar to Baltimore,ā said Pham who uses singular they pronouns. āThe hospital was fairly busy before COVID [but the pandemic] added another layer of stress and anxiety.ā
Adding to Phamās stress is the feeling that LGBTQ people are tolerated but not fully accepted into the larger Shreveport community. While HRC reports both Shreveport and New Orleans ban discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity, Louisiana has had a tumultuous history with attempts to mandate a statewide ban.
āI get misgendered all the time,ā Pham said before describing a usual day when they arrive at the hospital around 8 a.m. āMostly by patients coming in and some coworkers. But Iām here to treat the patients and not educate them because theyāre in a crisis right now and need to be treated and admitted to the hospital.ā
Pham says they allow their patients to interact with them in a way that is emotionally damaging because they feel harms need to be triaged during a crisis. Louisiana governors have sought remedies to this preventable situation.
However, in 2018 the Louisiana Supreme Court struck down Gov. John Bel Edwardsā (D) executive order protecting LGBTQ state employees and contractors from workplace discrimination, according to a report by The Advocate.
The resulting tally from Freedom for All Americans shows Louisiana is one of 28 states where an LGBTQ worker, including essential medical personnel during a global health crisis, can legally be fired or face other negative action on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity.
āThe case of healthcare workers helps illustrate why it is in everyoneās interest that people are able to work regardless of factors that have nothing to do with their ability to do the job,ā said Jon Davidson, Freedom for All Americans Chief Counsel. He is also an LGBTQ attorney who attended the Supreme Court arguments on this issue. āI hope the court sees this is not just important to the employees affected, but for society as a whole.ā
But not every state will be equally impacted by the ruling.
Davidson explains a Supreme Court ruling on the Bostock v. Clayton County, Altitude Express v. Zarda and Harris Funeral Homes v. EEOC cases determining if Title VII protections āon the basis of sexā includes sexual orientation and gender identity wonāt affect the 22 states that already have LGBTQ-inclusive nondiscrimination protections.
In April, Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam signed into law the Virginia Values Act, expanding nondiscrimination protections in his state to include sexual orientation and gender identity and making it the first state in the South with such inclusions.
āWe need every healthcare worker possible saving lives,ā Davidson emphasized. āSo having protections is both important to keep qualified people in their jobs and it is also important that LGBTQ workers not be worried about who might learn they are LGBTQ. If you have to hide your partner [or who you are] because youāre afraid your employer might find out and you might be fired, thatās unacceptable.ā
He added it was ājust outrageous and cruelā for healthcare workers to endure such uncertainty during a crisis.
HRC, the Movement Advancement Project and other national policy trackers have noted California, where Dr. Nass encountered the initial waves of the deadly virus, has passed a series of increasingly inclusive statewide measures over the years. Their legislative efforts culminated in the recent Gender Nondiscrimination Act in 2011.
As a result, though Nass also finds the pressures of the pandemic to be āincredibly stressful,ā he has not faced the added stress of having to conceal his orientation.
āWhen Iām not working, I am sheltering in place at home with my husband,ā Nass said. āA police officer in Los Angeles who is also on the front lines of the pandemic.ā
While their lives are at risk, their jobs and identities are not. However, the situation is very different outside of California.
Pham currently shelters-in-place with their fiancee, who uses both female and nonbinary pronouns and identifies as queer in orientation. The couple bought a two-person hammock so they can lie together under the trees and daydream about a future when they can travel. They are also planning their wedding and an eventual move to Los Angeles.
āItās spring,ā Pham said. āAnd we are appreciating nature and the flowers blooming and a time to slow down.ā
But the rest period doesnāt last long for the physician who graduated in the midst of a global crisis. Pham has been out as an LGBTQ person since attending medical school at the University of Texas in San Antonio. Although Texas is another state without LGBTQ-inclusive workplace protections, Pham was able to find mentors who helped them through their personal journey from self-described butch lesbian to nonbinary as well as through their professional journey from student to physician.
Pham details the rest of their current daily routine with almost machine-like precision.
āI park in a parking lot that is gated using my badge,ā Pham said. āThere I put on my surgical mask that I have in my car. Parking is in the back of the hospital. I walk to the front. There is only one entrance to the hospital. I try to keep six feet from anyone else and I try to see if anyone else is walking toward the entrance.ā
āEveryone feels a little more distant than usual,ā agrees Nass in less constrained cadence when discussing his own routine, which begins at 6:30 a.m. āAnd Iāve worked on speaking more with my eyes now that no one can see me smile under the constant masks.ā
Pham is a little more reserved beneath their mask as workplace interactions usually lead to misgendering without reasonable recourse, especially during the crisis.
They arrive at a screening station where they answer a hospital workerās questions and get their temperature checked. When they pass the checkpoint, they get a sticker on their badge.
āDifferent colors for different days,ā Pham explains. āBefore I even get to my office, I usually swing by the ground floor and pick up my N95 mask and face shield, if Iām seeing COVID patients.ā
But Pham admits itās hard to know which patients are COVID positive, so they wear an N95 mask whenever they see patients. They also wipe down their keyboard, desk, chair, mouse, phone ā everything in their work area.
Nass may be fortunate when it comes to workplace protections, but his personal equipment seems a little less protective than Phamās, who works in a larger hospital and more closely with COVID patients.
āI stop at the front desk of the hospital to get an ear-loop mask,ā Nass explains. āNot the most protective kind, but those are kept even more securely in particular patient areas.ā
Nass notes āon administrative daysā he doesnāt usually see much of anyone as access into the office space has been limited to reduce the risk of spreading the virus.
āI am not assigned to take care of confirmed COVID-19 patients in one of the two units weāve designated for that,ā he said. āBut we have started to treat every patient, and each other, as though we may be carrying the virus.ā
And this may be sound advice, though reminiscent of the early stages of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. In March, when PPE distributions were no match for the steady influx of patients in New York City, Kious Kelly, a gay nurse working at Mount Sinai hospital, contracted COVID-19 and died from it.
Kellyās sister, Marya Patrice Sherron, told BuzzFeed News of a homophobic comment posted to a GoFundMe page set up to help with funeral expenses.
āIt was a very, very, very hateful and insensitive comment suggesting that [his death] didnāt matter because he was a gay male.ā
Pham faces similar insensitivity from nonbinary erasure even as they struggle to save lives during the crisis.
Phamās hospital has a dedicated COVID team where they work when they are on call. Pham said in the beginning stages of the crisis it took a week to get test results back so they werenāt certain who was infected and who wasnāt. Now, with better testing, the turnaround has been 24 hours or less.
āWe know definitively if they are positive or negative faster, instead of just suspecting that they are,ā Pham said. āIt helps us triage better.ā
Pham also said this is safer for the medical staff since many of the infected are asymptomatic. As a result, everyone is tested regardless of symptoms.
āWe stress the importance of social distancing because you donāt know who could test COVID positive and they could be spreading it around unknowingly,ā Pham said.
At the end of their shift, Pham removes their gear by following the guidance of a hospital instructional video. They then wipe down their shield with hospital-grade wipes and they toss the mask if it has been visibly soiled.
After cleaning themselves and their workstation again, they wear a surgical mask down to their car. They then clean themselves and the interior of their car with alcohol again. When they get home, they keep a six feet distance from their fiancee and toss their clothes into the washing machine before jumping into the shower.
When it is safe, the two of them can finally relax together and reconnect by cooking, watching Netflix or daydreaming in their shared hammock.
Nass similarly ends his day with a trip to the washing machine and shower before collapsing on the couch with his husband and Boston Terrier. In the hour or two before he falls asleep he catches up on āThe Magiciansā or āSchittās Creek.ā
āSometimes I eat dinner,ā he said in a rare consideration of his own health.
āLGBTQ healthcare workers are stepping up to save lives in this crisis,ā said Hector Vargas, the executive director of GLMA: Health Professionals Advancing LGBTQ Equality, an LGBTQ medical professionals advocacy organization. āItās long past time we step up for them to make sure theyāre protected under the eyes of the law.ā

Photos
PHOTOS: DCGFFL 25th Anniversary Party
Gay flag football league marks milestone at Penn Social

The D.C. Gay Flag Football League (DCGFFL) held a 25th season anniversary party at Penn Social on Saturday, Sept. 23. Proceeds from the event benefited the LGBTQ youth services organization SMYAL as well as the D.C. Center for the LGBTQ Community.
(Washington Blade photos by Michael Key)



















Books
New book goes behind the scenes of āA League of Their Ownā
āNo Crying in Baseballā offers tears, laughs, and more

āNo Crying in Baseball: The Inside Story of āA League of Their Ownā
By Erin Carlson
c.2023, Hachette Books
$29/320 pages
You donāt usually think of Madonna as complaining of being ādirty all dayā from playing baseball. But thatās what the legendary diva did during the shooting of āA League of Their Own,ā the 1992 movie, beloved by queers.
āNo Crying in Baseball,ā the fascinating story behind āA League of Their Own,ā has arrived in time for the World Series. Nothing could be more welcome after Amazon has cancelled season 2 of its reboot (with the same name) of this classic film.

In this era, people donāt agree on much. Yet, āA League of Their Ownā is loved by everyone from eight-year-old kids to 80-year-old grandparents.
The movie has strikes, home runs and outs for sports fans; period ambience for history buffs; and tears, laughs and a washed-up, drunk, but lovable coach for dramady fans.
The same is true for āNo Crying in Baseball.ā This āmaking ofā story will appeal to history, sports and Hollywood aficionados. Like āAll About Eveā and āThe Rocky Horror Picture Show,ā āA League of Their Ownā is Holy queer Writ.
Carlson, a culture and entertainment journalist who lives in San Francisco, is skilled at distilling Hollywood history into an informative, compelling narrative. As with her previous books, āIāll Have What Sheās Having: How Nora Ephronās three Iconic Films Saved the Romantic Comedyā and āQueen Meryl: The Iconic Roles, Heroic Deeds, and Legendary Life of Meryl Streep,ā āNo Crying in Baseball,ā isnāt too āeducational.ā Itās filled with gossip to enliven coffee dates and cocktail parties.
āA League of Their Ownā is based on the true story of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (AAGPBL). From 1943 to 1954, more than 600 women played in the league in the Midwest. The leagueās players were all white because the racism of the time prohibited Black women from playing. In the film, the characters are fictional. But the team the main characters play for ā the Rockford Peaches ā was real.
While many male Major and Minor League Baseball players were fighting in World War II, chewing gum magnate Philip K. Wrigley, who owned the Chicago Cubs, founded the league. He started the AAGPBL, āTo keep spectators in the bleachers,ā Carlson reports, āand a storied American sportāmore important: his business afloat.ā
In 1943, the Office of War Information warned that the baseball season could be āscrappedā ādue to a lack of men,ā Carlson adds.
āA League of Their Ownā was an ensemble of womenās performances (including Rosie OāDonnell as Doris, Megan Cavanagh as Marla, Madonna as Mae, Lori Petty as Kit and Geena Davis as Dottie) that would become legendary.
Girls and women still dress up as Rockford Peaches on Halloween.
Tom Hanksās indelible portrayal of coach Jimmy Dugan, Gary Marshallās depiction of (fictional) league owner Walter Harvey and Jon Lovitzās portrayal of Ernie have also become part of film history.
Filming āA League of Their Own,ā Carlson vividly makes clear, was a gargantuan effort. There were āactresses who canāt play baseballā and ābaseball players who canāt act,ā Penny Marshall said.
The stadium in Evansville, Ind., was rebuilt to look like it was in the 1940s āwhen the players and extras were in costume,ā Carlson writes, āit was easy to lose track of what year it was.ā
āNo Crying in Baseballā isnāt written for a queer audience. But, Carlson doesnāt pull any punches.
Many of the real-life AAGPBL players who OāDonnell met had same-sex partners, OāDonnell told Carlson.
āWhen Penny, angling for a broad box-office hit chose to ignore the AAGPGLās queer history,ā Carlson writes, āshe perpetuated a cycle of silence that muzzled athletes and actresses alike from coming out on the wider stage.ā
āIt was, as they say, a different time,ā she adds.
Fortunately, Carlsonās book isnāt preachy. Marshall nicknames OāDonnell and Madonna (who become buddies) āRoā and āMo.ā Kodak is so grateful for the one million feet of film that Marshall shot that it brings in a high school marching band. Along with a lobster lunch. One day, an assistant director āstreaked the set to lighten the mood,ā Carlson writes.
āNo Crying in Baseball,ā is slow-going at first. Marshall, who died in 2018, became famous as Laverne in āLaverne & Shirley.ā Itās interesting to read about her. But Carlson devotes so much time to Marshallās bio that you wonder when sheāll get to āA League of Their Own.ā
Thankfully, after a couple of innings, the intriguing story of one of the best movies ever is told.
Youāll turn the pages of āNo Crying in Baseballā even if you donāt know a center fielder from a short stop.
The Blade may receive commissions from qualifying purchases made via this post.
Theater
Rupert Murdochās powers on full display in āInkā
Media baron helped pave the way for Brexit, Prime Minister Thatcher

āInkā
Through Sept. 24
Round House Theatre
4545 East-West Highway, Bethesda, MD 20814
$46-$94
Roundhousetheatre.org
Yes, Rupert Murdochās loathsome traits are many, but his skills to succeed are undeniably numerous.Ā
In the first scenes of John Graham’s West End and Broadway hit drama āInk,ā an exciting year-long detail from the life of a burgeoning media baron, Murdoch’s powers of persuasion are on full display.
Itās 1969 London. Over dinner with editor Larry Lamb, a young Murdoch shares his plan to buy the Sun and rebrand the dying broadsheet, replacing the Daily Mirror as Britainās best-selling tabloid. Whatās more, he wants to do it in just one year with Lamb at the helm.
Initially reluctant, Lamb becomes seduced by the idea of running a paper, something thatās always eluded him throughout his career, and something Murdoch, the outsider Australian, understands. Murdoch taunts him, āNot you. Not Larry Lamb, the Yorkshire-born son of a blacksmith, not the guy who didnāt get a degree from Oxford or Cambridge, who didnāt get a degree from anywhere. Not you.ā
Still, Lamb, played convincingly by Cody Nickell in Round House Theatreās stellar season-opener, a co-production with Olney Theatre Center, remains unsure. But Murdoch (a delightfully brash Andrew Rein) is undeterred, and seals the deal with a generous salary.
Superbly staged by director Jason Loweth, āInkā is riveting. Its exchanges between Lamb and Murdoch are a strikingly intimate glimpse into ambition involving an ostensibly average editor and a striving money man who doesnāt like people.
Once on board, Lamb is trolling Fleet Street in search of his launch team, played marvelously by some mostly familiar actors. He makes his most important hire ā news editor Brian McConnell (Maboud Ebrahimzadeh) ā in a steam bath. The remainder of the Sunās new masthead falls handily into place: Joyce Hopkirk (Kate Eastwood Norris) the womenās page editor whose forward thinking is marred by her casual racism; Zion Jang plays Beverley Goodway, an awkwardly amusing young photographer; persnickety deputy editor Bernard Shrimsley (Michael Glenn) who learns to love ugly things; and an old school sports editor who proves surprisingly versatile, played by Ryan Rillette, Round Houseās artistic director.
At Lambās suggestion, the team brainstorms about what interests Sun readers. They decide on celebrities, pets, sports, free stuff, and ārather revolutionarily for the time āTV. Murdoch is happy to let readersā taste dictate content and the āWhyā of the sacred āfive Wsā of journalism is out the window.
Murdoch is portrayed as a not wholly unlikable misanthrope. He dislikes his editors and pressman alike. He particularly hates unions. His advice to Lamb is not to get too chummy with his subordinates. Regarding the competition, Murdoch doesnāt just want to outperform them, he wants to grind them to dust.
Loewith leads an inspired design team. Scenic designer Tony Cisekās imposing, inky grey edifice made from modular walls is ideally suited for Mike Tutajās projections of headlines, printed pages, and Reinās outsized face as Murdoch. Sound designer and composer Matthew M. Nielson ably supplies bar noises and the nonstop, pre-digital newspaper clatter of presses, linotypes, and typewriters.
From a convenient second tiered balcony, the Daily Mirrorās establishment power trio Hugh Cudlipp (Craig Wallace), Chris Lee Howard (Chris Geneback) and Sir Percy (Walter Riddle) overlook all that lies below, discussing new tactics and (mostly failed) strategies to remain on top.
Increasingly comfortable in the role of ruthless, sleazy editor, Lamb is unstoppable.
Obsessed with overtaking the Daily Mirrorās circulation, he opts for some sketchy reportage surrounding the kidnapping and presumed murder of Muriel McKay, the wife of Murdochās deputy Sir Alick (Todd Scofield). The kidnappers mistook Muriel for Murdochās then-wife Anna (Sophia Early). Next, in a move beyond the pale, Lamb introduces āPage 3,ā a feature spotlighting a topless female model. Awesta Zarif plays Stephanie, a smart young model. She asks Lamb if he would run a semi-nude pic of his similarly aged daughter? His reaction is uncomfortable but undaunted.
For Murdochās purposes, history proves he chose well in Lamb. By yearās end, the Sun is Britainās most widely read tabloid. Together they give the people what they didnāt know they wanted, proving the pro-Labour Daily Mirrorās hold on the working class is baseless and paving the way for things like Brexit and a Prime Minister Thatcher.
āInkā at Round House closes soon. See it if you can.
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