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

Books
Chronicling disastrous effects of āconversion therapyā
New book uncovers horror, unexpected humor of discredited practice

āShame-Sex Attraction: Survivorsā Stories of Conversion Therapyā
By Lucas F. W. Wilson
c.2025, Jessica Kingsley Publishers
$21.95/190 pages
Youāre a few months in, and it hasnāt gotten any easier.
You made your New Yearās resolutions with forethought, purpose, and determination butĀ after all this time,Ā you still struggle,Ā ugh. Youāve backslid. Youāve cheated because change is hard. Itās sometimes impossible. And in the new book,Ā āShame-Sex Attractionā by Lucas F. W. Wilson,Ā it can be exceptionally traumatic.

Progress does not come without problems.
While itās true that the LGBTQ community has been adversely affected by the current administration, there are still things to be happy about when it comes to civil rights and acceptance. Still, says Wilson, one āparticularly slow-moving aspect⦠has been the fight against what is widely known as conversion therapy.ā
Such practices, he says, āhave numerous damaging, death-dealing, and no doubt disastrous consequences.ā The stories heās collected in this volume reflect that, but they also mirror confidence and strength in the face of detrimental treatment.
Writer Gregory Elsasser-Chavez was told to breathe in something repellent every time he thought about other men. He says, in the end, he decided not to āpray away the gay.ā Instead, he quips, heād āsniff it away.ā
D. Apple became her āown conversation therapistā by exhausting herself with service to others as therapy. Peter Nunnās father took him on a surprise trip, but the surprise was a conversion facility; Nunnās father said if it didnāt work, heād āget rid ofā his 15-year-old son. Chaim Levin was forced to humiliate himself as part of his therapy.
Lexie Bean struggled to make a therapist understand that they didnāt want to be a man because they were āboth.ā Jordan Sullivan writes of the years it takes āto re-integrate and become wholeā after conversion therapy. Chris Csabs writes that he ātried everything to find the root of my problemā but ānothing so far had worked.ā
Says Syre Klenke of a group conversion session, āMy heart shattered over and over as people tried to console and encourage each otherā¦. I wonder if each of them is okay and still with us today.ā
Hereās a bit of advice for reading āShame-Sex Attractionā: dip into the first chapter, maybe the second, then go back and read the foreword and introduction, and resume.
The reason: author Lucas F. W. Wilsonās intro is deep and steep, full of footnotes and statistics, and if youāre not prepared or you didnāt come for the education, it might scare you away. No, the subtitle of this book is likely why youād pick the book up so because thatās what you really wanted, indulge before backtracking.
You wonāt be sorry; the first stories are bracing and theyāll steel you for the rest, for the emotion and the tears, the horror and the unexpected humor.
Be aware that there are triggers all over this book, especially if youāve been subjected to anything like conversion therapy yourself. Remember, though, that the survivors are just that: survivors, and their strength is what makes this book worthwhile. Even so, though āShame-Sex Attractionā is an essential read, that doesnāt make it any easier.
The Blade may receive commissions from qualifying purchases made via this post.
Arts & Entertainment
How queer Baltimore artists are building strong community spaces
Fruit Camp is home to tattoo artists, musicians, herbalist, and more

Fruit Camp, a tattoo and art studio in the Remington neighborhood of Baltimore, opened with a bang in February of 2020. āWe had a big opening party. It was really fun. Everybody came,ā says Geo Mccandlish, one of the co-founders. āIt was the last rager I went to,ā they said.
The pandemic shut down their shopāalongside the worldāfor months, but the shop survived. āWe just put our stimulus checks into keeping the rent paid,ā says Emi Lynn Holler, the other co-founder.
They had built the space without loans, on a low-budget, do-it-yourself ethos with hands-on help from their community. āThe deeply punk shoestring budget background worked really to our advantage,ā says Mccandlish.
While it wasnāt ideal, it was fitting. Mccandlish and Hollerās artistic partnership has almost always lived at the crossroads of community, DIY, and extraordinary circumstances. A decade ago they met as residents of the Bell Foundry, an arts co-op and co-living space, where sharing knowledge, making community, and living cheaply were key to getting by.
It was there that Holler gifted Mccandlish their first tattooing machine and taught them how to use it. And it was where the two of themāwho also do printmaking, fiber arts, and other creative activitiesāstarted imagining co-founding a space of their own. That dream felt more urgent in 2016 when Baltimore condemned the Bell Foundry and evicted the residents, including Mccandlish, during a nationwide crackdown on artist co-ops after the Ghost Ship fire in Oakland.
Holler had by then moved to Massachusetts to pursue formal tattoo education and certifications.
āLiving inside that level of precarity,ā Mccandlish explains, āmade us want to figure out a hybrid,ā between the unique, collaborative Bell Foundry and a licensed, commercial space. āWe wanted to find a way to create more safety,ā says Holler.
But they didnāt just want to create safety for the two of them. When looking at spaces, they opted to lease a bigger studioāa two-story, double-row house with room for tattooing on the first floor and small studios on the second. Mccandlish said the prospect of a larger project felt ātantalizing and preciousā because they felt āif you have access to something, you try to make sure that every resource that is a part of it is also shared.ā
Today, in addition to tattoos, Fruit Camp holds studios for musicians, fiber artists, an herbalist, a massage therapist, and a doula. āWeāre able to incubate and hold nontraditional pathways to different kinds of creative practices,ā says Mccandlish.
You can consider Fruit Camp a queer business by several definitions. For one, every member of the studio identifies as queer, in some way. It also looks queer. āIt’s campy and it’s pink, and we have a lot of gay art hanging around,ā explains Mccandlish.
Holler says sometimes they get asked about losing potential patrons by being openly queer, but that isnāt a worry. āI think it only strengthens us,ā they say. āIt brings people to us who also want to find each other in that world.ā They pause, āI feel like it boils down to we keep us safe and we take care of ourselves.ā
Mccandlish emphasizes that āqueer is the political meaningā and the āorientation toā which they do their work as a community space and business. Their shop practices are explicitly queer and trans-friendlyāin addition to being āanti-racist, anti-sexist, liberation-oriented, and accessible.ā For example, the shop requires masking and has consent-forward and trauma-informed practices in place. They also use cost-sharing instead of a traditional profit model with those who work in their space. āThe point is not to make as much money as everybody can, the point is to work enough with a low enough cost overhead that everyone can survive without overworking.ā
That is a continued goal, not a static place, they explain. āSome of our goals, we haven’t reached yet, like turning into a true worker co-op.ā
But they are already making big strides in the community. For example, some patrons tell them that they are the only tattoo studio they feel safe using, due to the universal masking policies. To their knowledge, they are the only shop in Baltimore that has the policy.
Fruit Camp also has a big community name. One day Mccandlish logged onto a community Facebook group and saw an anonymous post asking about queer-friendly tattooers or tattooers who would tattoo someone who has HIV. The post said, āIāve been turned away from five different shops.ā
Immediately Mccandlish went to the comments to write that Fruit Camp would be happy to tattoo them, but instead, they found the comment section full of that recommendation already. It warmed their heart. āThat feels like a very minor way that [our work] is so important.ā
(This story is part of the Digital Equity Local Voices Fellowship lab through News is Out. The lab initiative is made possible with support from Comcast NBCUniversal.)
Theater
Timely comedy āFake Itā focuses on Native American themes
Arena Stage production features two out actors

āFake It Until You Make Itā
Through May 4
Arena Stage, 1101 Sixth St., S.W.
Tickets start at $59
Arenastage.org
A farce requires teamwork. And Larissa FastHorseās āFake It Until You Make Itā now at Arena Stage is no exception.Ā
The timely comedy focuses on Native American nonprofits fractiously housed in a shared space. Friction rises when rivals River (Amy Brenneman), a white woman operating in the Indigenous world, goes up against the more authentic Wynona (Shyla Lefner) to win a lucrative Native-funded grant.
While Brenneman (best known for TVās Judging Amy) is undeniably a big draw, it takes a group collaboration to hit marks, land jokes, and pull off the well-executed physical comedy including all those carefully timed door slams.
As members of the six-person āFake Itā cast, Brandon Delsid and Eric Stanton Betts, both out actors of partly indigenous ancestry, contribute to the mayhem. Respectively, Delsid and Betts play Krys and Mark, a pair of two-spirited Native Americans who meet farcically cute and enjoy one of the playās more satisfying arcs.
For Krys, every attractive man is a potential next fling, but when Mark, handsome and relatively reserved, arrives on the scene, itās something entirely different.
Both onstage and sometimes off, Betts plays the straight man to Delsidās waggishness. But when it comes down to real life business, the friends are on the same page: not only are the L.A.-based, up-and-coming actors intensely serious about their film and stage careers, but theyāre also particularly engaged in the themes of Indigenous People found in āFake It.ā
On a recent Wednesday following a matinee and an audience talkback, they were ready for a phone interview.
In establishing whose voice was whose, Delsid clarified with āIām the one who sounds a little like a Valley girl.ā
WASHINGTON BLADE: Brandon, youāve been with the show since its early work-shopping days in 2022 and through its debut in Los Angeles and now Washington. Have things evolved?
BRANDON DELSID: Definitely. Iāve grown up in the last couple of years and so has my character; itās hard to know where I end and Kry begins. Thereās been a real melding.
Eric and I are both queer, and to get to play these roles that are so human, imperfect, sexy, and interesting is really joyful.
As queer artists you donāt always get the chance to do work like this. So many stories are queer trauma, which is incredibly important, but itās liberating to feel joy and ride it off into the sunset, which, without revealing too much, is kind of what we get to do.
BLADE: Thereās some race shifting in āFake Itā particularly with regard to āpretendianā (a pejorative term describing a person who has falsely claimed Indigenous status).
ERIC STANTON BETTS: The last few years Iāve been on a journey with my cultural identity and place in the world. Iām a mixed BIPOC artist, my dad is Black and Native American by way of the Cherokee tribe and my mom is white.
Since 2020, Iāve tried to figure out where I belong in this cultural history that I havenāt had a tie to throughout my life; itās gratifying to find my way back to my indigeneity and be welcomed.
In the play, race shifting is introduced through farce. But itās never in a disrespectful way; itās never mocked or done in a way to take away from others. The playwright parallels race shifting with gender fluidity.
DELSID: But in life, there are people posing as Indigenous, actively taking grants, and the play goes there, we donāt hold back. Larissa, our playwright, has made it clear that sheās not trying to figure it out for us. With that in mind, we hope people leave the theater interested and curious to learn more.
BLADE: Mark arrives kind of the middle of some crazy drama, bringing along a jolt of romance.
BETTS: Yeah, when I show up, weāre all sort of shot out of a cannon, struggling to keep up with the initial lie.
DESLID: A very gay cannon.
BLADE: Whatās up next for you two?
BETTS: Both Brandon and I are up for the same part in a TV pilot, so one of us may be getting some very good news. I also have a Tyler Perry film coming out soon [he plays a model, not an unfamiliar gig for Betts].
DELSID: Coming up, I have a recurring part on HBOās āThe Rehearsal,ā and a supporting part in āJune and John,ā a John Besson film. But doing āFake It Until You Make Itā in L.A. and now D.C. has been a special time in our lives. Itās 23/7 togetherness. Thereās that hour for sleep.
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