a&e features
Diane Rehm successor is not who you’d expect
Out ‘1A’ host Joshua Johnson is passionate journalist first and foremost
Joshua Johnson says launching a new daily two-hour radio show is a ‘mountain of work even under the best of circumstances.’ (Photo courtesy WAMU)
It was last Halloween weekend when Joshua Johnson got the call that he’d been named Diane Rehm’s successor.
Rehm, who began her eponymous National Public Radio call-in show in 1979, retired in December and as of Jan. 2, WAMU broadcasts a new show, “1A” in what had been “The Diane Rehm Show’s” timeslot.
Johnson had subbed for Rehm two days last September and shadowed her another day. Based in San Francisco for the last six-and-a-half years where he was morning news host for KQED while also teaching podcasting at the University of California (Berkeley), Johnson was in Palm Springs visiting friends with Joe Gallagher, his boyfriend of a year and a half, when he got the call. He says it’s a moment he’d been working toward since age 6.
“This wave of peace washed over me and I just got very calm,” says the 36-year-old South Florida native. “It was like my fists finally unclenched after weeks of waiting. I didn’t have that moment of, ‘Oh my God, I’m going to do the show.’ It was just kind of like, ‘Finally — I’ve been waiting on this for my entire life and now it’s going to happen.”
“1A” is a live, two-hour daily WAMU radio program distributed nationally by NPR each weekday at 10 a.m. that seeks to “provide deep conversation about the thorniest issues of our time delivered with insight, intimacy and personality.” It’s both a new, freestanding show but also a successor to the Rehm show, whose “legacy of civil dialogue and analysis” its team hopes to continue.
Producers were initially almost certain they’d hire a woman to succeed Rehm.
“We weren’t 100 percent sure, but you know, sort of in the high 80s or 90s,” says Rupert Allman, “1A’s” executive producer. Johnson won the search team over, Allman says, with his “huge relatability.”
“There was something about his own curiosity and his manner that was really appealing,” he says. “Especially the idea that he was very much interested in civil dialogue, taking time to develop arguments and not always chasing the next shiny ball. Those pieces came together and the stars began to align and that was it.”
Nobody’s universally loved in this era of Internet trolling, but early signs are strong for Johnson. “1A” is being carried on 204 stations with more expected in April (“The Diane Rehm Show” was carried on 198) and WAMU says the show was the No. 1 regional performer in its time slot throughout January, the latest month for which figures were available. WAMU says it expects the show will have a weekly audience of about 2.5 million soon based on early numbers.
Johnson, as loquacious as you’d expect, sat with the Blade in a WAMU conference room on Feb. 16. His comments have been edited for length.
WASHINGTON BLADE: How do you feel it’s going so far?
JOSHUA JOHNSON: It’s going well. Very, very busy. There’s no lack of things to talk about for sure, but it’s good. Launching a national show, any new show, is a heavy lift to say the least, but we have an amazingly good team and we’ve had lots of support from listeners and stations. We’ve found interesting ways to talk about what’s going on in the world and to divert from the headlines that have everyone’s attention to talk about other topics that may be getting lost in the shuffle around the new administration. And we’ve also found ways to take a breath and just do topics that are fun or different as a little relief from the top of the news cycle, so I think it’s been good.
BLADE: What’s your strategy to turn this into more of a Johnny Carson-to-Jay Leno kind of succession as opposed to, say, a Pat Sajak kind-of thing?
JOHNSON: The only thing we can do is control each day’s program and that’s what I try to focus on. I never worry about the 37 years that came before me. That’s Diane’s legacy and that’s solid and done. …. If you worry too much about the distant future, you miss the opportunity to really knock out today.
BLADE: Has the learning curve been about what you thought it would be?
JOHNSON: I tried to come in with very few expectations other than it would be really, really hard and it has been. …. But we’ve gone down from me working like 16-17-hour days to more like 12-13, so that’s a big step forward. … It’s just a mountain of work even under the best of circumstances.
BLADE: What’s been your favorite episode so far?
JOHNSON: I don’t have one. We did a Sunday show a few weeks ago on the immigration ban and we just let stations air it if they wanted to. … But we probably haven’t done my favorite show yet or even conceived of it. I think for me to start grabbing onto favorites at this point would set the bar too low for what we want to be. I don’t think what we’ve done in our first month will compare to what we’ll be doing a year from now or five years from now.
BLADE: When things are crazy, do you get energized or stressed by that?
JOHNSON: Probably a little bit of both. I tend to be the kind of person that the crazier things are around me, the calmer I get, which is how I survived breaking news. … But you have to be on the outer edge of your comfort zone in order to grow, so I just accepted that that was going to be the way it was going to be some days or maybe even most days.
BLADE: Was it hard to leave San Francisco?
JOHNSON: It was really, really hard … but this opportunity was worth it.
BLADE: Have you had any time to explore Washington much yet?
JOHNSON: No. I live a few blocks from the station here in Van Ness, so I walk to work because I cannot take a snow day. And everything I need is right here, the grocery store, the gym and so on. Once I get a better handle on the workload, I’ll be able to get out more and see the city.
BLADE: Were you intimidated to accept?
JOHNSON: Not really. …. I think I was more grateful and humble. … I felt very ready. Like, “Yeah — I’ve been preparing for this for 30-plus years.”
BLADE: You say you had this dream since age 5 or 6. How was this type of thing even on your radar at that age?
JOHNSON: Well, Kermit the Frog played a reporter on “Sesame Street.” …. I grew up seeing Ed Bradley on “60 Minutes” or Bernard Shaw on CNN or Dwight Lauderdale on my local Miami ABC station. Seeing those black men doing what I wanted to do just instantly clicked for me. I always had an affinity for broadcasting. I just didn’t know what form it would take.
BLADE: So was it something you chose or did it choose you?
JOHNSON: Well, it has to be both. Just because destiny knocks doesn’t mean you have to answer. It went through a lot of permutations of whether I would answer or how I would answer and then eventually it became that one thing that I knew if I didn’t go after, I’d regret the rest of my life.
BLADE: Had you been a big listener of “The Diane Rehm Show”?
JOHNSON: Yeah, I listened to her in South Florida on the station where I grew up, WLRN. I never thought I’d be her successor, but yeah, I listened to her for years.
BLADE: How do you decide on the balance between meat-and-potatoes news topics and lighter stuff?
JOHNSON: I don’t think it’s a matter of balancing lightness against substance. The show we did on country music was very substantive. What we’re always trying to figure out is what is it about today’s show that a fan would tell their friends, “You gotta listen to today’s ‘1A.’” Why? How do you answer that? if you start there and work backwards, you can build a great show. So even if it’s a lighter topic like country music today or the Grammy Awards or the Super Bowl, we never want it to feel like, “OK everybody, we know life is really hard so we’re just gonna give you some sugar and candy for an hour.” That’s not good enough. Even if it’s not politics or not some trouble-in-the-world topic, it still has to be time well spent. Plus, I get bored easily, so I get tired of talking about the troubles of the world all day. …. It can’t be all sugar but it can’t be all steak.
BLADE: Some people are saying there’s been more sugar though lately. The Super Bowl show got some flak.
JOHNSON: It depends whose table you’re dining at. I think there are different ways to talk about different things. I did have a listener who got very snooty about the Super Bowl show …. but there are many aspects to a cultural event like that that are worthy of discussion. … Just because people listen to NPR doesn’t mean they don’t watch football and just because they listen to NPR doesn’t mean they don’t like pop music.
BLADE: True, but hasn’t NPR always sort of been that hub where you could get something you couldn’t just get anywhere else? If ESPN is doing round-the-clock sports coverage, do we really need to hear about sports on NPR too?
JOHNSON: But we don’t talk about the Super Bowl like ESPN would talk about it. We didn’t get caught up in stats and who’s up and who’s down. We talked about it more broadly, about what was going on in Houston and sort of the politics around the event, the cost of buying an ad there and so on. We tried to make it really fun. One thing public media serves is to give people a diverse view on the world. Anybody who thinks public media is designed to be all meat and potatoes all the time has clearly never heard “Car Talk” or “Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me.” … These are just wonderful shows that are about interesting things that make life worthwhile and we can’t pretend that doesn’t matter.
BLADE: Does the “1A” format give you more opportunity to weigh in than other journalism posts you’ve had?
JOHNSON: No. My job is still to be an analyst of the day’s events. This is not the Joshua Johnson show. It’s not my platform to tell you what I think about the news. I’m still a reporter. But that doesn’t mean I can’t call out inconsistencies. The other day we had a guest who kind of fudged an answer on climate change and I (called him out). But I can do it in a way that hews to evidence and fact and not just my belief.
BLADE: There’s so much obfuscation in partisan discussions, though. How do you press people for clarity without sounding partisan, at least at times?
JOHNSON: The way we’ve been doing it —what we do works. You do your homework, you do smart shows, you ask smart questions and you don’t worry about whether people like you or are comfortable with it. I’m here to perform a service as a journalist. … For me to start worrying about it now is to doubt the very reasons I came here. Facts still matter, the truth is still the truth and there are still such things as facts. People know and understand what the NPR standard is and outlets that don’t follow that standard — I don’t need to worry about people who deal in that kind of foolishness.
BLADE: How do you decide if you’re going to pick up a thread after a break or not?
JOHNSON: It depends what’s coming up after the break. If we have a guest we need to get to or we have other questions that segue into that thought. Being in the studio is basically air traffic control because we have guests in the studio, remote guests, my script, my questions, I’m watching the clock, I have a timer that counts down to certain elements, then I have another screen that shows me e-mails and Tweets and Facebook posts and if we receive a voicemail during the show, we can play that. I have my laptop, which has more communication, I’m in touch with the control room and the newsroom upstairs and it’s all happening at once. There are all these different elements that I have to make balance so it’s a lot of plate spinning. It will be different every single day and I have to figure out in the moment what we’re going to next and if it’s duplicative of what we just said, how much time we have left and so on.
BLADE: How many people work on the show and are any of them veterans of Diane’s show?
JOHNSON: I think we have 11. Two of them were former producers on her team. The rest are new hires.
BLADE: Do you anticipate getting more mileage out of the Trump administration than you otherwise would have?
JOHNSON: There’s more to life in Washington so I don’t look to any one sector of the news as my bread and butter. … Also, public radio is very committed to the idea of localism … so we can’t allow the current political climate to eclipse all of that because then you’re basically saying that localism doesn’t matter anymore … so we keep that all in perspective.
BLADE: Even though “1A” is distributed throughout the country, doesn’t it seem slightly odd considering WAMU’s push for live and local to have brought you in from San Francisco? Some listeners were predicting a Washington person. Do you know how many names were in the hat?
JOHNSON: I don’t. I’ve heard different numbers but I honestly don’t know nor do I know who they were. As for live and local, we are live and we are a program from WAMU. I think it’s important to the DNA of public radio that local stations are a provider of national programming (gives examples). We are Washington’s NPR station and we think the ability of WAMU to produce shows like “1A” and “Big Listen” is something we can be proud of. (Allman says Johnson’s outsider status was a plus. “[We liked that] he wasn’t from D.C., is not wowed by the Beltway. He brings a completely different perspective on the country. He gives the audience something new, someone they didn’t know so it doesn’t just seem like the business of shuffling people around.”)
BLADE: You seem at times a bit more abrupt than Diane. Do you agree?
JOHNSON: I try not to be. If I interrupt, I try to apologize for it unless they’re just going off the deep end. I try to be as respectful as I can but that doesn’t mean we have time to let everybody finish their thought.
BLADE: How serious are you and your boyfriend? Any plans for him to move out here eventually as well?
JOHNSON: He owns a barbershop in San Francisco so there are some moving parts we’d have to figure out. For now, we’re doing the bicoastal thing. We’ll make it work.
BLADE: Is Millennial engagement a big push at NPR? Are NPR stations seeing the drop-off we hear about at the orchestra, the ballet, the mainline churches and so on?
JOHNSON: Millennials have gotten a bad rap. They consume immense amounts of news and information — they just do it differently. There are a lot of NPR member stations that are trying to be where younger audiences are. … We’re also getting better at saying, “Hey, maybe we don’t have a relationship now, but check this out.” Or, “We’ll try to make ourselves available in a bunch of different ways and if you only listen once or twice, that’s cool.” Or, “If you’re a fan of this podcast or station but don’t yet understand why you should give, fine.” … We’re getting better at accepting people where they are in the continuum of use in public radio. …. I think the institutions that do well are going to be the ones that skate harder in the direction the puck is going, not just going in the direction they wish it would go.
BLADE: You told Diane Rehm you hoped race would inform the program but not be the lens of the program. What’s the difference?
JOHNSON: Well, it’s about taking the experiences of your life and using them to add context to a conversation. You know, my lens on life is that I’m an African-American man in the 20th and 21st century. I can’t pretend that’s not who I am. So for me to pretend that it’s not or to pretend that I view life with no conception of race, that would be a lie. I have to acknowledge my life experiences. But at the same time as a journalist, I can step out of those experiences and try to view something from another person’s perspective. I can’t step outside of what I won’t acknowledge. It’s like taking off a shirt you don’t admit you put on. I have to own the truth of my life … but I don’t want people to feel like it’s a black man’s perspective on the news or that I’m a black man doing the news. Because I own the totality of who I am, I can step out of it as a journalist and say, “OK, let me see how people with different life experiences than me view this.”
BLADE: Did either being gay or being black pose any career hindrances?
JOHNSON: I don’t think either one was detrimental. I grew up in South Florida, which is a very gay-friendly news market. … I made a decision early on that I couldn’t make a career out of telling the truth about everyone else’s life while lying about my own. I knew eventually one of those lies would come back to bite me because one of them would be leverage for someone to use over me, so I decided I just needed to own the whole truth of my life and not let that be an impediment to my success. … Once you as a gay man deal with shame and you learn how poisonous it is, it can give you the leverage to never impute that shame on other people because it never helps, it never lifts up, it never clarifies, it never improves anything. … It burns everything it touches, so I just decided not to play with that fire because I knew what that burn feels like.
BLADE: That’s profound — what age were you? I wouldn’t have been able to articulate any of that at 16, 17, 18.
JOHNSON: I wouldn’t have been able to say that to you at that age either but I tend to be a very logical person but growing up in the Baptist church … I just thought to myself, the scriptures say you will know the truth and the truth will set you free. Well, this is the truth of my life. There has to be some freedom in here somewhere and I just held on to that. This is what the book says. This has to make sense somehow. That thought process always served me well as a journalist so how do these two things lock together? I just allowed that process to play out.
BLADE: But you make it sound so tidy. Surely there was some angst at some point, no?
JOHNSON: Oh, of course there was. This was just the ending. But yeah, there were times it was awful, it was terrible. Coming out sucks even under the best of circumstances. But working through that gave me a way to figure out where my inner reservoir of toughness came from in terms of career. I knew I had this dream and I was too greedy to give up on it.
a&e features
From Media Matters to massive queer ragers: the rise of Tara Dikhof
The Washington Blade sits down with the DJ and drag star on her summer tour, rise to prominence, and how Musk helped shape her path.
Before becoming the “full-time party girl” with the power to turn any room with Instagram Reels into a dingy dance floor packed with queer people — at least for a minute or two — Tara Dikhof was much like a lot of queer Washingtonians: upset at how the first Trump administration quickly began attacking marginalized communities’ rights, and in need of a creative, constructive outlet.
“I used to be a journalist at Media Matters, where I worked on our online extremism and LGBTQ program,” Tara Dikhof told the Blade when asked how she became the actualized drag performer she is today. “I did extensive work documenting how the right wing media ecosystem poisons the debate on queer issues — and spreads virulent lies about LGBTQ people online.”
Media Matters is a nonprofit that describes itself as a “progressive research and information center” with the goal of “monitoring, analyzing, and correcting conservative misinformation in the U.S. media.”
Tara, who, while working at Media Matters lived up to that goal. She wrote — or assisted the media watchdog with — more than 150 articles for the web-based organization. While she covered a wide variety of topics, she became a leading voice covering Joe Rogan during her tenure as a senior researcher for the LGBTQ Program at Media Matters.
“I think some of my most impactful work from my time at Media Matters was when I was the leading journalist reporting on Joe Rogan’s extremism and right wing misinformation. I broke the story that he was encouraging young people not to get the COVID vaccine,” Dikhof said. “I reported that the presidential debates hadn’t asked a question about LGBTQ issues since the 2000s. I also led a study looking at TV news reporting on anti-trans violence, showing that TV news stations, cable and broadcast combined, collectively reported on anti-trans violence for less than an hour almost every year.”
In addition to media coverage, Dikhof also worked on the inside as a Truman-Albright Fellow and policy analyst at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, working to improve the health and safety of Americans.
That effort was recognized from both sides of the political aisle. She and her detailed research appeared in a slew of outlets, includingDemocracy Now!, The Atlantic, and even the Blade’s West Coast sister publication, the LA Blade, among others. While her work began making headlines informing people about the dangers of under coverage of LGBTQ issues, it also garnered attention from staunch anti-LGBTQ voices.
One of those voices — and the one Dikhof ultimately credits as the reason she bowed out of the media watchdog world — was Elon Musk. Musk, the CEO of Tesla, founder and chief engineer of SpaceX, and owner of X, was not pleased with coverage of the platform’s questionable practices under his leadership. The app relaxed censorship policies, dissolved its Trust and Safety Council, and reinstated thousands of previously banned accounts — many of them far-right accounts found to be pushing harmful misinformation and disinformation.
“He was trying to silence fact-based journalism that revealed that his platform X was running advertisements next to Nazi content,” Dikhof said. “When you’re facing lawsuits against the richest man in the world, unfortunately, the facts don’t matter as much.”
She said it led to her being let go from the media watchdog organization — something she had worked so long to help grow awareness about the dangers of growing authoritarianism on platforms and across the airwaves.
“That was incredibly devastating. I dedicated my entire adult life to the progressive movement, to trying to stop right wing misinformation, and to have that drop out from under me was defeating, to say the least. But you can’t keep a powerful girl down.”
She didn’t stay down for long. She tapped into the drag and DJ world after leaving the nation’s capital. Since then, she has expanded on her drag journey and opened for some of the world’s biggest performers — from Aliyah’s Interlude, to Violet Chachki, to massive pop superstar Chappell Roan. It seems the Dikhof rocket has taken off and doesn’t look like it’s slowing down.
That switch, she explained, has her feeling like she is doing more for the LGBTQ community than she could at Media Matters.
“I started throwing parties and community events for queer people in Boston, and I now throw parties for over 1,200 people a month,” she said. “I honestly don’t feel like I’ve ever had more of an impact on queer and trans people than I am now. I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that getting a group of LGBTQ people in a room together and letting them radically express themselves through dance and movement and to build new friendships and to find the love of their life — is a radical act.”
Her goal is simple — provide a place for LGBTQ people, specifically trans people, to let down their hair — or in her case, giant wigs and fantastical headpieces — and just dance.
“I’m just trying to give people a space to exist, which for a lot of queer and trans people right now is not something they can do. They don’t feel safe at work, they don’t feel safe at home, they don’t feel safe in public, and the one oasis that they can access is the gay club. It’s a place where they can dress however they want, they can love whoever they want.”
That radical act, she explained, should be as inclusive as America is diverse. She sees the waves of conservatism that have hit the federal government — and state offices around the country swinging to the right — reflected in the nightlife scene she encounters. LGBTQ clubs have long been a proxy for the social standards in mainstream America, which often focus heavily on young, white, cisgender men.
“It is one of the most connecting things we can do while we’re on this planet. My guiding light is, I am trying to build dance floors that are multigenerational and multiracial. I’m trying to start a new chapter in queer nightlife, where dance floors aren’t just dominated by white, buff gay men.”
While in-person nightlife has led to a diverse dance floor thumping with bops from Slayyyter’s new release “Wor$t Girl In America” to gay club classics like Ariana Grande’s “Into You” — with wild-haired Dikhof at the helm in looks that could make even Cher do a double take — her rise has also been immensely assisted by some of the very platforms she once called out while living in Washington.
She has amassed quite the following — 142,000 followers on Instagram, 2.6 million likes on TikTok, and thousands of streams on SoundCloud.
Despite this growing and visibly powerful media presence, she has hard limits on when and where she deems it appropriate. The dance floor is not always one of those places — not just due to the growing data on the harm social media causes to users’ health, but also to stay true to her goal of helping the LGBTQ community become a stronger, more accepting place.
“Social media promises connection and relationships, but it’s not true. What we actually need is a way for people to put their phones down and connect with others in real life,” she said. “I’m trying to build a coalition that represents the true power of the LGBTQ community, where we can all exist in harmony together. At a lot of my parties, I have a no-phones policy, because what I want people to do is disconnect from social media, disconnect from our system of mass surveillance, and just be present for a few hours.”
“For my party, Feral, which is [a] no-phones LGBTQ rager, at the door before anyone enters the party, we tell them our party’s policies, and we make sure they have a verbal yes agreeing to them,” she said. “Those policies are no phones, no photos, no videos on the dance floor, treat yourself and others with respect.”
She sees this intentional inclusivity as a major way to combat the hate trickling down from the Trump-Vance administration and regurgitated by mainstream media organizations that feed into that bias.
“I believe that we can create, and we can continue to build radical change in this country on the dance floor. So much mainstream media has consistently allowed conservative media to set the terms of debate for LGBTQ rights. Mainstream media outlets like the Washington Post, outlets like New York Times, put trans rights up for debate when we can all agree that human rights are not something that we can debate.”
She continued, explaining that the bias mainstream media imposes — like with The New York Times’ consistently criticized coverage of transgender people, which often has little or no actual transgender voices in its reporting — frames these issues as cultural debates rather than basic human rights.
“These mainstream outlets don’t debunk those claims. They don’t push back on them. We need to say that lesbians belong at the gay club. We need to say that we don’t tolerate anti-Black discrimination at the gay club. We need to say that trans people deserve to be loud and messy in the gay club, just like everyone else gets to.”
She explained that what she is trying to do is simple in theory — make the space truly a dance haven for everyone in the community.
“What I’m really trying to do is I’m trying to open a portal of transcendence. I’m trying to create magical moments where all of the problems in the world drop out of your mind.”
Dikhof attempts to do this, she explained, by tapping into that deeply human — and animalistic — need for connection.
“Humans are primates and primates are animals that need physical touch. We need community spaces, and increasingly, with social media, late stage capitalism, and a horrible economic outlook, people don’t have a public forum to connect with others. There have been nights where I have taken a $3,000 loss, but it’s part of it.”
To her, the value queer nightlife gives to the community can’t be measured by ticket sales or ad clicks — it’s measured by acts of queer joy and defiance that echo the community’s need for broader survival in an era of book bans and hostility for the sake of cruelty.
“All we need is a room for four hours, a DJ, a working sound system, and a community that cares about protecting each other. If you have that, you can create total bliss. I think the beauty and transcendence of queer nightlife is something that Republican lawmakers will probably never understand.”
She sees the dance floor as just as important for queer people as the Senate floor. Not separate from politics — it is politics.
“I do believe that having queer community spaces is an integral part of political organizing. We cannot let the bastards steal our joy. Getting out of the house and being loudly queer is a form of resistance.”
“Right now, I’m really living my wildest dreams and I’m hungry. This is just the beginning for Tara Dikhof. We’re living in a society where we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions, and God like technology, and I am going to use that God like technology to the best of my ability.”
Tara Dikhof is currently on her summer tour, starting at Project GLOW for Queer Chaos in Washington. She will return — after crisscrossing the country — to perform at Bunker on June 20 during Capital Pride weekend.
Just as humans have always had meals, queer humans, too, have enjoyed meals. Yet what is it that makes “queer food” distinct?
At the beginning of May in Montreal, the Queer Food Conference 2026 sought not to answer that question, but to further interrogate it. The conference united scholars, activists, artists, journalists, farmers, chefs, and other food industry professionals for three days of panels, workshops, discussions, and, yes, meals, in an inclusive, thoughtful, contemplative-yet-whimsical environment, taking a comprehensive view of the landscape of queer food.
The two organizers – Professor Alex Ketchum, at the Institute for Gender, Sexuality, and Feminist Studies of McGill University in Montreal, and Professor Megan Elias, Director of Food Studies & Gastronomy at Boston University – met in 2022 when Elias acted as a peer reviewer for Ketchum’s second book, “Ingredients for a Revolution,” a wide-ranging history of more than 230 feminist and lesbian-feminist restaurants, cafes, and coffeehouses from 1972 to the present in the US.
Elias, taken by the book and its exploration, invited Ketchum to speak at one of Elias’s courses, at which pastries were served and feminist bread making was baked into conversation. Elias floated the idea of co-organizing a queer food conference – and a hot 24 hours later, Ketchum said yes, with plans sketched out, from grants to topics to speakers. In parallel, the duo started to conceptualize “Queers at the Table,” a book based on their work (published last year).
The conference, the book, the research: their work is, in part, grounded in the question: What is queer food? True to queer theory, each has her own nuanced response as drivers of their research, challenging the traditional and looking beyond norms of food studies. Ketchum’s view is that it is grounded on food by and for the queer community, in specific histories, and especially in the labor behind the food. Elias posits that queer food is at the intersection of queerness and culinary studies, beyond gender norms and binaries, back to the societal basics of queer food as part of queer humans always having meals. “Queer food destabilizes assumptions about food, gender and sexuality, making space for a wider range of relationships to food,” she says.
The academics’ professed enthusiasm, however, rarely reached beyond small circles.
“I regularly attended big food studies conferences, but almost never saw presentations about gender identity beyond women’s roles,” says Elias about her prior work, and when her students would ask for additional literature about sexuality and food, results had been sparse. Ketchum echoed this gap: When she was in graduate studies, she received hesitation from leadership about her chosen field of study. By 2024, however, queer food as an area of study and practice had grown, whether in popular culture or well as in publishing, setting the stage for the first Queer Food Conference in 2024 in Boston. Their aim at that even was to launch the subfield of queer food studies into the mainstream, so that fellow academics, students, and those interested in the space could convene, “creating space for others to build,” says Ketchum. “People were enthusiastic.”
Once Ketchum and Elias published “Queers at the Table” in 2025 (notably, gay author John Birdsall also published a book examining queer identity through food last year, “What Is Queer Food?”), they laid the foundation for the 2026 conference in Montreal. This edition was an “embodied” conference, inclusive of various ontologies in queer food studies: theory, labor, art, taste, an interdisciplinary, expansive grounding.
Topics ranged from cookbooks and influencers to farming and land movements, bars and cafes, brewing and baking, history and sociology, writing and printmaking, healthcare and community, and centering marginalized – especially trans – voices.
Naturally, food was centered. The conference’s keynotes were not academics, but the chefs themselves who created the food with their own hands that attendees ate over the three days. “Not to disregard a pure academic space,” says Ketchum, “but to not have food in a room when we talk about food would be wild.”
Jackson Tucker, a Distinguished Graduate Fellow at the University of Delaware, said that “What I found [at the conference] was a genuinely diverse gathering: scholars who did grounded social research but also practitioners, organizers, and people who had never thought about an academic conference in their lives and didn’t need to. That mix is the soul of this whole project for me. Without the people who are out in the world doing queer food, the conference wouldn’t exist.”
Ketchum – her home being Montreal – also worked to fold in community-driven events so that attendees could get a taste of queer food in the city outside of classroom walls; for example, attendees participated in a collaborative evening pizza-making class at a queer-owned pizzeria.
The interdisciplinary nature of the conference led to sharing of research, thoughts, activities, and planning. There was a “value of bringing people together of different backgrounds, which leads to richer discussion,” she says.
Elias picked up on this theme: “I saw people bonding and connecting and believing in Queer Food Studies,” – one of the central goals that Ketchum noted, further legitimizing a nascent field. As both professors continue their research and leadership, they envision a continued layering of centering the queer experience and community through the shared value and study of food.
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Gay Men’s Chorus celebrates 45 years at annual gala
‘Sapphire & Sparkle’ Spring Affair held at the Ritz Carlton
The Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington held the annual Spring Affair gala at the Ritz Carlton Washington, D.C. on Saturday. The theme for this year’s fete was “Sapphire & Sparkle.” The chorus celebrated 45 years in D.C. with musical performances, food, entertainment, and an awards ceremony.
Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington Executive Director Justin Fyala and Artistic Director Thea Kano gave welcoming speeches. Opening remarks were delivered by Spring Affair co-chairs Tracy Barlow and Tomeika Bowden. Uproariously funny comedian Murray Hill performed a stand-up set and served as the emcee.
There were performances by Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington groups Potomac Fever, 17th Street Dance, the Rock Creek Singers, Seasons of Love, and the GenOUT Youth Chorus.
Anjali Murthy, a member of the chorus and a graduate of the GenOUT Youth Chorus, addressed the attendees of the gala.
“The LGBTQ+ community isn’t bound by blood ties: we are brought together by shared experience,” Murthy said. “Being Gen Z, I grew up with Ellen [DeGeneres] telling me through the TV screen that it gets better: that one day, it’ll all be okay. The sentiment isn’t wrong, but it’s passive. What I’ve learned from GMCW is that our future is something we practice together. It exists because people like you continue to show up for it, to believe in the possibilities of what we’re still becoming”
The event concluded with the presentation of the annual Harmony Awards. This year’s awardees included local drag artist and activist Tara Hoot, the human rights organization Rainbow Railroad as well as Rocky Mountain Arts Association Executive Director, Dr. Chipper Dean.
(Washington Blade photos and videos by Michael Key)
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