Herz is completely nondescript from the outside, just a sign and hours posted on the building. Inside, everyone sits around the bar, chatting amiably. I’m immediately greeted when I walk in the door like I’m an old friend who comes in all the time.

The bartender checks my ID and calls me baby in that way only southern folks can, with syrup in their voice. They ask if it’s my first time here and then proceeds to announce “we’ve got a Her-gin all the way from Vermont!” I’m thanked for stopping in on my visit.

I’m beginning to feel like it’s Groundhog Day, because it’s also karaoke night at Herz. I order a Modelo, because everyone at the bar is drinking one, a deviation from my PBRs and Miller Lites. Don’t hate me, but all lagers taste pretty much the same. Orange is the New Black is playing behind the bar, and watching Lea DeLaria, Executive Producer of The Lesbian Bar Project, aggressively eat someone out on screen is a funny full circle moment.

The crowd is aggressively casual in sweats, leggings, slouchy flannels, and rainbow graphic tees. Majority Dyke, with a smattering of all flavors of queer. They range across age, race, and gender, maybe slightly on the younger side.

The first 45 minutes of karaoke are almost exclusively show tunes from Beetlejuice, Rocky Horror, and Nightmare Before Christmas. Someone sings almost the entire catalog of Bowling For Soup. Etta James and Elvis also make an appearance. An enthusiastic group of four sings for the majority of the night, supporting each other with shouts and dancing along.

These may not be the best karaoke singers I’ve seen so far, but they are the most supportive, the least in their heads, and the most authentically themselves.

This is the first bar so far without rainbow decorations, just a few framed photos of iconic women, alcohol signage, paintings, and some wine-mom style decor. Phenomenal Woman is painted on a sign in the back, right next to a claw machine. The walls are pink and black, lit by neon pink globes and scented candles.

Everyone here knows each other, greeting one another by name or nickname. Southern hospitality and small town queers, a match made in heaven. I almost feel like I’m intruding on a tight-knit club, that I am not barred from, but also not necessarily a part of.

For the first time on the journey, Herz has men’s and women’s restrooms instead of single stalls or converting the gendered to the gender neutral. A pool table and dart board take up one side of the bar, mostly untouched.

The outdoor space is quiet, metal patio furniture and bulb lights are the only decor. I get the sense that here, discretion is more important than pride. This is definitely a smoking bar, everyone rotates inside and out for a smoke break at least twice. I even overhear a singer quip “everyone does it, we all smoke” when they are late for their song. A group at the end of the patio reads poetry to one another, others take a quiet moment for themselves.

When there are not many places to go, including non-gay bars, people go where they can. On Instagram, Herz says they are a place to “just be,” and you can sense that from everyone here tonight. People are here to just be themselves, a true watering hole to see their friends and get out of the house. You are welcome, just be.

The bartender, Beyonce, shouts in laughter with their friends, quipping back and forth easily. I am constantly surprised by the love and joy that runs through these places, the deep-seated sense of belonging and safety.

A person across the bar from me buys everyone at the bar a shot, something with vodka and Red Bull. I watch Beyonce line up 9 little plastic cups and pass them out. We all tap and shoot it back, the rhythm of a good bar. It tastes like a pink starburst.

Karaoke has been going on for a solid two hours with no sign of slowing down. Everyone gives their all and keeps on giving. Regulars walk behind the bar to hug the bartender. I find myself wondering what Alabama liquor laws are like, and also what it must be like to know where you can find all of your community on any given night.

Time moves slowly here, in the way time never feels quite real at dive bars. I switch to whiskey, god bless these southern bars for giving me some flexibility within my $20 per bar budget. Whiskey never fails to make me smile, a sense of surety follows each sip all the way down to my toes.

I step outside to write, and the regular singing Bowling For Soup asks how I’m doing. Julia tells me she comes here because they are endlessly supportive of her, both in her transition and her sobriety. When she was going through hard times, this was the place that made her feel loved, where they checked in on her and helped her sober up. She tells me that she gets to really experience her gender here and embrace her true self.

Manda also follows me out and is happy to see me chatting with Julia, she says she was coming out to talk to me because she noticed I was alone. She’s been running karaoke night, slowly getting tipsier as the night goes on. While talking to these two, they introduce me to people as they walk by, including a regular named Vicky who is a staple here.

“Everyone needs three things in life: a Vicky, a dysphoria hoodie, and goodness in your heart.”

Even Beyonce steps outside to check on me, “we have a culture here, everyone wants to make sure that you’re good. Ask for anything you need. Any new people, we want to suck them in.”

When people ask if I’m a writer, I don’t know what to say. Sure, I’m writing here, but I still don’t know if I can claim that title. When I tell Julia about my project, she gives me the business card of someone else who came through here, who’s writing a book about the remaining lesbian bars. She always keeps business cards and takes a photo for herself, so she can pass them on to the next person who needs one.

Manda encourages me to sing, and when I decline, she assures me that no one here will judge. She introduces me to her friend Sheree, who comes here every week for karaoke, even though she doesn’t drink. Karaoke night is always busy, sometimes there are upwards of forty people here. Sheree drives from 15 minutes away to come here and loves that everyone will just start talking to you.

Someone walks by me and we fist bump, “hope you enjoyed yourself!” We hadn’t spoken at all this evening, but this is the kind of bar where that doesn’t matter.

Herz doesn’t feel like a bar, it feels like an extension of someone’s home, where everyone is welcome and there just so happens to be booze. Everyone here is your friend, and everyone will go out of their way to make sure you’re having a good time.

Sheree makes sure Manda closes out the night by singing “Dicked Down in Dallas,” Sheree’s favorite of Manda’s repertoire. Manda insists it’s the world’s dumbest song, but Sheree shrieks in glee. It is a dumb song, but it’s also incredibly fun, and I laugh along with the crowd.

Musical Numbers: 8

Mobile, AL