Northampton Mass, dubbed the Lesbian Capital of the World:

Can you read that? Karaoke Night with face masks. Well, I never!

Quaint, crunchy Greenfield (population 17,700) isn’t a bad place for a COVID-cautious lesbian bar in 2026, all things considered. Rainbow flags deck store windows downtown. On a recent weekend, a community theater was advertising a workshop for masked performers, down the street from a bookstore with a “medical masks required” sign in the window. Men in ponytails and N-95s were ordering hibiscus tea from the coffee shop off the main square.

Three housemates in their mid-20s opened it together, hoping to fill the void left by two local queer bars that had shuttered. One of the trio, Asa Rosario, a drag performer who uses it/its pronouns, envisioned a venue where it and its friends could perform.

The three were intentional about the kind of values they wanted to bring to the divey basement bar, which they decorated with discoveries from Facebook Marketplace and pieces from local artists. No one would be turned away from the space for lack of funds. “Poor and unhoused people are welcome in the space.” The police were not.

Our mission is to create systems of care and action and aid,” says Jackie Matellian, one of the founders.

When it first opened, Last Ditch did fairly well. Customers fondly remember a raucous opening night with a (clothed) simulation of a lesbian sex act — masks in place — on the dance floor.

But over time, foot traffic to the bar slowed. More and more visitors said they didn’t have the cover fee; the bar let them in anyway. The owners fell behind on bills and couldn’t pay themselves or the people who worked there. So, after consulting with the Massachusetts LGBT Chamber of Commerce, they came up with a plan to bend one of their rules — and hopefully attract more customers.

There are some 10 people, seated in a circle on the dance floor, all wearing masks: Matellian, a handful of volunteers, some bar patrons, and two designated mediators who will facilitate conversations between parties who disagree. Another 10 or 15 people join the meeting via Zoom. The plan is to go clockwise, sharing views on the masking decision and the financial future of the bar. Each person has two minutes to speak. It begins with a calming breath exercise.

The online critics are unmoved. “[Y]ou chose to use your time to spill tears and center your feelings,” Noire posts in the chat. “This is incredibly racist and deflecting behavior.”

Eventually, after 3½ hours of discussion, the meeting wraps up. Noire has more to say, but when someone suggests he come to the next community meeting, he refuses. “There’s a lot of emotional and physical labor that goes into this, so for you as a white person that asks for me to stay for another meeting for free,” he says, is “incredibly disingenuous and racist. I’m not doing that."

“Then I think, unfortunately, this meeting has failed you,” replies a facilitator, “and I’m sorry.”

When it comes time for one of the mediators, a licensed therapist, to speak, she takes a conciliatory tone.

“I love that you are here online,” she says. But “these platforms alienate us from each other. I’m talking about social media.” She asks whether participants can try to remove themselves from “places of righteousness.”

“I would love to get to a place where we all know each other’s face, where we all know each other’s name,” she continues.

“It’s messed up that the mediator is dismissing those attending virtually. That’s not accessibility,” someone responds in the chat.

“A lot of people are calling for an acknowledgment of harm and I’m hearing a WHITE therapist ... center[ing] the feelings of a majority white and white adjacent staff,” writes Noire, who is Black.

Moreover, the Zoom attendees speculate that the mediator’s licensed status makes her a mandated reporter — an agent of the state, akin to police. One person going by “Moss” asks if the mediator could have them hospitalized against their will, adding that her presence is “wildly unsafe.”

Everything starts making a bit more sense when you realize that there’s a sizable contingent of the political Left that functionally lives on an entirely different planet from the rest of us…

“I never really wanted to do this,” Matellian says, beginning to cry under her mask. “I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.”

Matellian tells the group her credit score is trashed. For six months, she lived in her truck because she was pouring money into the bar. She is working four different jobs. She is responsible for paying off the $50,000 loan the three took out to launch the business.

The in-person participants file up the metal stairs, past the native plant garden, and out to their cars. Little has been resolved. Last Ditch’s landlord wants $3,900 in back rent by Monday.

A number of people on Instagram also said they were excited to visit the space unmasked. But this night, the hoped-for other patrons haven’t materialized, despite $10 cocktails and sternum-shivering dance tracks from DJ Harsh Noise Boyfriend.

But by the time of Last Ditch’s monthly community meeting on September 11, only one of the original founders, Matellian, is still involved. The two others stepped back from the daily operation months before, Matellian says, citing various pressures and health issues. One had enrolled in clown school.