I believe you're involved in one of the most queer cultural institutions in Poznań if not in all of Poland. Would you agree?

Some people would argue with that - maybe even quite vocally - and they'd start by questioning what it even means to be a queer institution. But if you're asking me, then yes, I absolutely agree that Pawilon is a queer cultural institution. What makes it queer is that we consider the LGBTQ+ community as central to our understanding of art. We always aim to look at the world through a queer lens, and also through feminist and minority perspectives. So if that's how you see Pawilon too, I take it as a huge compliment - thank you.

How did it come to be?

It's all thanks to the dedicationof the people who've helped create this space - people for whom queer was never just a tick-box, but something more: a way of seeing and engaging with the world. That is a fundamental difference between us and other institutions in Poznań that might also feature queer events. For us, it's about something much broader - a long-term vision of the social and political landscape. And that requires a constant effort, because while we're doing pretty well on the queer front, members of our team are still lacking on ethnic diversity representation. Solidarity doesn't mean throwing together a one-off project with a minority group or flying a particular flag - it's about systemic action: hiring people, integrating them into the organisation and into the programme. But that's a long, demanding process that requires commitment.

That process seems to be starting in many places across Poland now.

But it's moving far too slowly. Everything else is accelerating, and so we need to step up, both as institutions and individuals. I've always been drawn to socially engaged art - the kind that tries to make a difference. Especially in tough times, and let's face it, we've been living through them constantly. LGBTQ+ people were targeted by the previous government, and now we're in the crosshairs of rising global fascism. We can all see what's happening in the US on that front.

Let's rewind for a moment and go back to the beginning. Did your journey begin in Poznań?

I like to say I'm a bit of a mix - my parents come from different regions of Poland, and I was born in Słupsk. But there's no doubt I'm a Poznań native - I've been here pretty much my whole life. We moved when I was just over a year old. I grew up in the Rusa housing estate in a flat packed with books (both my parents were Polish teachers, so that's not surprising). Culture, including theatre, was always around me. So you probably won't be surprised that it was through theatre that my queer journey began, when my parents took me to see 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane at Polski Theatre, directed by Grzegorz Jarzyna.

How old were you?

I was in junior high, so younger than I should've been. But that show was a turning point for me - it steered me towards experimental and queer art. For me, queerness and art have always been connected, even though we used different language back then. We spoke of art with "homosexual themes," and that kind of work was basically non-existent in Poznań. So I quickly realised I'd have to start travelling around Poland - and to Berlin.

Polski Theatre didn't last long. People in Poznań hated it. Paweł Wodziński and Paweł Łysak, who ran it, were basically banished from the city.

It's true - Poznań kicked them out, and made a real show of it too. But before that, they managed to build a space that really challenged how people thought about theatre. Besides Polski Theatre, there was one other space that meant a lot to me at the time - the Old Brewery. Sure, people mostly associate it with big money, rich people, and capitalism, but the truth is, when I was in sixth form, it was the place to catch queer films series curated by Raman Tratsiuk, or groundbreaking performance art under the banner of the Old Brewery/New Dance programme. Back then, the Brewery was doing the work that was neglected by Poznań's public institutions, which, to put it mildly, were incredibly conservative. And let's not forget - it was in front of the Brewery that the police cracked down on the now-famous Equality March. That's worth remembering.

You were born in the late "80s. Do you see yourself as part of the transition generation?

Definitely. I'm old enough to remember the old world - where homosexuality in Polish culture was often masked in metaphor, that whole Iwaszkiewicz-style tradition. But I also entered the new world when I got to university - that's when queer studies really showed up in my life.

When did you first realise you were different from most other boys?

It wasn't one big revelation - more like a series of moments that built up over time. The first one hit in primary school, but that journey towards self-awareness really took off in sixth form, when my friends and I created this artistic and, deep down, very queer collective called Inny Teatr  (Different Theatre). Wojtek Kaniewski actually mentioned it in A Different City. Now I see it for what it was: a natural need to carve out an alternative world for ourselves, because Poznań back then wasn't like it is now. There were barely any spaces for non-hetero people. We'd hang out at Pokusa on ul. Święty Marcin - a totally iconic dive - and later at Voliera on ul. Garbary and a few other places that came and went just as fast.

Did you feel stifled in Poznań?

All through sixth form, all I thought about was leaving. When I was applying to universities, it was literally "anywhere but Poznań". The city felt closed, deeply conservative, and didn't offer the kind of artistic scene that I would find attractive. There may have been some visual arts, but that was about it. So I was thrilled to get accepted to the Interdepartmental Individual Humanities Programme at the University of Warsaw. That gave me the freedom to pursue a bunch of interests in a truly flexible way. Looking back, it was a fantastic decision, especially because my academic advisor was Dorota Sajewska, who's now professor of theatre studies at Ruhr University in Bochum. Honestly, I couldn't have hoped for a better mentor. I learned so much from her, including when she invited me to work with her at Dramatyczny Theatre in Warsaw where she was deputy director under Paweł Miśkiewicz.

I remember your debut - it was the queer production of Eytan Fox's The Bubble.

And I remember you didn't like it.

Was that when you started your Theatre Corporation?

No, that actually dates back to sixth form. We felt Different Theatre sounded a bit too pretentious, and so we went with Theatre Corporation instead, which had a more serious ring to it. Ironically, it couldn't have sounded more neoliberal if we'd tried. Eventually, we turned it into a formal association and managed to secure our first bits of funding. That's how we staged Asthma by Etgar Keret, which we performed at the MASKI Theatre Festival in Poznań, and later in an artsy tenement on ul. Inżynierska in Warsaw, where artists like Karol Radziszewski had their studios.

Why did you come back to Poznań, the city you'd been so desperate to leave?

It's hard to pin it down precisely. A big part of it was people encouraging me to go into video art. I applied to the intermedia programme at the Poznań University of Fine Arts, which had a strong reputation at the time. And honestly, it wasn't a bad choice. The programme was stimulating, although looking back, I think part of me used it to delay having to face the harsh realities of working in the cultural sector. In the end, I stayed at the University longer than I expected. After my MA, I went for a PhD and ended up teaching for two years. I really enjoyed that job and even started thinking I might want to do it more permanently. There's nothing better than being around young, creative people, and that's something that academia gives you. But at the same time, the whole system is bogged down by bureaucracy, power plays, and constant roadblocks. The PhD is a whole other story. A lot of things pulled me away: the launch of Pawilon, the pandemic, and eventually my mum's illness. Life got messy, deadlines piled up, and in the end, I had to let go. But who knows - maybe I'll come back to it someday.

Since 2015, Poznań's been shifting culturally and becoming much more liberal. What's your take on that?

It really was a game changer - not just socially, but also in terms of cultural policy. I remember clearly how, up to that point, the majority of funding for NGOs went to just three festivals: Malta, Transatlantyk, and the Mediation Biennale. I got involved with the Citizens' Dialogue Committee for Culture to try to change the city's approach. And while the cultural sector is still plagued by underfunding, we're in a very different place now compared to ten years ago.

I feel the same. I moved to Poznań seven years ago. And when you look at queer activists, lots of them weren't born here, but chose to make Poznań their home.

That doesn't surprise me at all. It's the same in visual arts, especially among independent galleries. But I do get the sense that for a long time, Poznań had all these amazing initiatives popping up and even thriving for a bit-but there was never anyone around to nurture them. That's starting to change now. The same goes for the LGBTQ+ community, which has become part of a really exciting process - a planetary reconfiguration of sorts. By that I mean a shift that happened all at once across several different places: the local government, a new ruling party, the emergence of Stonewall Group and other collectives. All of that injected new energy into Poznań and sparked a gradual social transformation. It feels like Poznań has come back to life and is reinventing itself - which is amazing. I don't think any other Polish city has done it so profoundly.

Do you think that change is visible from the outside?

Totally. We recently hosted an artist from Zimbabwe at a Pawilon opening. She's based in Berlin now, and she was blown away by Poznań. And it's not that I claim everything is perfect here, because it is not. But you can clearly see things are moving in the right direction. One clear sign of that is that a municipal institution can now run an independent, queer programme and use it to support not just local or Polish artists, but also those from across Europe. It is about building alliances between LGBTQ+ communities across different countries. And that's definitely something we can take real pride in.

You share the same surnames, but in reverse order. Why?

Mateusz Kaczmarek-Brzozowski: Because we couldn't decide. Each of us was quite insistent on keeping his own.

Wiktor Brzozowski-Kaczmarek: Our mums were also rather adamant about it.

Is keeping both surnames but in a different order a compromise?

Mateusz: Yes, and it makes everyone happy, both us and our mums. It only confused the postman at first, but he has now caught on that we're married.

Why did you want to be married, considering you live in a country that doesn't recognise your marriage?

Mateusz: Because we love each other. Wiktor, tell me, did you know I was going to propose?

Wiktor: I had a feeling you would. Besides, we moved from the proposal to the wedding very quickly - it took us about six months.

That's quite fast.

Wiktor: We rushed it a bit because of my grandmother. Sadly, we didn't make it in time for her to see it.

Before you met, had you thought about marriage?

Mateusz: When I was growing up and realised I was gay, I accepted that I would never get married. That changed when I started working with the Stonewall Group and got to know our community better. Then I thought, why not? Why shouldn't I get married?

Wiktor: If you'd asked me about marriage three years ago, I'd have laughed and said, "Marriage? Impossible." It never even crossed my mind. But with Mateusz, everything happened so quickly. I look at him and know he's the one I want to spend my life with.

How did you meet?

Mateusz: At a birthday party for a friend and Wiktor's flatmate at the time. But there was absolutely no spark between us at the time. Some time later, we met again at another bash, during which our friends secretly conspired to matchmake us, although we only found out about it later.
Wiktor: That matchmaking, I must say, worked wonderfully because Mateusz and I ended up talking all night. And then - this sounds like something out of a romantic comedy - we simultaneously messaged each other suggesting we go out for coffee.

When was that?

Wiktor: We recently celebrated our fifth anniversary.

Are you Poznań natives or have you moved here from elsewhere?

Mateusz: I'm originally from Zduńska Wola.

Like Piotr Mazurkiewicz, another Inny Poznańcharacter.

Mateusz: I know, I even joke Poznań has a gay diaspora from Zduńska Wola. I moved here in 2012 to study electronics and telecommunications at the University of Technology, and later computer science.

Wiktor: I arrived in Poznań three years later, in 2015, and I'm from Ostrów Wielkopolski. I first studied international relations, then political science at Adam Mickiewicz University. Awful stuff! The best part of my move was that I ended up living in a "gay commune" in the Jeżyce district: there were five of us sharing a flat, which was actually huge, over a hundred square metres. For a boy from Ostrów who grew up in a matriarchal household, it was a radical change - new experiences, new people, and a new relationship. It was a safe world centred around our commune.

What was your coming out like?

Mateusz: Mine was very gradual. I told my mum at 18. She said it would surely pass and we never really discussed it again. I never said anything to my extended family but they figured it out by themselves in time. So, we lived in a world of hints and unspoken truths. Like the books I'd get from my godmother - for example, by Michał Witkowski. That's why, when Wiktor and I decided to get married, I called my mum and godmother first because, even though we don't talk about it, they have been supportive.

Wiktor: I told my mum and grandmother when I fell in love. At that time, we were still living together in Ostrów. My wonderful grandmother simply said that what's really important is that I'm happy and that she really wanted to meet this boyfriend of mine. That meeting was actually very amusing because my grandmother, being very straightforward, immediately asked him about the most crucial things: his salary and intentions towards me. My mum, on the other hand, was rather shaken by my coming out, but since we're very close emotionally, everything fell into place over time. My grandmother helped immensely, of course, by telling my mum that a child needs support and acceptance. Full stop. You can see now why I cared so much for my grandmother to attend our wedding.

Why aren't fathers part of your story?

Mateusz: Both of our fathers have passed away a long time ago.

Wiktor: Hence our mums, and my grandmother, called the shots!

Did you transition from dating to living together quickly?

Wiktor: No, I was really scared of that. I'm not the type to jump straight in at the deep end.

Mateusz: At first, we'd sleep over in our respective flats, but still kept our own places - we had our drawers at each other's flats. Then, when the flat I'd originally bought just for myself was ready, we moved in together.

Where was that?

Wiktor: Where else? Jeżyce!

What was your biggest challenge?

Wiktor: Arguing - because we absolutely suck at it. We tried, but it just didn't work, so we gave up. My mum calls Mateusz "an embodiment of kindness."

Mateusz: Our biggest challenge is fitting Wiktor's clothes into our flat. It seems utterly impossible, even though I have just one rack and three drawers for mine. Wiktor loves collecting things. You should see our flat at Christmas!

Wiktor: And now we also have our little ones - two dogs, Aton and Amon.

This all sounds so idyllic! Where's the drama in your story?

Wiktor: The drama is that my clothes don't fit in our flat. Wasn't that clear enough?

After five years, has routine crept into your relationship?

Mateusz: Yes, but we love that routine.

Wiktor: It's the best. Us on the sofa with our pups - what more could you want?

Do you walk around the city holding hands?

Wiktor: We don't, I just can't bring myself to do it yet, which shows how deeply homophobia and everything associated with it affects us.

Do you always call each other "husband"?

Mateusz: Unfortunately not, and it's starting to bug me more and more. On the one hand, I feel like I shouldn't call Wiktor "my friend," but on the other, I know it just makes navigating certain situations easier. Besides, you know, in all official forms in Poland, we still have to mark our marital status as "single."

Wiktor: And we also have to file our taxes separately.

How did the proposal go?

Mateusz: It was on my thirtieth birthday, back in the small ul. Półwiejska flat. I knew Wiktor didn't want any jewellery, so it was a purely performative act in front of our friends - including the ones who matched us up.

Wiktor: The proposal, of course, was accepted.

What were the wedding preparations like?

Mateusz: We knew right away that the wedding would take place abroad. We considered a few options and finally settled on Madeira, suggested by our friends, who are also a gay couple. Then we started working on the paperwork, with the first and most important step being the name change.

Was that difficult to arrange?

Mateusz: In Poznań, yes, because our Civil Registry Office is notoriously unfriendly towards LGBT+ people. So, we handled everything at the Słupsk office instead. Naturally, we had to file separately, claiming we wanted to change our surnames to the ones we'd already been using - Kaczmarek-Brzozowski and Brzozowski-Kaczmarek. We'd already adopted those names socially a while earlier.

Wiktor: It went quite smoothly, actually, because the Słupsk registry office is very friendly.

And how did it feel when you received the approval?

                Mateusz: We were over the moon, we'd made a major step towards achieving our goal.

Wiktor: I was also anxious about the big changes that this would entail. You know, I registered myself as a tenant at Mateusz's flat, we opened a shared bank account, got new surnames, and updated all our documents. All those worries only faded after we got married.

Who joined you on Madeira?

Wiktor: My mum and aunt, as well as three friends, including Tomasz Rojewski, whom you interviewed for Inny Poznań.

What changed when you said "I do" or rather "sim"?

Mateusz: Nothing - we love each other just the same.

Wiktor: We love each other, as my grandma used to say, terribly much.

Do you have wedding rings?

Wiktor: Yes, though when we chose them at the well-known Poznań jeweller W. Kruk and explicitly requested two men's rings, the head office returned our order form, suggesting it would be better if we used the official form for a mixed-gender couple. We stood our ground, and the consultant at the shop fought for us successfully. However, the experience left a bitter taste.

Did you have a wedding reception?

Wiktor: We had a non-weddingreception, a regular party for about fifty people in Poznań.

Mateusz: By then, my mum, godmother, and sister were able to attend.

Did you take your marriage certificate to the Polish registry office?

Mateusz: I would gladly do that and request a transcription, which would naturally end, as it always does in such cases, with an argument and a refusal. But Wiktor would have to go with me, and he doesn't want to.

Why not?

Wiktor: Because I don't want any arguments, court battles, unpleasantness, or accusations. I'd rather patiently wait until marriage equality comes to Poland and our union is recognised on equal footing with heterosexual marriages.

And what will you do when Parliament eventually legalises civil unions?

Mateusz: Then we'll have to decide. The current draft legislation allows for the transcription of a foreign marriage certificate into a civil union, not a marriage. That would be a downgrade because we are a married couple, not in a civil union.

Does anyone in Poland actually recognise that you're married?

The postman hands me letters addressed to my husband.

Do you always have to be on the move?

I do, and I have been for many years. It all started with a bike. As a city activist, and later as a member and then chairman of the Świerczewo Housing Estate Council, I needed to get around quickly and easily. Cycling turned out to be the best option, of course. A few years ago, I also took up volleyball, which I now play at Orion, an LGBT+ sports club in Poznań, and I started going on nature trips with Orion Voyage.

Do you consider pilgrimages part of your exercise routine?

I don't like the term pilgrimage because it reminds me of the large, noisy pilgrimages that used to be popular in Poland. They are nothing like the Camino de Santiago, which is an individual journey along one of several European routes inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List, all leading to Santiago de Compostela in Spanish Galicia. It blends spirituality, culture, sport, and sightseeing. Walking the Camino had been a big dream of mine, and I managed to fulfil it at the age of 23. It was a journey into the unknown, not knowing where I'd sleep or eat next or whom I'd meet. All I knew was that I would be walking across northern Spain. Recently, for the sixth time, I walked part of it again, this time with my mum, starting from Porto.

Were you always physically active as a child?

Constantly - I was always cycling, walking, taking trips to the seaside, and sometimes to the mountains.

From Poznań?

Yes, that's where I'm from. You could say I'm your typical Poznań local.

What does it mean?

It means being pragmatic, resourceful, efficient, and civically engaged. I grew up in Świerczewo, a neighbourhood mainly made up of single-family homes. It was my little world, with lots of greenery, near the Wielkopolski National Park, the flowing Górczynka Creek, and the clay pits, where the housing estate council I was part of built a viewing tower. My parents, originally from outside Poznań, moved here in the late 1980s, and my sister and I were born in the city. Our house was very family-oriented and open, with lots of visitors coming to see my parents, while my friends and I spent time outdoors rather than in front of computers. Seven years ago, my parents sold the house and moved back to the countryside, while I relocated to the Grunwald district. One unique keepsake I have from the parental house is a poem I wrote about it, which I published two years ago in the Holocene anthology. The other poems in the collection also reflect my youth. They may not be great poetry, but I think they're decent enough. The one about the family home, at least, is not bad.

When did you first realise you were different?

During puberty, and I've never had much trouble being gay. That's probably why I came out quite early, at around fifteen. Of course, I only told my friends at first, and they were completely fine with it. My family, however, needed more time to come around - a different acceptance dynamic.

A different acceptance dynamic - how very diplomatic of you to say that.

My family needed time because, in my view, the generation of our parents and grandparents was simply shaped differently. What's obvious to people born more recently wasn't as self-evident to them. I do understand that to some degree.

Did you date while in school?

Yes, I had a boyfriend who was in a different group in my year at school. We met through a mutual friend, a girl. Everyone knew we were dating, and it wasn't an issue. My class teacher, who taught Polish, also knew about me, but she wasn't too pleased that I spent so much time on social activities instead of studying. She once put me on the spot with questions about a poem, which she wanted me to dissect. I loved analysing poetry, and I felt the mark she gave me wasn't fair. I challenged her on it, and after a discussion, she ended up calling my parents in for a meeting. My mum went, and during the meeting, the teacher brought up my sexuality.

Was this her way of getting back at you for challenging the low mark?

It certainly seemed that way. Not long ago, we had a class reunion at the Arkadia terrace, where I told everyone about it. After that, my former teacher invited me to join her on a carousel ride in Wolności Square as a sort of apology, and that closed the matter. We get on very well today and have a good relationship.

            Did you frequent gay bars back then?

            I did, but probably not in the way you're imagining. At the time, La Cantada was a bar in the Rybaki neighbourhood where Faith & Rainbow, a community of LGBT+ believers, would meet. I joined that group as soon as it was founded, when I was nineteen. I found out about it online and was very happy that such a group had been created.

            Has religion always been important in your life?

            I grew up in a Catholic family, and Catholic tradition and spirituality are still a big part of me. I've never felt the need to abandon them. And, to answer what I think you're about to ask, no, I was never an altar boy. But I did sing in a church choir for twelve years and volunteered in a church-run common room, helping students with their homework. I think you could say I place high value on spirituality. However, I distance myself from the Catholic Church as an institution and believe the episcopacy is harming it today. I attend Mass at the Dominican church, specifically the last one at 10 p.m.

Does your church attendance cause tension with your LGBT+ friends?

It's certainly not popular in our community. Many struggle to accept it, while others are intrigued or surprised. Some want to discuss it with me, and a few have become emotional and reproachful. If anyone wants a serious conversation about it, I'm more than happy to oblige.

Speaking of serious matters, you've been very involved in social activities for many years.

I think it's just part of who I am, and I was also lucky to have good role models around me. Even my PhD thesis was on social participation, which I still believe in strongly. I believed in it as a teenager, when I volunteered in a church common room, in my high school council, on the housing estate council, and now in Orion.

Do you think this involvement shielded you from homophobia? It's hard to attack someone who's socially active and does good for others.

Possibly. I agree it is hard to criticise my social and charitable work. Plus, my introverted nature doesn't make me an easy target. I've also been involved in more conservative initiatives, like the church choir. In general, I know how to talk to people who lean towards the conservative and don't get easily provoked. Or maybe I've just been lucky because I can't recall any major challenges as a result of being gay.

When did you decide to become a geographer?

It started in primary school when I looked out a window and saw a big globe on the windowsill of the junior high school next door. You could say it was love at first sight. From then on, I became the most diligent geography student and even quizzed my older sister. Unsurprisingly, I had no trouble choosing my university subject. I enrolled in geography at Adam Mickiewicz University, where I now teach, having completed my doctorate.

So you didn't struggle with your career choice either before or after your studies?

No, I always wanted to teach. Initially, I thought I'd teach in a school, but in the course of my studies, I realised teaching at university would suit me even better. Today, I do both, as I also teach geography in a special school for students with autism and physical disabilities, often combined with other conditions. It feels good to blend theoretical knowledge with real-world experience. As a researcher, though, I'm particularly interested in geotourism, an alternative form of tourism that focuses on the physical features of the Earth, such as relief, lakes, mountains and volcanoes.

I know you hike in the mountains joining the Voyage Group with other members of Orion, which you co-founded. How did that come about?

I was inspired by a film called The Shiny Shrimps about a gay water-polo team that wants to compete in the Gay Games. After watching it, my friend Daniel and I decided to set up a similar team in Poznań. But, since water polo isn't a popular sport in Poland, we ended up choosing volleyball instead. I rented a sports hall at the school where I was working at the time. Grindr was incredibly helpful-my friend Szymon, a football coach, and I recruited our first team of friends and acquaintances, and that's how it all began. Then Paweł Kardynia, whom you've interviewed for A Different City, joined us and helped expand the group and introduce new disciplines. We're now considering forming a swimming team, as that's the most popular suggestion. And Voyage is our geotourism hiking club. We've explored the Kaczawskie, Golden, and Bialskie Mountains, which aren't particularly popular ranges. We also go kayaking and cycling.

How many people usually join your hikes?

Recently, about thirty people came along to the Silesian Beskids, but generally, twice as many are actively involved in the group. We recently went mushroom picking. In November, as has become something of a tradition, we'll be scaling Ślęża, and we're also planning a visit to the Kłodzko Valley, where we've hiked a lot already. This time, though, it will be a solidarity tour to support the victims of this year's flood.

Are you into Poznań's queer scene?

I visit Lokum every month, go to HaHu about once every three months, and take part in the Equality March and the Corpus Christi procession every year. So, I attend two of the city's biggest parades, which is great. I'm really pleased to see families with children at both events.

Would you like to have children?

Not at the moment, but yes, I would.

Is it hard to find a partner who shares this desire?

It can be difficult, but it's not impossible. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

I can't, my fingers are busy with your delicious powdered-sugar cake with the cross!

This is almond tarta de Santiago, a traditional Galician dessert. Pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago are said to eat it when they arrive in Santiago de Compostela, the largest pilgrimage site in Europe. I'll cut you another slice to take home, with the cross on it, of course.

Have you always been this eloquent?

From an early age, I recorded all sorts of things on video. And as you record things, you add spoken commentary. And as you do that, you gain experience. Even in my Catholic primary school, I would moderate school assemblies.

Catholic?

Yes, at Poznań's Blessed Five Salesian School Complex, to be exact.

I would never have guessed you went to a Catholic school.

Its graduates generally fall into one of two groups. One is the people who remain on their knees; members of the other come out determined to sever all ties with Catholicism. It's hard to be somewhere in between. That's how religious education works - you either love it or hate it.

Was there anything you liked about it?

You can't deny that the Salesians knew how to build a sense of community.

You went to their primary school, so it wasn't your choice.

No, it was my parents'. I imagine they were drawn to the school's solid reputation and high rankings, although the religious aspect also played a role. My parents weren't overly devout, but they were believers, and I suppose they wanted to raise me as one too-both believing and practising. As you can see, that didn't quite work out. I left the Salesian school as neither a believer nor a practising Catholic.

How was this school different from others on a daily basis?

Probably in that every day started with a prayer, there was always one church holiday or another to celebrate, which required attending Mass. For instance, we celebrated Angel Day, with everyone getting dressed in white and wearing home-made wings and halos. There were also plenty of tours and rallies because the Salesians have schools all over Poland. A lot of it seems funny in hindsight, but I think these events had great community-building value. I felt part of it-at least up to a point.

What point was that?

When I realised my sexual orientation, I felt increasingly an outsider, mainly because of the teachers, who projected a conservative Catholic worldview. That was the first time I felt unwelcome in the school.

Were there any openly queer students?

There was one, and I watched how that played out. And what I saw was relentless bullying-mainly verbal-from other students, while the teachers did absolutely nothing to stop it. At the time, I didn't fully understand wbhat made me tick yet-I must have been about ten-but I already saw myself as an ally to such people.

What did that mean in practice?

For example, when everyone in class laughed at Conchita Wurst, the "bearded woman" representing Germany in Eurovision, I tried to defend her the only way a child could. I said she looked amazing and that she sang beautifully. I also remember standing up for MP Anna Grodzka when people called her a transvestite.

Weren't you afraid that might make people suspect something about you?

No. I just believed-ironically, shaped by my Catholic schooling-that you should defend those who are weak, and who are attacked and insulted. Back then, I felt firmly rooted in heteronormativity-both through school and my parents. It hadn't even crossed my mind that I might not fit into that mould. Though years later, my mum told me she had always known I was different, because as a child, I used to put on my grandma's pearls and high heels.

Looking at your style now, that all makes sense.

It certainly does now but school was different. We wore uniforms. Honestly, I didn't start dressing more boldly until recently. Even in secondary school, I wasn't daring, and I wasn't some flamboyant figure in the Chartowo district, where I grew up, raised by two women-my mum and my grandma-since my parents had split up. Chartowo is a big housing estate made up of blocks of flats, a bit bleak and colourless, but it always felt safer to me than, say, Łazarz. And that's still true today.

You were born in 2004. You belong to a generation that has never known life without the internet.

That's true-I've been on social media for as long as I can remember. But my parents restricted my internet access, and in hindsight, I'm grateful to them for that. It meant I could develop my creativity and imagination through other activities. My room was full of toys, and over time, it started filling up with amateur film and photography equipment, which became an important part of my life during secondary school. A lot of that was down to my dad-whenever he visited, he often took me to the cinema. Ironically, the pandemic, which hit just as I started secondary school, also played a big role in nurturing my passion. Seclusion and an abundance of spare time encouraged me to experiment with filmmaking.

When did you first come out?

I was about fifteen, about to graduate from primary school. I told my mum, "There's this boy..."-and that's how it started. The boy lived just outside of Poznań, and I wanted to be able to visit him. That's when my mum said she had always known. Even so, she struggled with the idea of me seeing a boy. I suppose it's because I was a bit of a mummy's boy. She was not particularly fond of the LGBT+ community, which she viewed with suspicion, maybe even as a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.

Did that affect your relationship?

There's no denying that it became strained. I was trying to explore the world, and that scared the life out of my overprotective mum. I generally felt uneasy about the fact that she didn't fully accept it-that something wasn't quite right, even though on the surface, everything seemed fine. When I later introduced a boyfriend to her in secondary school, I could sense her pulling away. And before we attended our first Pride Parade together, she was hesitant and fearful-mostly, I think, because she worried it would turn into something like the one in Białystok. Long story short, my mum gets anxious about me.

What impact did being part of the community have on you?

A huge one. For the first time, I felt I was among my own people and that I wanted to engage with this community more frequently and more meaningfully. I started going to Lokum on ul. Półwiejska-though, sadly, I had to keep it a secret from my mum. So it was a bittersweet experience: on the one hand, it felt amazing to be there; on the other, I had to lie about where I was. That was when the closet started feeling a bit too tight, and I began coming out to more of my friends at Paderek, the high school I attended.

When did your queer style transformation happen?

It was a slow process. The more confident I felt, the more I experimented-first, a single earring, then another, then a flashier outfit, then painted nails, a bolder hairstyle.

I have a feeling your mum didn't approve.

When she saw my first earrings, she told me to leave the house, take them off, and throw them away-which, of course, I didn't do. I sat on a bench outside, right opposite our window, and then my dad called out, telling me to take them off. I refused-my body, my identity, my rules. My mum had no choice but to let me back in. And just to be clear, this wasn't some traumatic experience for me-I actually found it funny, which is why I tell it as an anecdote now.

How did people at school react?

Not bad at all, quite the opposite, actually. I ended up making more female friends, and I was even elected student council president. I was so involved in youth issues that I was also elected vice-chair of the Youth City Council. Today, I'm on the board of the Varia Posnania Foundation, whose members work to promote student governance and empower young people.

How is your relationship with your mum today?

We're in a completely different place. In 2023, we attended the Pride Parade together, and she absolutely loved it-she had fun, laughed, got emotional, met my friends. People kept coming up to us. It was a breakthrough moment for our relationship-really positive. Last year, we went again, and we're planning to go this year too.

Have you ever experienced hostility in Poznań for being eccentric?

Most of the reactions I get are positive-just once, a few years ago, a guy on a tram harassed me. Of course, sometimes when I head home late at night, I wonder if I should tone it down a bit. But that'd be a dead end. I want to look the way I feel, the way I like to be. Maybe I'll even inspire a young queer person who sees me and realises that it's possible to live this way-because why not? Especially in Poznań, a city that gives me a great sense of comfort and allows me to be who I am. And it's not just how I see it. I love it when, while traveling, someone asks where I'm from, and when I say Poznań, they respond, "Oh, the rainbow capital of Poland!" As a queer native of Poznań, born and raised here, that makes me very proud.

A native of Poznań who's also a university student?

I studied European Law at Adam Mickiewicz University, but it wasn't for me, so I dropped out. Next year, I plan to enrol in journalism. I'm most interested in blending journalism with social media (especially video), an area in which I'm very active, as you are well aware. I make short-film content, but I'm also working on something bigger-a documentary film about Poznań's Pride Parades. This project helps me hone my skills and is also a way to explore history that would otherwise feel distant and unfamiliar. I want to understand that history, because we're building on what previous generations have fought for. Poznań didn't become a rainbow city overnight-it's important to know how it all got started.

What has making this film taught you?

That this queer-friendly world is actually quite new. And that Poznań used to be very conservative. I never experienced that side of it, so it's hard for me to even imagine. I was shocked to see footage of the early Pride Parades. They were held in autumn with scarce turnout, and they faced fierce attacks. It feels quite unreal that the Poznań of my birth and today's Poznań are one and the same.