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.

It's weird being on the other side.

What do you mean?

I'm an ethnology major, so I'm usually the one to ask people questions, conduct interviews, and prepare surveys. I'll be finishing my slightly extended undergraduate studies at Adam Mickiewicz University this year.

What made you choose ethnology?

This seemed to be the most fascinating field as well as the broadest-covering psychology, sociology, anthropology, and history. I found that appealing, and I must say, I wasn't disappointed. Especially since I also had this great Gender Studies class with Prof. Agata Stanisz-right around the time I was performing in the queer play Colourful Dreams in Polski Theatre. I even invited my professor to see it, and she really enjoyed it.

Did you ever consider going to art school?

Not really, I think art schools make you create art in a very academic way, and that's just not my thing. I'm more of a self-taught artist with a unique style of my own that I want to develop. I couldn't make art to fit into someone else's vision.

Do you plan to continue studying ethnology?

I do, with a focus on what I already do outside of school, which is tattooing. My thesis is actually about the tattoo artist profession. This subject is close to my heart but also challenging to pursue given how little literature is available for research-my sources are really sparse. In my thesis, I explore the profession in terms of being an artist, a professional, and a craftsman. But I won't lie-I find studying and writing about my community tricky, especially when it comes to being objective. I have to be on my toes to ensure the thesis is both accurate and well-researched.

When did your first take interest in tattoo art?

Back when I was a child. As you might expect, it began with just drawing, and then for about ten years, making henna tattoos-mostly for friends who'd request a dragon, a cat, or something else. That path eventually led me to permanent body marking. I started attending tattoo conventions, slowly immersing myself in that world. Since the beginning of last year, I've dedicated myself to the profession 100 percent and have finally found a studio in which to practice.

Is it hard to get started in this line of work?

Very. The pandemic made it even harder as a lot of people started buying tattoo machines online and tattooing at home, which, as you can imagine, ruined the market. But even aside from that, getting into the profession is incredibly difficult. You have to be patient, especially in building your client base, since people either have their go-to tattoo artists already or are just shopping around for the cheapest option. And in my case, being queer is also a factor.

How so?

Well, despite appearances, the community of tattoo professionals is quite conservative. It's mostly run by straight cis men, which means women also find it hard to break in. This keeps a lot of LGBTQ+ people in the business closeted. I didn't know how people would react to me being non-binary, and was a bit concerned. At Mucha Studio, where I am now working, the team actually asked me themselves about my preferred pronouns, which was really nice and showed me that things are changing for the better-even in this field. Not just in Poland, but internationally, too. There's even a concept of queer tattooing with its own elaborate symbolism. For example, I hear that moth tattoos are very popular among bisexual people.

Do social media help?

Having a portfolio on social media is a must, so of course, I have one. To be honest, keeping my socials up to date is time-consuming and exhausting-but there's no other way. That's how people find out about my work and reach out as prospective clients. It's frustrating though to get requests to copy complete designs found on Pinterest. In such cases, I try to negotiate and encourage people to check out my work and my style. I'm mostly into colourful, old-school tattoos. I steer clear of some styles, such as realism, although when you first start out, turning people down is really hard. You're eager to jump on any opportunity that comes your way.

Is it difficult for a newcomer to get people to pick you to make their tattoos?

It's not easy, but everyone has to start somewhere-and some people are willing to give you a shot, sometimes mainly because the price is low. But of course, I didn't start on human skin-I practiced on artificial skin first. These days, designing is made a whole lot easier if you use a tablet and that's where all my ideas take shape. I spend hours daily sketching on my tablet. Practice makes perfect, and I can see I am making good progress. As do my clients.

You mentioned that your colleagues at the studio wanted to know if you were queer. Do you keep it hidden?

Not really, but when I first joined the studio, I was being cautious. It was new territory, and I didn't know how they'd react. Plus I badly wanted to work there. But my fears turned out to be unfounded, as they quickly noticed that I identified as they/them on social media. At that point, I felt a huge sense of relief, and we started having more conversations about being queer, which was great. Especially since, as I said, homophobia is alive and well in the tattoo world. It's not the open, colourful, and accepting world that people might think, at least not in Poland.

Were you a born-and-raised Poznań queer?

Yes, I am queer and I was born and raised in Poznań. I've always felt different as far as I can remember. Even as a kid, out on the playground, I'd hear things like, "Why is that girl wearing Spider-Man trousers?" I didn't really understand those questions. I wore those trousers because I liked them. And because I wanted to. But as I got older, I was asked more and more of those questions-especially in my teenage years, when I didn't yet know all the different queer identities and terms. It wasn't until high school-and in fact during university-that I started learning about them and meeting other queer people. That's when I realised that I was non-binary and preferred not to be addressed with feminine, but rather with either masculine pronouns or they/them.

How does your family see it?

My family generally tended to avoid uncomfortable conversations, so my queerness was a taboo of sorts. They only stopped buying me dolls when they realised the dolls' heads would always end up ripped off. That's when I started getting cars and dinosaurs, the kinds of toys I actually wanted to play with. No one at home ever asked me about my identity or what pronouns I preferred.

And what about your clothes?

Every now and then, I'd hear how great I'd look in a skirt, but that never worked on me. But I also kept my hair long, down to my waist, and didn't cut it off until my final year of middle school. The hairdresser was devastated, while I was thrilled. Especially since I donated the hair to the Rak'n'Roll Foundation, a non-profit organisation that supports people with cancer.

Was that an act of rebellion?

Probably a little, but my biggest rebellion came later-when I moved out for university. These days, I only stay in touch with my sister, who is transgender and who has also come out. The reason I moved out wasn't specifically my parents failing to accept my non-binary identity but a general lack of acceptance.

Do you expect your relationship with your family is going to take a turn for the better?

I don't think so. I've tried reconnecting, but it didn't work out.

At first glance, you're an odd one out, a very flamboyant figure. How does that affect your daily life?

It has changed over the years. When I was in school, we were required to wear uniforms, and everyone looked the same. The only place I could truly express myself through colours was at home, and that was just for myself. I actually thought everyone did that-dressing in bright colours, wearing makeup, getting piercings and tattoos.

How do you navigate university as a non-binary person?

I have only come out recently, so the process is still ongoing. I definitely got my big push with Colourful Dreams. The play was generally well received. One of my favourite teachers even shared an approving post about it, proudly mentioning we had an actor performing in Polski Theatre in our midst. That gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. These things matter a great deal. I haven't updated my details in the university system yet, so my record still shows a feminine first name, but on campus, I go by the pronouns he/him. With professors, the transition has been fairly smooth. The only real challenge was with those who had known me since I first enrolled-not because they have an issue with my non-binary identity, but simply because old habits die hard. It's a battle against ingrained patterns.

In short, you confuse people.

I always have-people look at me and try to figure out my gender. I see it all the time at shop checkouts when cashiers hesitate and freeze, unsure whether to call me "sir" or "ma'am". To help them out of their embarrassment, I just go ahead and tell them myself. I call such situations "neutral" as opposed to those rooted in homophobia. Things have gotten even more complicated now that I've started taking testosterone, and my voice deepened. It amazes me how stubbornly people cling to binary language-how they must categorise me as either "sir" or "ma'am." Is it really so hard to use neutral language? It costs nothing, makes things easier, and is incredibly important to us, non-binary people.

Did you take long to embrace your non-binary identity?

It took a while. At first, I thought I might be trans, which turned out not to be the case. Even though I'm taking hormones-which many assume is only for trans people-I am non-binary. Testosterone helps me find the middle-ground, exist in between, where I'm most at ease.

Did you run into any difficulties accessing hormones?

At first, I was afraid I wouldn't get them because I wasn't transitioning fully either way. Fortunately, I was able to. I was diagnosed as non-binary and was given access to hormones. But I know many non-binary people struggle with this as some doctors refuse to prescribe microdoses, believing that you should either fully transition one way or the other, rather than stopping short somewhere in between.

Will this cause problems with your official documents?

Sadly, that remains a concern. In Poland, you can only be legally recognised as either male or female. In that sense, trans people have it easier because their change fits into the binary system. But what about non-binary people? The only thing I can do is change my official first name to a gender-neutral one, which is the name I already use. Atlas is both a boys' and a girls' name, so that works in my favour.

Did appearing in Colourful Dreams advance your emancipation?

Absolutely. We were working on the play at the exact time I began to celebrate my queerness, explore my identity, and use my new name. That was also when I left my parents' house and started living on my own. It was undeniably the start of a new chapter in my life-and one in a city that is growing more colourful. And not just in dreams, but in real life.

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.