Too Angry To Be Scared

The train cars are partitioned into private rooms with comfortable cushioned benches, thick fabric curtains, and a sturdy wooden table bolted into the floor. It is a living room in miniature with an intimacy not replicated in current American travel. An aisle leads to an open space for fresh air or cigarettes. I spend hours with the wind, observing Poland's quiet curvy landscape. 

I am accompanying Ernest, Michael, and Szymon to Krakow's 2004 Gay Pride demonstration. Ernest is a gay priest who intends to represent his religion through his attire. He is apprehensive about the Catholic city's reaction. Michael works as a hair stylist, proudly sporting blue and pink streaks through his thick blonde shag. Because of his partnership with Szymon, he became a more public figure than he ever intended. Szymon is a gay activist  the first openly gay person in Poland. He was a newspaper reporter until he was outed in a sensationalist tabloid scandal. His job was terminated and he was forced to become a Professional Queer when the news about his offensive and uncivilized bedroom antics hit the streets.

Szymon organized this march, and is a leading voice in Poland's Queer Revolution. He requested support from international queer artists and activists through cyber-networking bulliten boards. The Evolutionary Girls Club asked me to curate a show. Six months later, I was welcomed into his Warsaw home for a month-long demonstration.

Conversations with Szymon helped me recognize the importance of my American body in regard to international politics. My voice is significant not because it exists, but because of its citizenship. Polish Queers need international support so that their government will be held accountable if anything tragic transpires. My American voice carries a currency that is valued. This realization makes me more uncomfortable than the reminder of the historical tragedies that happen when governments are not aligned with their people.

We arrive at the Krakow train station. It is raining. We are not sure where we will meet the Krakow chapter of ILGCN leaders, but I am struck by the aesthetic differences between Warsaw and Krakow, first and foremost: the nuns. They group together outside the train station. They wear full habit and socialize like bees. We are without protective nets. The rain motivates our decision making. We cannot stand frozen in this downpour. Umbrellas appear out of backpacks, and we run to Bozena.

We order Zapiekanka and drink Lezajsk in a market-style restaurant. The floor is cobblestone, the walls are concrete in this underground cave that has been renovated for our dining pleasure. Amazingly, Szymon's cell phone gets reception, and he is able to communicate with our hosts. I am surprised to learn that they are lesbians. This Revolution, like many that precede it, is dominated by men.

Our hosts will not be joining us at the march. Agnieska is a teacher who is unwilling to threaten her job, or future jobs. Her partner is a graduate student. Allowing us to stay in their home is risky enough, especially with Szymon's reputation.

We explore the city. I join Thomas at the town square. Thomas is a Swedish artist/activist who came to Poland for the same reason as me. We spent the past few weeks in Warsaw together, preparing for this demonstration. His Swedish voice weighs heavy, like my American voice, and we are connected through our outsider status. I ask Thomas what he thinks about the nuns.

"I like them. They're so cute," he giggles. His light illuminates my concern. "Don't you think they're cute? Look at the blue ones! I want to buy one of the rosaries they wear. They're kitschy and fantastic!"

"They don't like us, Thomas."

"Tsk. Let's buy a rosary. Will you come with me to buy a rosary? There's a religious store right over there. Let's not let them ruin our trip. Come on." Thomas and I have different methods of dealing with our positions in this battle. When he can, Thomas chooses to laugh.

As we shop, we find a tone that is somber enough for me and silly enough for him. His intellect is sharp, his outlook optimistic. He is comfortable in this city where he does not speak the language. He orders food he has never heard of, not knowing what he'll get.

"This will be a Pride unlike one you've ever seen," he warns in between bites of his raspberry filled chocolate bar. He has marched at Pride in Jerusalem, was arrested at Pride in Budapest. "There are no drag queens. No song. No celebration. This is a serious march. It might get mean."

I suddenly miss New York. I remember violent scenes from Stone Butch Blues, and try to construct the brutal memories of Queer New York in my head. I feel removed from my own history. Self-righteously I query why the drag queens are excluded.

"It's too much," he says. "They can't be radical." I think about the luxury of inclusivity, and wonder what it means to be a tranny excluded from a Queer March; how that isolation contributes to anger which can drive a person to crime, to rage, to violence, suicide even. I struggle to remember the advice of my own queer lover, "Everyone doesn't want to hear every thought that crosses through your mind at every moment. Sometimes, shut up." Was this one of those times?

Hand in hand, queers heterosexualized, Thomas and I head towards the Rynek Market. Hundreds of people are already there, chatting nervously, shyly showing their handmade protest signs. Someone offers us small yellow pins which designate us as supporters. We accept and fasten them to our shirts. Cameras and news reporters stand just far enough away to be partial. A man approaches me and asks me if I am American. I say yes. He asks me what the hell am I doing in Krakow. He is angry with me. I simulate a smile, "This is a beautiful country."

"Of course it is," he replies, spitting with disgust. His cheeks are  flexed and I am aware of his fists. "Why are you here to spoil it?"

"This is a beautiful country," is all I can respond with. I begin to understand why the trannys stay in hiding.

I am surrounded by Queers and people who identify themselves as allies. Some are Polish, many are international. The internationals carry flags of their countries, as if they have designated themselves Gay Ambassadors. I think I am the only American, and I will not carry a flag. I was encouraged not to bear American witness by Queers in Warsaw, who explained that Americans are not popular in these days of war. They are embarrassed that their government was duped by the Americans. They realize their alliance will benefit America, not Poland. One young man gives me a message to pass along to the president. "Repeat after me," he begins, "Tee Who You  Yay Bonnie." It translates to something along the lines of "Go Fuck Yourself," only more vulgar. Another Pole suggests I tell people I'm Canadian.

The rally begins. Szymon occupies the front of a hastily contructed stage with a megaphone. He congratulates everyone for their courage, I think, and with elaborate gesturing explains the route. He touches his yellow pin and steps off the stage. We follow. People speak softly to each other, holding one another by the arms. They are focused warriors, and I can't grasp why they are so fierce.

Thomas is swallowed by the crowd and I walk alone. We move about 100 feet before we turn a corner. I feel an eerie silence, a heightened sense of awareness blow through the crowd. I cannot see what caused it until I turn the corner myself.

A startling mob of thousands is screaming. How didn't I hear them until now? My arms search for someone to hold. A woman is hit with splatterings of egg. She does not notice. I cannot understand the language of the mob, but their message is clear. One man in the mob has a sign which is translated into five languages. The English reads:

We Have Auschwitz.

Why don't we use it.

I contain my American tears. Ernest the Priest discovers me on the edge of the crowd and nestles me into his arms. He does not let go when I try to fall behind. A rock flies overhead, blasts a man in the ear. We duck and cover at every shadow. Birds are mistaken for bombs, egg shells anticipate every step, police line the street, shoulder to shoulder.

The march halts. I ask Ernest what is happening. He doesn't know. Someone is hurt? A police officer restrains a crazed man rushing toward our march, pockets of anti-queer advocates attempt to break through police protection, we huddle together, surrounded by people who want nothing more than our disappearance.

Rumors circulate that someone up front has been doused with acid. Is it Szymon? The marchers disappear  yellow pins surrender beside egg shells. We are becoming vulnerable and sparse, they are becoming raucous and irate. Police order the marchers to dissipate.

Ernest, in his identifying collar, releases my arm. He is going to search for Szymon.

"You should find the Swedes," he offers. 

Again I am alone. The mob eyes me like a cockroach, the police repeat their warning:  Dissipate!

Trembling, I fumble with my yellow pin. Ashamed and afraid, I remove it, shove it in my pocket. My pin does not join the others on the ground with the unborn chickens. As if by magic, the denial of my yellow pin affords me safety. I disappear into the crowd that would have lynched me just seconds ago. I watch the mob storm the town square where I sat with Thomas eating chocolate just hours ago. The police unleash intimidating dogs in an attempt to quell the violence that is exploding in sections of the square. I hear gunshots.

I watch myself move in unfamiliar patterns. I retreat into an internet cafe where I send emails to the Americans of the Evolutionary Girls Club who sent me into this war-zone. I write to my family, describing the hate brewing in people who share our religious background and ancestry. I email myself. I curse myself for being more yellow than the pin, more chicken than the eggs.

After the battle, I reconnect with Szymon. He is physically unharmed, mentally shaken, but excited about the next day's events. I ask how he survives this lifestyle, this constant fear, this rejection by his people.

"Aren't you scared, Szymon? Aren't you?"

"I am too angry to be scared," he replies. He hangs one of the prints that I have brought with me for the art show. He doesn't like its position next to the dugout windows. He takes it down. Somehow he is able to hang the show without my help. "You understand?"

I sit down, try to write a poem that will relate to a lifestyle I know nothing about, attempt to understand an anger which trancends fear.