Church bells, Grindr dates, weaponising twinkness: who I am and where I came from
CW: homophobia, homophobic language, trauma, violence, mental illness
This story has 3 parts: Hometown, Krakow, Britain
Small town. Spa town. 10 000 people, more or less. I was born in 1996 into a working class family. South of Poland. Mountains. Catholic. Really, really Catholic.
My life was cartoons on Fox Kids and Cartoon Network (dubbed in Polish), church every Sunday, and painting peeled wood sticks with chalk until they looked like Star Wars lightsabers.
School was weird. For the first 3 years of primary, I was the best student. I would brag about becoming a scientist and do everyone’s homework on the corridor.
But once I turned 10, things started to change. I had no motivation to go to school, study, make notes, or do my homework. It’s like I was depressed, even though I didn’t yet know what depression meant.
One time a teacher noticed that my notebook had no notes in it. “Where are all the notes, from the entire year?”, she asked, seriously shocked. It remains one of the most horrible and traumatising experiences of my life. She was my favourite teacher so it’s not like she was the problem. It felt as if I was a mentos thrown into a bottle of cola. I was not OK.
She asked if everything was alright at home, then told me to get my hands on someone else’s notebook and copy their notes into mine. It took me ages.
My school situation got worse with time. At 13, both my grades and my reputation among schoolmates reached rock bottom. English was the only subject I was good at. Everything else sucked.
I was bullied heavily. Bullied for being skinny. Bullied for the music I listened to. Bullied for being “emo”. Bullied for my glasses. Bullied for being gay, which they decided I was.
This guy, let’s call him Martin, was the worst. One day he was my friend, another he would encourage everyone in the class to disrespect me. Martin loved reggae and camouflage cargo trousers. I wore black skinny jeans and listened to Green Day. On days when he wasn’t bullying me, humiliating me, or taking pictures of me without my consent, he would tell me: “You need to change your style. You need to change your glasses. No one will ever like you like this.”
At that time in my life, I learned to love women. Only girls stood up for me. Only girls treated me with respect. Not even teachers reacted to vile homophobia I was a victim of. Some of them even participated. They were on their side.
PE was the worst. I developed a fear of being outside. Young boys shouted abuse at me from afar on a regular basis. Often I didn’t even know where the abuse was coming from. From the bushes? From a hill above? From someone’s window? Fuck knows.
PE was the worst. I was scared of summertime because during that season, physical education classes took place outside, at a local football pitch. There was a bushy pathway above the pitch, on a cliffy-kinda hill. Lots of hills and hillocks in my town. Boys would stand there, look at me surrounded by dozens of other young teenagers, and shout slurs from above. “Pedal” is the Polish equivalent of the word faggot, because pedals are designed to be hit with feet. That’s what they shouted my entire adolescence. I believe that’s when my anxiety disorder developed. Every time I stepped outside, my brain would think I was about to be verbally abused.
I will never forget walking home from school and seeing boys standing behind the trees, like a pack of wolves. “Are you looking for a cock to stick up your ass?”, they shouted. I must have been 14 or 15 at that time. My parents have always loved me dearly, but they had their own issues, various issues. Life was hard. My main passtime was playing video games on an Acer laptop under the duvet. Staying up until 6 AM. I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t sleep.
My family, my school, and my entire town were extremely, devoutly Catholic. Forget the mayor — vicar was boss. In small towns and rural areas of Poland, it’s priests that hold the power, like Emperor Palpatine. At least that’s the way things were when I was growing up.
While all of these horrible things were happening to me, I had to keep going to church and attend Religion classess at school. I was even an alter boy at church for a brief moment. My confirmation ceremony (it’s a Catholic thing) took place when I was 15. The confirmation name I chose for myself was Gerard, after Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance. My name choice kinda ate.
Religion teachers were all priests and nuns from the local vicarage. I was respected by them, due to my well-mannered nature. I knew they knew I was different. One time our Religion-teaching nun showed us a PowerPoint presentation, which stated that skinny and underweight boys were more likely to be gay. As you can imagine, I was fucked.
Get up, school, get bullied, home, video games and music, try to sleep, can’t sleep, open laptop, play more video games, repeat.
On a Sunday get up, church, home, video games and music, internet, try to sleep, more internet, can’t sleep, play games, repeat.
I had my first relationship at 16. It was 2012 so I had a Tumblr, filled with pictures of starry skies, galaxies, Lana Del Rey (I will never stop loving her), California beaches, HUF, cats, and people smoking.
The boys saw pictures and gifs of me and my then-boyfriend on Tumblr. My 10/10 pain suddenly became an 11. They hated me even more.
I was 16, skinny, and 6 feet tall. I wasn’t getting much appreciation from the world around me so I became a model. An agency in Warsaw signed me. For the next couple of years, I would skip school and take trips to Warsaw to visit the agency, go to castings, and participate in test shoots.
Warsaw was a different ball game all together. Imagine a village girl who’s sick of milking cows all day so she flies to LA to become a star. That’s how I felt, just on a smaller budget.
In Warsaw, nobody knew I was bullied at school and never been on a plane. I was a tall, skinny twink. A young twink signed to a respectable agency. At least I had something to feel good about. At least I had my body that fitted the beauty standards. I had no reputation, no respect, no money, no iPhone, horrible grades at school, I was scared to walk around my town — but I had a look worth signing. I never liked my body because my personal body preference is buff and muscular. But I knew other people loved the skinny. And I loved, loved, loved the fact that they loved it.
Warsaw’s fashion scene was a different universe, for sure. Suddenly everyone was either gay or okay with it. Britney Spears was an icon, not a punchbag. People took selfies and consumed sparkling water in small glass bottles. “Do you have Instagram?”. “We should go for lunch.” “We should go to McDonald’s after the shoot!” McDonald’s?! I would love to go to McDonald’s!
Ring, ring, ring! People in your town hate you? You wanna die? You go to Warsaw and hang around people who like attention and nice things, and the perspective of being successful and famous? YOU SHOULD TRY TO BECOME SUCCESSFUL AND FAMOUS!
From that moment on, I knew it. I worked it out like a Rubik’s cube. Those peasants back home just didn’t get me. That’s what I told myself.
But modelling didn’t work out for me. The agency (very kindly) told me to gain muscle. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of the gym and straight men that were there. I did a few castings, few test shoots, one magazine in Berlin, one local fashion show, and got dropped by the agency eventually.
Things only got worse from that point on. I was blackmailed and my naked pictures leaked. My relationship had ended. I didn’t pass the second year of high school and was told I had to repeat it. I was 18 so I signed some paper and said I’m out. The headmaster looked at me and told me, and I’m being serious, that I “will never achieve anything”.
After leaving principal’s office, I walked home and told my mother what had happened. “I’m not repeating the year”.
Fuck that school. I’m never going to see Martin and the rest of these pricks ever again.
I needed direction. I wasn’t at school anymore. I also couldn’t go to university without matura results, which is an exam taken by Polish pupils at the end of high school. It determines whether they can enrol at university.
I had to get a job. But every job I considered, even as a sales assistant in H&M, required a high school diploma.
Call centre was the only option. Every morning at 6 AM, I would take a 2-hour bus from my town to Krakow, to start work at 9. I was good. I was bubbly. I sold and sold and sold those TV channels to boomers like the Wolf of Wall Street of Network TV. HBO, Cinemax, Canal+, History — you name it, baby.
My first queer club nights, my first real gay friends, my first romances, and first dramas. Life was sweet, even though travelling back and forth every day was hard.
After six months, I made a decision to look for another job.
While sitting on a bus one morning, I got a phone call from a girl who clearly didn’t like wasting her time.
“Hello?”, I said.
“Are you still looking for a job?”
As you can see, she cut straight to the chase.
A couple of days later, I was at a backpackers hostel hidden in a low-key alley, somewhere in Krakow’s Jewish Quarter. They were looking for a hostel receptionist. Someone who could manage the reception (check-ins, emails, etc.), as well as clean a bit and… entertain the backpackers/stags dos/hen dos, most importantly.
During my first day at work, I had a beer at 2 PM, and it was fine. I was 18, having a beer at my desk at 2 PM. (!)
I went from sitting in my bedroom and playing games for 6 years straight, to interacting with people from all over the planet, mostly Brits and Americans, but I am confident that I had met people from every populated continent.
The pub crawls were amazing. Barbecues and game nights felt like I had been reincarnated. Me and other receptionists often sat in the garden (our hostel had a garden!) after clubbing, smoked fags and gossiped about which guests we fancied and who said what.
But someone aged 18, who is sheltered, inexperienced and naive, can get hurt easily. I was in some relationships that messed me up. I also messed other people up, got hooked on stuff that was hard to resist, partied a little bit too much, and had my heart broken numerous times before even turning 20.
I left the hostel with a garden for another hostel in Krakow, after a few months. Even though the second hostel had better ratings, a more professional management, and pristine reputation — I was not in a good place mentally.
The memories I made at the second hostel are incredible and I go back there in my mind quite often. But things were so difficult.
I spent months and months chasing an ex of mine that simply wasn’t interested. The whole situation cracked my heart like an iPhone dropped in a busy club. With no case on.
Partying with guests was still a duty, just like at the previous hostel. I partied with them until 2 or 3 AM, then walked them back to the hostel and headed out to my own venues of choice. The party would continue there until sunlight, ha, way past the sunlight. And I was fragile.
Not to mention that a novel I wrote was picked up by a respected publishing house. After modelling failed, It felt like I was finally going to have my moment. And then — just like the agency — they dropped me. The book was never released.
The combination of the two just broke my soul.
When it was announced that United Kingdom voted to leave the European Union, I thought FUCK NO. English is the only other language I know. I’m sure they will close the borders soon. No chance I am staying here, where I can’t get any decent job, can’t get into university, my own hometown hates me, and I see my ex wherever I go. For the second time in my life, I decided to get the fuck out of somewhere I did not want to be.
I didn’t care I didn’t have any money. I knew I was going to make it work.
I left for Britain on the 24th of August 2016 at 9:05 PM, Polish time. I had a little over 1000 PLN (£200) to my name and no job secured or accommodation booked.
I also wrote about this part of my life story in a 2021 Metro article.
My flight was to Bristol. I decided to go to Bristol because I was a huge fan of Skins (TV show) and I wanted to live like them.
Some may laugh, but whether it’s Skins or Lana Del Rey — I always insisted on living my life colourfully and dramatically, like the pop culture I consume.
I arrived in Bristol, booked a hostel there for a couple of nights, and explored the city.
It didn’t meet my expectations. I don’t know why exactly, but it just wasn’t it.
I then bought myself a National Express ticket to London. A very good friend of mine — someone I met at the second hostel I worked in — offered me a tour of London and a place to stay.
The opportunity was very short-term as she and her partner were just about to move to another city.
London overwhelmed me but not the way it overwhelms most people. I could sense that the city was a bit much, but I was also a bit much. Seemed like a perfect fit.
As my East London-located friends got closer and closer to moving out of the British capital, I ventured out to look for opportunities. I initially thought about working in a chippy (fish and chips place) until I remembered that I had all that hostel experience.
I checked in to the cheapest hostel I could find. It was situated in a fancy, white townhouse. A building that looked more Sex and the City than Homeless and Polish in the World’s Most Expensive City…
Luckily for me, they were hiring.
Thanks to my hostel experience, I had just landed myself a job. They offered me time to sort out my National Insurance number. The work towards my first paycheck had just started.
Unfortunately, I run out of money pretty quickly. I didn’t have cash to book any more nights at the hostel (they didn’t let me stay for free, obviously — it’s London).
I did as many night shifts as possible, to then ask for a quick nap in an empty room, cause you know — I had just finished a nightshift.
On other occasions, I would set up dates on Grindr and stay at their place.
When asked about where I was staying, I told them random locations, like Clapham or Poplar.
I mostly stayed at places belonging to guys I wouldn’t mind meeting anyway. I was this fortunate.
On some nights I was off, and I also couldn’t sort out any Grindr dates, so I just sat in Starbucks in King’s Cross for as long as I could… Or walked around Camden and looked at lads partying with their mates (I’m a writer. I need to observe.)
(I have always been keen to acknowledge my privilege. I know my appearance helped me massively. White privilege, pretty privilege, twink privilege — call it what you want. I know I benefited from it.)
I ate hostel’s peanut butter with a spoon, for a month, in the hostel storage cupboard.
Sometimes a kind pal would buy me a burger.
I hustled and survived my first month. My first pay granted me freedom. I earned enough money to rent a bedroom in a houseshare in Bethnal Green.
When I quit my job and found myself a new one — at a quirky and warm boutique hotel in South Bank — I got some holiday pay back with my last hostel pay.
I spent it in Alexander McQueen’s flagship boutique. The scarf I bought is pictured above. I no longer have it, but I still have the shoes I bought then.
During the employment in South Bank, I met some of my best ever friends. I also had time to party with mates from hostels back in Poland, former guests who lived in London and were very happy to see me, despite my difficult nature.
Oh — I could go on and on about things I experienced during my year in London. Some of them include:
- London Fashion Week
- Reckless parties in London’s most expensive hotels
- A forest rave in Zone 6
- My experience of the 2017 London terrorist attack
- Funny things that happened during my work at the hotel in South Bank
…And many, many more.
But we would be here all day, and I want to manifest an agent, and a memoir offer from a publishing house one day. So I’m going to keep some things to myself. For now.
In September 2017, after a year in London, I came to a realisation that I needed to progress further.
London is too expensive for a minimum wage hospitality worker, who has no family or support system with them.
On top of that, I wanted to get education, and I heard that Scotland was the best option for someone like me.
So I moved to Glasgow back in 2017, after a year in London.
It’s 2023 and I’ve been here for 6 years now. 7 in the UK all together.
I consider Scotland to be my home.
I’ve lived in Scotland for way longer than anywhere else, except for my hometown, of course.
In 2018, I enrolled at college to study Media. I chose that route because I didn’t finish high school and needed some qualifications to apply for a place at University.
After securing a National Qualification in Media, A Higher National Certificate in Media and Journalism, and a Higher National Diploma in Media and Communication, I joined Glasgow Caledonian University directly in year 3.
I finished my fourth year of BA (Hons) Media and Communication last month. I will be graduating with a degree this weekend.
There is a lot I could write about the last 6 years in Scotland but again, I need to leave some stuff for the future…
My name is Tomasz Lesniara and I’m a freelance writer and journalist based in Glasgow. My work has been published by VICE, The Guardian, Al Jazeera English, Insider, The i, Metro, Attitude Magazine, Paste Magazine, The National, Glasgow Times, Alternative Press, and many more.
I write an uplifting newsletter about local initiatives in Glasgow.
See my portfolio here: https://linktr.ee/lesniara
My email is lesniara[at]icloud.com. Hire/commission me please, or just say hi!
Thank you for reading.
Happy Pride Month.