2

In Csíkszereda, winters are so cold the dogs’ breath hangs motionless in the air. The chickens’ water has frozen again; my grandmother would grumble every morning as she was breaking the ice with a stick. Before school, my mother laid my clothes out on the radiator so they wouldn’t be freezing cold when I put them on. I used to stare at those clothes for a long time. The sweaters, the trousers, the thick tights I hated because they squeezed me so tightly I could barely breathe in them. Hey, kid, you’re suffocating from your pants, they used to mock me at school. As a child, I felt that every fabric had some secret nature to it. There are clothes that let a person breathe, and there are clothes you move around in as if someone else’s body had been pulled over your own.

I was born in Transylvania, in Csíkszereda. From a very early age, I knew I wasn’t gender conforming. I was the little boy with the coolest Barbie. I made clothes for it out of old socks, curtain fabric, my mother’s tights. I loved watching how something could change completely because of a piece of fabric. Later, my mother and I used to joke that when she got pregnant with me, she had wanted a girl. When I came out to her, she just smiled. The world is colorful, she said.

At the time, I didn’t understand how important that would sentence become.

I knew very early on that I wasn’t straight. We had internet, and I could read about things I still didn’t have words for. For a long time, I thought that eventually, with enough time, I would simply become whoever I really meant to be. I was fifteen when I first spoke to my mother about it. For days afterward, I kept watching to see whether anything around me would change. But the bathroom door creaked the same way, the laundry kept drying in the kitchen exactly as before. That was the strangest part. Nothing happens, and yet everything becomes different.

For me, self-discovery was never some single moment of realization. It was more a constant movement. There were periods when I dressed more femininely, others when I was androgynous. I always loved experimenting with my hair, with makeup, with clothes. I love dressing up, but not for occasions. Just because. On a Tuesday afternoon, for example. Platform shoes, a sheer shirt, a skirt, makeup. Before going out, I spend a long time getting ready. I look at myself in the mirror and watch the persona slowly take shape.

In this world, simply being visible is already a statement.

And of course, in a small town you quickly learn how visible you are allowed to be. People turned around after me in shops. They stared at me on the bus. After a while I could feel their eyes before I even saw them. Then slowly they got used to me. Back then I was the only openly queer person in Csíkszereda.

I got tired of constantly being watched.

I was nineteen when I moved to Budapest. I thought it would be easier there. Budapest is a more open city than Csíkszereda. And still, for a long time, I straightwashed myself. I work as a DJ, the scene is overwhelmingly made up of straight men in their thirties. I barely met any queer people. It wasn’t a conscious kind of closeting. A person simply adapts. They wear different clothes. They lower their voice. They talk less about themselves.

During the day I sat over fabric samples; at night I DJed. I love that one hour before dawn when the bass is so loud people stop paying attention to one another. From the DJ booth I watch faces shining with sweat, smeared makeup falling apart. As if everyone had only borrowed their body for the night. Before I perform, I spend a long time getting ready. I choose an outfit, do my makeup, sometimes change clothes three times before leaving. At those moments my room looks like a looted theater dressing room.

Then at some point I realized I no longer even knew who I was.

About six months ago I started reconnecting with Budapest’s queer community. I listen to people’s stories, we talk, and I think it’s probably our stories that hold us together. Through those stories we are trying to create a more livable place for ourselves and for others too. For me. For you. For them.

Lately everyone carries a great deal of uncertainty about the future. Whether it’s personal problems, family issues, healthcare, or school, everything eventually leads back to politics. The tension is palpable everywhere, in everyone. One of the remarkable things about the queer community is that it can survive anything, but right now everyone is anxious.

Especially now.

Ever since the idea of banning Pride was raised, many of us feel the noose tightening around our necks. Trans healthcare is in a terrible state. The future of rights organizations is uncertain. Can things get even worse than this?

In Budapest I’m rarely subjected to outright violence, but my experiences back home stayed deep inside me. Even now there are moments when I don’t feel safe. For example, when I go outside wearing a skirt. I think it should be completely normal for men to wear skirts. In pop culture it already is. And still there is always that second guessing inside me: will I be safe if I walk outside like this?

I feel the stares before I see them.

I constantly have to weave these mental spiderwebs. What should I wear. How should I get home. Can I hold my partner’s hand in the street. Will something happen because of it.

And yet the ideal life would actually be very simple. Not having to think about whether what I’m wearing is provocative. Not having to be afraid of holding my partner’s hand. Having access to hormone treatment and gender-affirming surgeries. Having marriage. Adoption. Knowing a child would not be harmed for growing up in a queer family.

I wish everything didn’t have to be this difficult.

Meanwhile, you try to do something. We go to protests. We talk. We argue things through, even over family lunches. Sometimes we willingly step into conflict.

This summer I went home to Csíkszereda. On the main street, two very young queer boys walked past in platform shoes with painted nails. They were laughing loudly. Nobody shouted after them.

I watched them for a while.

When I was a child, I could never have imagined something like that.

A dream had come true.

If everything stays like this, I don’t want to stay in Hungary. The hopelessness swallows everything. I want to leave the country. I still don’t know where I would go. I only know that if this political situation remains the same, one day I will definitely leave.