Letter to Paola Revenioti

Revenioti (centre) holds a placard that says “(We want) the state out of our beds” at a 1981 demonstration in Athens. | Photo courtesy of Paola Revenioti. 

by Charis Mavroulias 

My dear Paola, 

You don’t know me and this letter might never reach you. I don’t know you either; only enough to feel that you are the only person I can turn to at this moment – a moment of isolation. I am writing to you from a hotel room, here, in the co-capital – so far away from the (neo)liberals, the greens, the resigned left-wing celebrations, and Kalomoira’s off-key attempts to sing “Born this Way.” I saw her rehearsals streaming on the well-known mainstream gay magazine. If you had doubts about Amfi, I imagine what you might say about this “-virus”. 

It was never my plan to go to EuroPride. I got a three-day stay as a gift and, what was I to do? I took it. I thought it would be a unique experience: To eat a three-star breakfast and walk around Thessaloniki. To see the Rotunda. To go down to the shops, the cafes, and the waterfront. And not risk being abused by fascists, now that the gays have come to court. Or to be more precise: now that Europe has generously granted us admission to… look gay in public, whilst dancing. Do you like dancing? I’ve never seen you dancing. 

And yet, I was wrong. A few meters outside the imaginary border Kostis Maraveyas was constructing with his voice – an apolitical wall that protects everyone and no one – I became a target. I became, for the third time in a week, a necropolitical body available for consumption by a group of (underage) neo-fascist thugs. The first time it (really) happened, I blamed Serbia, Novi Sad. The next time, it was Belgrade. I put on “Ταξίδι” by Μαρίνα Σπανού and cried in the hostel bathroom. Like a persecuted, stateless, pseudo-nomad, now longing for his safe space, the motherland. Greece. Athens. At least here, the fascists speak my language. 

Fascism speaks our language, Paola. You know this well. It’s not new to you. But I know you will make room for my whining, even though it’s quite unfamiliar to you. You, who have always seen the glass half full. Because the trans body – like the queer body – knows how to make space. Knows how to not have space. And knows how to challenge (a) space.

Our lineage. I remember you saying, in one of your last shows on Parlafousi, that what has been happening, following the results of the Greek elections in 2023 is unprecedented, even for you. You, who lived in a time when transness was intertwined with the geography of Sygrou and Athinas. “Paola” your name, echoing those streets, and illegible almost anywhere else. I am rewatching your interviews. I play this part again and again: “I’ve never been as afraid as I am now.” I’ve never been as afraid as I am now. What is happening? 

A few blocks away from Alexander the Great’s open legs, where I entertain the neo-Nazis with my existence, a young boy, with painted nails and perfect makeup, is cornered on Tsimiski street. Because he’s dressed like that. Like a faggot. A comrade-saleswoman described the scene to me in a jewelry store where we had a political discussion right after I bought a pair of beautiful earrings. How I wish you were here so I can show them to you, just as Dimitra showed you her wardrobe on Vice…. I’m sorry, Paola. The double predicament of masculine transness: I have to relearn how to cry, but men mustn’t cry. Especially in front of fascists. Especially next to pride, the celebration of love.  Especially, next to their group of girl friends, whom they’re supposed to protect. Men ought to protect. I don’t know any martial arts. I didn’t know any martial arts. I didn’t know. I should know. 

Pride. I’m sorry, Paola. That I am sitting and whining, when I could be swaying next to  γαργαρότεκνα (the term used in Kaliarnta to describe (twink-looking) sailors, usually involved with gay and trans sex-workers, after long periods in the sea), caressing the shredded arms of European gays, to the rhythms of Britney Spears and drinking genocidal soft drinks. I’m sorry that your struggles have become a celebration for liberals. That your grandchildren aren’t even on stage or on the floats, but on precarious balconies. I mourn for Diona and for the “unclear reasons” we lost our sister at 10 in the morning. It’s a pity that today’s parade doesn’t look like a funeral and a memorial for Anna. Too bad for the yogurts you had dripping from your faces-for us, Paola. 

Καλιαρντομπενάβω. (^{Kaliartompenavo means to curse or to speak ill of someone in kaliarnta, the greek gay language of erasure and survival. Paola’s documentary Kaliarnta was the second, following the homonymous dictionary by Ilias Petropoulos, most concrete record of this idiom.})

I’m ashamed that at the third self-organized Patras Pride, I saw you for the first time and thought, “Who is this old transvestite speaking on our behalf?” Speaking for me, the newly initiated, respectable trans* of academia, before the hormones and before the surgery and before I got immersed in politics, and before I fucked gay men. Am I doing the right thing, uttering these words? Thank you. You taught me that. I wrote a poem during the fourth year of my undergrad, titled “Paola,” for atonement, supposedly. “Now, I know who you are, and I pay tribute to you”, I thought. I know shit. That poem should never see the light of day. I keep it only as an archival document; for myself, for my progress, for me, to psychoanalyze myself. I am not you, Paola. I overanalyze everything. 

Hallucination. We sit under the same umbrella. It’s raining non-stop here. It’s raining (neo)liberalism. It’s raining in the streets. It’s raining in the buildings. Where can I find shelter, Paola? A roof over my head: the human rights conference. A panel now convenes. Gay European Policy-Making.  Advancing Equality.  Preventing Backsliding. Backsliding: It’s raining men. Backsliding: they did you a favor – not sending you with them to Brussels.  The green, the red, the blue defenders of peace and democracy. Backsliding- you would pull your hair out. Backsliding- You would be appalled by their applause. The unbearable lightness of the center, trembles at the idea of extremes. Backsliding- for them, they are the same. They are talking about us, Paola. They fight for our rights, they’re saying. They are talking about trans things. Backsliding. They are talking about the crossroads. Intersectionality, this and that, backsliding. They are talented. They managed to appropriate Kimberlé Crenshaw’s term through the extraction of class. I admire them and their artistry! White gays and liberal lesbians stand at the intersection of Mitropoleos and Aristotelous. Sexuality and gender. Gender and sexuality.  Where is class, Dragana? What is race? What is “to pass”? Alas! Have you heard of them? Should I put Paola on the phone? I will be the translator. Mpenaveis Kaliarnta? (Do you speak Kaliarnta?) Yes I do. Yes I do. As a lesbian, she likes cars, she says, the audience laughs. She attempts a metaphor of progress with gas. Step on the gas, she says, let’s move forward, stand in the way of fascism. Forget about the past. Forgeeeeet about all the baaaaacksliding. Without a reference to capitalism and the nation state, the borders, Palestine. Without abolitionist and decolonial feminism. Hand in hand with the Church, the army and bourgeois police. Who sings the nation-state, Dragana? You. You speak its language. You are the lead singer in this cacophonous choir. You keep one foot on the brake and one on the gas. 

We are going to explode, Paola. We are heading straight into a wall. Or off a cliff. I miss your optimism. It seems tragically romantic to me. Change my mind. Convince me to leave this miserable hotel room. Even for a fleeting cruise in the alleys of Kamara. Even if my men are hopelessly cis. And my dick, hopelessly plastic. 

Your grandson,

Thessaloniki, 28 June 2024

ENDNOTES:

For more information on the first gay magazine published in Greek, follow the links:

Article: https://gayekfansi.blogspot.com/2013/07/gay-magazines-in-greece-tribute.html.

Documentary (available until 24/09/24): https://www.ertflix.gr/vod/vod.431894-akoe-amphi-e-istoria-mias-epanastases-na-koimamai-sto-stethos-tou. 

In its 115^th edition, ANTIVIRUS features an article by Giannis Pavlopoulos, titled: “How apolitical are we gays” annunciating- for someone who has never read the magazine- a (post) Marxist critique. And yet, the author’s response to a gay communist on Grindr, “Better be liberal than a communist like you” resonates painfully but perfectly sums up the politics of the gay magazine. 

The following link provides a small overview (including visual evidence) of the neo-fascist attack that took place in Thessaloniki on the 10^th of March 2024 against two fem-looking trans individuals: https://www.documentonews.gr/article/aristoteloys-h-stigmi-poy-150-atoma-epitithentai-se-dyo-trans-21-syllipseis-apo-tin-elas-video/.

 For as long as the political party Mera25 was in parliament, RadioMeRA could be funded, featuring several broadcasts, podcasts and interviews. Parlafousi was one of them, streaming on Thursays and run by Paola Revenioti. The uploaded videos are still available on https://www.youtube.com/@radiomera3729.  

Dimitra was a transfem individual who spent most of her life, closeted, in a small village in Lesbos. Her death was confirmed on 14 June 2021- almost 4 months after her escape from a psychiatric ward in Athens where she had been transferred involuntarily- and is speculated to have been caused by car accident and abandonment. She was perpetually misgendered throughout her life (even by Silver Alert, reporting her disappearance under her deadname and false pronouns) and after her death, by the systemic newspapers. For more information on her interview with Paola follow the link: https://youtu.be/mSkhbkTYuIM?si=Vwa9cUUQhNvrUa-g.