Heels for freedom: Kim Lee and the history of Polish drag

Story by Joanna Kozlowska for The Beet. Edited by Eilish Hart.

This story first appeared in The Beet, a weekly email dispatch from Meduza covering Central and Eastern Europe, the Caucasus, and Central Asia. Sign up here to get the next issue delivered directly to your inbox.

Just over a century ago, looking into the future after emerging from a world war and 120 years of foreign occupation, Poland abolished all aristocratic titles. Later, decades of Communism rendered all thoughts of royalty remote. Yet this year, the Polish capital has crowned a queen, and the choice may surprise some.

A short walk west from Warsaw’s main train station, stepping into the whitewashed mansion that houses a branch of the municipal museum, visitors are greeted by a riot of pastel colors. A black-haired figure in a sumptuous golden dress smiles from a poster near the entrance that reads, Kim Lee. The Queen of Warsaw. The museum’s latest blockbuster offering, the temporary exhibition celebrates an artist lovingly dubbed “Poland’s best and only Vietnamese drag queen,” whose life story is as stunning as the costumes assembled inside. 

“Kim Lee had to be real, because nobody could have made her up,” a column in Poland’s largest left-wing daily recently proclaimed. “If she were a character from a TV show, conservative reviewers would tear it apart. More progressive ones, too, might doubt the scriptwriters’ sanity.”

Of the half dozen people The Beet’s correspondent interviewed who knew Kim Lee’s creator Andy Nguyen before COVID-19 cut his life short in 2020, all would agree. Nguyen’s story is indeed almost too unusual to be true. 

A star student in his native Vietnam, Nguyen came to Poland on a scholarship just as Communism was being dismantled. He got a research job at one of the country’s top physics institutes, only to see his pay fall to a pittance during the economic turmoil of the 1990s. He then worked odd jobs to support himself and his young family. For a time, the former scientist ran a market stall selling East Asian goods that a close friend compared to those at Warsaw’s now-demolished 10th-Anniversary Stadium. (Once the site of Communist Party galas, the stadium was later reduced to a sprawling outdoor bazaar where vendors from all over the former Eastern Bloc hawked pirated software, flouncy underwear, and dubious health remedies).  

Nguyen’s drag persona, Kim Lee, was born at the turn of the millennium and soon shot to stardom beyond the wildest dreams of anyone in Poland’s fledgling drag scene. “She whizzed into the mainstream like a meteor,” says Teo Łagowska, a performer with Warsaw’s Drag King Szarm Trio collective. 

Nguyen’s long-time partner, Remigiusz Szeląg, concurs. “Kim performed everywhere,” he recalls. “Non-stop, all over Poland, he was a fixture at ‘straight’ parties and club nights, at burlesque shows. He appeared on TV, on discussion panels. He twice gave lectures at the University of Warsaw — needless to say, in full drag.”

Pleasant surprises

Magdalena Staroszczyk, who curated the exhibition in Warsaw, has no doubt that it belongs in a public museum. She is visibly proud of bringing the project to fruition, not least given the Polish government’s enduring anti-LGBTQ stance. “Queer history should be just as present in various institutions as any other [history],” she underscores.

For almost a decade, Poland has made headlines for its ruling party’s dogged defense of “traditional values” that critics say amounts to little more than anti-LGBTQ policies. Successive electoral campaigns have seen the Law and Justice Party intimidate voters with the “rainbow menace,” while top officials — including Poland’s current president and education minister — have suggested that LGBTQ people don’t deserve equal rights. By October 2019, more than 60 local and regional councils had adopted anti-LGBTQ declarations, with right-leaning councilors decrying the spread of an “LGBT ideology” they claim threatens families. Local authorities and Polish courts have since scrapped some of these resolutions (in many cases for fear of losing E.U. funding), but a sense of deep unease remains. 

Both Szeląg and Krzysztof Tomasik, Nguyen’s friend of many years and the author of multiple books on Polish LGBTQ history, describe the Warsaw exhibition as a turning point for queer visibility. The show, Tomasik stresses, is housed in a state institution — a clear victory for those calling for greater inclusion, even if the museum’s financing comes from Warsaw’s relatively liberal city hall, rather than Poland’s Culture Ministry. 

Staroszczyk, the curator, sees Nguyen’s’s life and work as an integral part of Warsaw’s history. She also notes the artist’s close links to the city’s Wola district in particular, where the museum is located. Nguyen, a long-time resident of the neighborhood, kept more than 1,000 hand-sewn costumes in a space in Wola that became known as “Kim Lee’s Dressing Room.” He also performed in many local clubs, some of which popped up in the district’s shuttered factories. 

Today, Wola retains a post-industrial feel, with the high-rises that used to house its workers towering over the museum’s Neoclassical pile. Staroszczyk says that neighbors have been venturing in to get what for many is their first taste of drag. 

“We have one neighbor in particular, an older lady who I’m told has seen the show several times already. She’s been delighted and has been bringing friends along. That was one of the pleasant surprises,” the curator says. 

Groups of retirees — most but not all of them women — regularly book guided tours of the exhibition, Staroszczyk adds.

Local councilors from the Law and Justice Party, meanwhile, questioned the rationale behind the exhibition, while some right-wing and Catholic publications accused the museum of promoting a “deviant lifestyle.” However, as of early June, there has been no sustained political or media campaign against the show, nor protests trying to disrupt it.

On an overcast Saturday in May, the exhibition was well-attended. Groups of visitors admired Kim Lee’s hand-crafted creations — from silk kimonos to voluminous gowns that wouldn’t look out of place in Bourbon-era Versailles — and attempted their own drag transformations, trying on frilly boas and curly blond wigs. Two middle-aged women giggled with delight as they posed before a mirror garlanded with flowers. One 19-year-old visitor named Maciek admitted he’d been surprised to discover that Kim Lee had sold out clubs years before RuPaul’s Drag Race — the U.S. reality competition series that brought drag to a wide audience — premiered on Polish Netflix in the early 2010s. 

Polish divas and a whiff of the West

Researcher Jakub Wojtaszczyk, whose book of interviews with Polish drag performers was published last June, says that self-described drag queens began appearing in the early to mid-1990s, not long after Communism’s collapse. Their acts often harked back to Polish “divas” from Communist times: cabaret star Violetta Villas with her layered, feathered gowns, 1960s sex symbol Kalina Jędrusik, who scandalized crowds with her backless outfits, and patrician mezzo-soprano Irena Santor were all clear favorites. 

One of the drag scene’s stalwarts, Lady Brigitte, recalls impersonating both Villas and Santor during her performances in the 1990s. She says that many queer men at the time embraced Villas as an icon. “She was a colorful flower, a bright light that seemed to have arrived [in Communist Poland] from America, she was bold and courageous, and above all, different,” the drag queen says. 

“Of course, we’d also tackle foreign figures like Cher and Tina Turner — you wanted to have that whiff of the West. But most of each show would revolve around Polish artists,” she explains. 

According to Ludmiła Janion, a cultural studies scholar at the University of Warsaw, the history of Polish “queer icons” goes much deeper. As she speaks, Janion pulls out photos of cross-dressing Polish actors from the 1910s, 1920s, and 1930s, one of them the spitting image of U.S. dance pioneer Isadora Duncan. One of the extraordinary performances of that time, she says, comes from the 1937 comedy Neighbors (Piętro wyżej, in Polish). A glittering romp about a feud between two music-loving residents of a Warsaw townhouse, it shows cabaret heartthrob Eugeniusz Bodo wow an audience with his impersonation of the American actress Mae West. “Sex appeal is our womanly weapon,” Bodo sings as he whirls around the stage in a blond wig and a sparkling black dress. 

Some Polish film critics view the scene as a nod to LGBTQ audiences, pointing to the blossoming of queer culture in interwar Warsaw. “Bodo never got married. He wasn’t the type to chase after women,” Janion explains. “Of course, we can’t be sure that he was gay, but he was an ambiguous figure,” she adds, noting the actor’s string of cross-dressing characters during the brief but intense flourishing of Warsaw’s cabaret scene in the early 20th century. 

With the advent of Communism, this artistic freedom came to an end. Cross-dressing performances did not disappear, Janion says, but like much else, they retreated to the private sphere; to the semi-safety of high-rise apartments and tipsy evenings with friends. As a result, records of these “clothes-flipping parties” are sparse and hard to find. 

The parties themselves might have slipped into obscurity if Kim Lee hadn’t stopped to chat with an older gentleman who’d come to see her show one day in 2008. She soon found out that Andrzej Szwan, 69 at the time, had decades of “clothes-flipping” performances under his belt, even if his ornate costumes had scarcely left his building. With Nguyen’s help, Szwan transformed into one of Poland’s most eye-catching drag queens: Lulla la Polaca. Now 84, Szwan is still performing and much-loved by the media, including Vogue’s Polish edition and the country’s most august opinion magazines.

However, researchers Janion and Wojtaszczyk disagree about whether the “clothes-flipping parties” of Communist times and earlier film and cabaret performances can be classed as drag. Wojtaszczyk would rather reserve the term for modern-day performers who choose to use it themselves, while Janion is happy to speak about “a continuum of drag performances” that involve cross-dressing, an audience, and a note of homoerotic tension.  

‘Sister, you’re the activist type’

Lulla la Polaca, for one, was quick to call herself a drag queen once she started performing publicly. She also proudly describes herself as an LGBTQ activist. Most people I speak to agree that the term could also apply to Kim Lee, though not all Polish drag performers embrace it. 

“I’d always say to her: sister, you’re the activist type,” recalls Polish drag queen Lady Brigitte, referencing a double act she and Kim put on in the 2000s. Lady Brigitte herself has a more ambivalent attitude towards activism (“I performed at fund-raisers, but they were mostly for homeless animals”), though she expresses admiration for Nguyen’s engagement with Polish LGBTQ groups at the time. 

“There must have been more than twenty,” Szeląg replies when asked how many queer rights organizations Nguyen was involved in during his lifetime. He adds that Nguyen was also active in Poland’s Vietnamese community — “although he liked to keep that part of his life separate,” initially for fear of negative reactions to his same-sex relationship and stage persona. 

These concerns ultimately proved unfounded, Szeląg maintains. “Poland’s Vietnamese community has undergone a great transformation,” he explains, describing various relatives and friends of Nguyen’s he’s met over the years. “A while ago, a journalist from London came to interview its members for a story. Asked about famous Polish-Vietnamese people, every single one mentioned Kim Lee.”  

Szeląg and Tomasik say that Nguyen didn’t like to dwell on the racist taunts he sometimes faced. Be that as it may, he publicly weighed in on what Polishness could and should mean by starring in a music video that parodied Poland’s infamous 2014 Eurovision entry. “We are Slavic” by Polish singer Cleo and record producer Donatan, with its busty, butter-churning milkmaids and appeals for foreigners to “try Polish women,” prompted a collective groan from the country’s feminists and liberals. Donatan’s comments denigrating that year’s winner — Austrian drag queen Conchita Wurst — only added fuel to the fire. 

Kim was not one to sling back insults. Instead, she twirled around a meadow in Polish folk dress, lip-syncing to lines about “hot Slavic blood” and Polish women “ruddy as fresh bread.” 

Wojtaszczyk and the drag performers The Beet’s correspondent interviewed also recalled Kim’s role in integrating Poland’s drag scene and raising its profile, whether through hosting “Miss Drag” pageants or judging competitions. Teo Łagowska and Agnieszka Małgowska of the Drag King Szarm Trio — the aforementioned Warsaw collective of female and gender-queer performers who embody mostly masculine characters — stressed that Kim advocated inclusivity within a scene that they say still sidelines groups like theirs.  

Nguyen’s untimely death from the coronavirus in 2020 was “a shock for Poland’s rainbow community,” Małgowska says. “We always thought that Kim would become a senior drag queen, like Lulla [la Polaca], that she would dance until the end of time,” she laments. 

Szeląg, Tomasik, and Staroszczyk all spoke of the Museum of Warsaw exhibition as a means of mourning the artist and honoring his memory. Tomasik, the author and Kim’s long-time friend, says that a “terrible sadness” remains, but he also notes his satisfaction that Polish drag is finally beginning to get official recognition. “It’s an art with a decades-long history and its own icons,” he says. “These are just the first attempts to commemorate, remember, and honor them.”