The text came around noon on an uncharacteristically sunny day in the cold grip of January.

A three-day weekend of gorgeous weather, wedding planning, and the release of the highly anticipated Scream (2022) hadme feeling both happy and very content. On this particular Sunday, as my partner took his turn making breakfast, I nestled into my well-worn spot on the couch. Hot coffee in hand, I busied myself scrolling through whatever nonsense had my attention, until a text alert from my friend Melissa popped onto the screen. Melissa and I both work at a Portland middle school where we cosponsor the ever-popular Queer Student Alliance (QSA). “Not to de-center your being,” she wrote in reference to a silly Tiktok I had shared earlier that day, “and trigger warning for homophobic bullshit…but this made Fox News.” My heart skipped a beat. Taking a big breath, I readied myself for whatever fresh hell she sent and clicked on the link.

“Beaverton parents expressed frustration at Tuesday’s virtual school board meeting,” the article read, “about a new club called the Queer Straight Alliance at Raleigh Hills Elementary for fourth and fifth grade students.” Melissa and I have been keeping our eye out for news of this type. Working with Queer children necessarily means you spend a lot of time mentally preparing, if not outright defending, against those who would invalidate or attack them. While this was just the latest in a recent onslaught of newsworthy stabs from the ever-looming “concerned parents” on Queer children and their allies, this particular instance strikes close to home. Beaverton is just one school district over from us. As I sat, contemplating the cold familiarity of yet another homophobic manifestation in my life, I couldn’t help but think of Sydney Prescott, the heroine of the Scream horror movie franchise. In the latest iteration of the film (2022), there is a scene where Sydney is out jogging on a sunny day when she receives a call from another legacy character (Dewey) that killings in Woodsboro are happening again. Essentially, her murderous foil, Ghostface, has returned to cut through a new generation of adolescents. This is hardly the first time that I’ve identified with Sydney nor is it the first time I’ve made sense of my life through the lens of a horror film. It dawned on me, however, that my role in the slasher/reality parallel, like that of contemporary “requel” Final Girls, is evolving into something different: from perpetual survivor to steadfast protector. “Sitting here…remembering my young gay self,” I replied to Melissa, “and thinking, ‘they always come back’.”

For those unfamiliar, the Final Girl is the ultimate survivor of a slasher film. According to Carol J. Clover, the film studies scholar credited with coining the term, the Final Girl is “…the one who encounters the mutilated bodies of her friends and perceives the full extent of the preceding horror and of her own peril; who is chased, cornered, wounded; whom we see scream, stagger, fall, rise, and scream again.” But make no mistake; she is no victim. The Final Girl survives and often, through the course of sequels, attains heroic status. She survives her slasher and, through initiation by blood, becomes his ultimate foil. What I call the “self-aware Final Girl genre” has expanded on this mythology through film, television, and literature. Some of my favorite examples include The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix, My Heart is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones, Final Girls: A Novel by Riley Sager, the 2015 Todd Strauss-Schulson film Final Girls, and the ninth season of Ryan Murphy’s American Horror Story, AHS 1984. (That last one catches a lot of flak but I loved it!)

Queer people often identify with Final Girls.

It is well-established within the horror community that Queer people have long-identified with the Final Girl trope. Growing up, I personally felt an affinity for the bookworm babysitter, Laurie Strode. Iconically portrayed by the incomparable Jamie Lee Curtis, Laurie Strode is the chief survivor and sister of the knife-wielding Halloween (1978) slasher, Michael Myers. I could dedicate an entire book to the parallels Queer people might draw between themselves and Final Girls. Speaking on behalf of myself, however, I believe that what lies at the still-beating heart of this survival-oriented affinity is the reality of growing up in a constant state of feeling unsafe.

“I’m not sad that you’re gay…I’m sad because I know how hard your life will be.” If my life were, indeed, a slasher film, that would be the orange-lettered prologue that scrolls across the screen; right after, “Based on a true story” and “Produced by Debra Hill.” Like so many Queer youth, genuine LGBTQ role-models were few to nonexistent for me. Thus, my knowledge of the gay experience was assembled from the dismembered bits and pieces that I gathered from the perspectives of straight people living in the rural South. Needless to say, it was a bloody mess. Perhaps that’s why I feel such a strong call to work with Queer youth. If cishet adults did anything for me, though, it was to prepare me for the life of a survivor. “Watch out for AIDS,” they’d say. “You better learn how to hide it or you’re going to end up getting the shit beat out of you,” was the other bit of encouraging advice I’d get. While mostly anecdotal, my path seemed scattered with the bodies of those who went before me. The Final Girl’s ordeal begins with the discovery of “her mutilated friends.” I was like Laurie, weeping in the dark, knowing that danger wasn’t far behind. Media only confirmed that sense of lurking danger. The tragedy of Matthew Shepard was the promise of what awaited if I didn’t “control it;” any tendency that could be read as gayness was an open invitation for violence. Coming of age (and out of the closet) in the early 00’s meant that Shepard’s death haunted any optimism I had for the future. And so, as with the Final Girl, safety for me was bound to soft-spokenness and chastity. As Clover writes, “In the slasher film, sexual transgressors of both sexes are scheduled for early destruction.”

“We’re all afraid of the dark inside ourselves,” suggests a haggard Dr. Loomis to Nurse Marion Chambers, in the 1981 sequel Halloween 2. “That girl,” Chambers reveals, “that Strode girl…that’s Michael Myer’s sister.” Laurie Strode is the sister of her slasher. She shares an indisputable, perhaps mystical, tie to Michael Myers. As such, the danger she faces is both an external and internal ordeal. We see this connection explored in Rob Zombie’s remake duo; as it is implied that Laurie will assume Michael’s homicidal nature. Like Laurie, I grew up with the creeping dread that I might be betrayed by my very own nature. There was no doubting the physical and emotional danger that surrounded my gay self on a daily basis. That danger was exacerbated by my own unconscious behaviors and gender expression. “Don’t speak,” I’d think to myself. “They might notice your gay voice and come after you!” In other words, my allegorical slasher was stalking me both externally and from within. The need to be on constant guard against oneself and the threats of a homophobic world is even more poignantly articulated by Jesse Walsh (a BOY Final Girl) in A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge (1985). Jesse is being possessed and lured into killing by the spirit of Freddy Krueger. Krueger becomes a dark urge that Jesse must contain. “He’s inside me, and he wants to take me again!” Though much maligned, Elm Street 2 is especially rich viewing material for the those interested in the overlap of Queerness and horror films. For further viewing, I’d recommend Roman Chimienti and Tyler Jensen’s documentary, Scream, Queen (2019), which not only looks at Elm Street 2 through a Queer lens but also details the related ordeal of Mark Patton, the lead gay actor who depicted Jesse Walsh.

“Look how far you’ve come.” I hear that a lot. Though often meant to convey praise for personal and professional achievement, I can’t help but visualize my Queer journey when I hear those words. I’m reminded of how much the world has changed in the last twenty years. I have survived. I graduated high school and college, saw the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” celebrated the coming of marriage equality, and lived through a cultural shift that has embraced an ever-increasingly normalized Queer subculture. Pride month has been elevated into mainstream holiday status and there’s a virtual pantheon of Queer celebrities, politicians, and role-models for young ones to look up to. Like Laurie, Sydney, and Sally Hardesty of the recent Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022) from Netflix, it would be easy to believe the fight is over. The Boogeyman is vanquished. Homophobic hate has been pushed to the realm of the socially unacceptable and we can all sleep in peace. But, this is the age of the requel…and we’re still the Final Girls.

The requel combines elements of a sequel and a remake.

The idea of the requel goes beyond horror but is definitely having a moment with the genre. A requel is a film that visits the plots and characters of previous film installments (like a sequel) but involves new characters and storylines (like a remake). With slasher requels, there seems to be a common formula of an original Final Girl returning to aid a new generation against the onslaught of her associated slasher adversary. This has been the case with Halloween (2019), Scream (2022), and Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2022). As a point of interest, I would point to A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987) as the first film to employ this formula. Though only three years removed from the original Elm Street, as opposed to the 20 to 50 year difference between recent requels, it otherwise fits the mold: the plot only loosely relates to the original, it involves a new generation of victims, and features the return of a savior Final Girl in the form of Nancy Thompson. Recognizing the signs that Freddy Krueger has reemerged, Nancy gears up to protect a group of troubled teens and ultimately sacrifices herself in the struggle. As I sit writing this article, I, too, recognize the signs of emerging danger. A new cycle is beginning and the kids need our help.

Queer children and their allies are under attack.

“This will kill kids,” Chasten Buttigieg tweeted at Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis, referring to the Parental Rights in Education bill, also known as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill. House Bill 1557 seeks to limit discussions regarding sexual orientation or gender identity in Florida public schools. Proponents of the bill suggest that it is simply meant to block official pro-LGBTQ curricula from being developed for primary school students. It would allow parents to sue, should they object to their children being presented with content they find to not be “age-appropriate.” The vagueness of terminology in the bill presents an obvious problem for educators trying to present material related to the realities of Queer oppression. As a Queer educator, myself, I’m left to wonder, “At what point would living my life be a problem for extreme (or not so extreme) conservative parents? What would happen if I were to mention that a prominent historical figure was Queer? What kind of danger would I be in, if a Queer student were to confide in me?” The obvious intent of this legislation is discourage Queer visibility. Queer erasure in schools forcibly closets teachers and students and empowers a culture of bullying, trans/homophobia, and violence. “In a national survey,” Buttigieg’s tweet continues, “42% of LGBTQ youth seriously considered attempting suicide last year. Now they can’t talk to their teachers?” I am reminded of the adage, “Silence equals death.” As of this writing, “Don’t Say Gay” has passed in the Florida House and Senate and awaits the signature of Gov. Ron DeSantis.

“I’m the one that got away,” Sally calls to a raging Leatherface, “and I’m here to make sure you don’t!” And so, once again, we look into the face of the Boogeyman. They always come back, after all, and this one is an especially old enemy. The fear-mongering claim of the past, that Queer people are seeking to convert and abuse children, has resurfaced and wears a new face. “Don’t Say Gay,” while certainly horrific, isn’t an anomaly and the threat cuts further than the Sunshine State. In Newberg, Oregon, teachers were banned from displaying Pride or BLM flags. The school board characterized the flags as too “political” for the classroom. It is interesting that Newberg Public Schools would release a statement expressing their support of LGBTQ students while simultaneously eradicating a symbol that is largely used to convey safe spaces in schools. Beyond Oregon, Texas Gov. Gregg Abbott called on citizens to report parents of transgender children on suspicion of abuse. In Lakeland, Tennessee, a teacher was slandered and harassed for supporting middle school students working to initiate a Gay Straight Alliance (GSA). Tennessee also plays host to one of several recent book bans targeting “indecency.” As these instances of aggression toward Queer students and educators continues to increase, it is becoming increasingly clear that the next battle for the LGBTQ community will be fought for its youth. As this conservative movement gains momentum, we, the Final Girls, are left with a choice…a choice made by Nancy, Laurie, Sydney, and Sally. Will we go back to Haddonfield, to Woodsboro, to Texas? Will we be there to tell the monster that, “No! We will not watch you work your evil, again!” The moment is now. This is the requel. The next generation has a chance to thrive in a way our spiritual ancestors never dreamed. They can be OUT and PROUD from the moment they realize the beauty of who they are. They deserve to flourish as we never could. They deserve to grow up without the specter of fear and self-doubt. They deserve our advocacy. They deserve to be safe.

“I told my parents I’m gay,” a student told me as I walked around the room grading the bell-ringer activity. He stopped me dead in my tracks. Every year, I have a handful of students come out to me and every time I brace for the reality that they may face rejection from their families. Turning to face him and smiling as warmly as possible I replied, “Congratulations, man! I’m proud of you! How did they take it?” Though I was doing my best to convey excitement, my heart was racing. As I ran through the worst case scenarios in my head, he shrugged. “Totally fine, I just wanted you to know.” The relief is overwhelming: he dodged the horror. He is safe. I moved to the back of the room, fished out a small plastic Pride flag from my QSA supplies, and laid it on the desk in front of him. “Thank you for telling me,” I smiled, “make sure you tell your parents you want a coming-out party.” He will never know how much this little moment meant to my inner Sydney. He will never know that this moment will give me strength when hope dwindles. I’m going to keep standing up to the bullies, to the bigots, to the monsters. I’ll always answer that call…because I’m still the Final Girl.