Queer Horror Creatives in Florida and Elsewhere Need Help
My life is a horror movie. Just two years ago, my partner and I could grab coffee by the beach together. My hand might hold his. Our eyes might lock for longer than a passing moment. As the sun set and the tide ebbed back to the sea, we might not see anything else—nothing but the other person, the person we respectively loved, there in that moment as the sky turned peach and the breeze settled down. Now, gas station attendants presume we’re friends or brothers (every gay white man could pass for every gay white man’s brother). We don’t correct them. When someone at the grocery store stares for a bit too long, we hurry our pace, mindful of not walking too close, laughing at the others’ joke for too long. It’s survival as inconspicuousness. And that’s not even the worst of it. Queer horror creatives desperately need help.
All across the country, legislators and representatives are passing anti-LGBTQ bills. The Trans Legislation Tracker notes 555 pieces of anti-trans (and more broadly, anti-queer) legislation proposed for 2023. Among these, 78 have passed, 104 have failed, and 373 remain in active deliberation. Circumstances are grim around the country. Florida, where I presently live, is among the most adamantly anti-queer states. In May, Governor Ron DeSantis signed package legislation into law with “new restrictions on gender-affirming treatments for minors, drag shows, bathroom usage and which pronouns can be used in school.” Texas has passed parallel anti-trans legislation. For context, the legislative year 2022 saw only 174 anti-trans bills total proposed, with only 26 of those passing. While those numbers aren’t great, they’re almost staggeringly low compared to the ever-encroaching wave of insidious legislation passing in state houses across the country.
What that means for queer persons like myself in Florida and elsewhere is a regression to fight-or-flight conditions when existing in public spaces. As a queer, cisgendered white man, my privilege can inoculate me from some of the harm. It’s easy enough to feign straightness in the eyes of others. Running shorts and an athletic hoodie can render a trip to the mechanic no more or less inconsequential than it had been in the past. Other identities, especially trans identities, aren’t as fortunate. This matters to me as a queer person, a horror writer, and, more importantly, as a person in general.
On the point of horror writer, I’ve seen several freelance peers either consider or actively make efforts to move out of state. As both a teacher and writer—that is, someone innately incapable of making any money ever—that isn’t an option for me. My family and friends are here. For the past nine years, this is where my life has been. Even with the means, I don’t want to see an opportunity. I don’t want to leave the place with my favorite beach-side coffee shop. I don’t want to leave the historic cities and placid coastlines. This is my home, and the horrors of the world aren’t going to run me out.
What that leaves me with, then, is the big “what.” What, as a queer person of modest means, is there left to do. Yes, there’s voting and protesting—both viable, worthwhile means—but there has to be more. Not more qualitatively, but more for me. Something specific to myself, my interests, and my work. Naturally, that leads me to horror. The genre that made me, shaped me, inspired me, and even saved me.
Our wonderful editor-in-chief recently penned an essay on the contemporaneous age of queer horror. Horror, at its core, has always been queer. The earliest horror stories were rooted in the macabre and transgressive. Subtext was an easy substitute for explicit queerness, but it has always been there, and it’s been there with purpose. That the queer and horror communities are in large part one and the same is more than incidental. The analeptic nature of horror is one of the few perennial spaces of restoration, clarity, and catharsis for queer persons. In mythologizing the monsters of the real world, marginalized identities can confront monsters on-screen and embolden themselves to confront them elsewhere.
There’s identification in Countess Marya Zaleska (Gloria Holden, Dracula’s Daughter, 1936), an early progenitor for the audience empathy of monsters such as Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, 1974). Intent is often muddled—Jason Voorhees was likely not conspicuously designed with queer subtext—though the cumulative cultural impact remains the same. Horror is a necessary tool to confront hegemonic oppression. It is subversive and celebratory in equal measure, giving both space and voice to the identities—especially queer identities—that need it most. It hasn’t always been perfect, and the community writ large isn’t always receptive. But for myself and several others, horror is the safest space there is.
Yet, the cinematic world and the real world are drifting further and further apart. Whatever progress was made in the past decade is slowly being rolled back, cultivating unsafe living conditions for queer persons around the country. I came out of the closet in 2019, and while that feels like ages ago, the conditions finally felt right. That in four short years so much of that progress had been rolled back is not only disheartening—it’s actively frightening.
This then, more than anything, is a call to action for horror fans everywhere. To preserve the genre and the creatives from all walks—the filmmakers and freelancers, bloggers and podcasters—who buttress the genre with insight, humanity, feeling, warmth, and acceptance at every turn, the community’s voice needs to coalesce into a strident, urgent call for change. Protect queer neighbors, family, and friends. Donate to local causes assisting queer and trans persons (I have included a Florida-specific list at the end of this article here). Reach out to writers and filmmakers in areas most affected. Offer support. Celebrate their work. And, most wholeheartedly, practice the ethos the genre preaches with urgency. After all, protecting queer and trans persons is protecting the horror genre itself.
Here’s How You Can Continue To Support Queer and Trans People In Florida:
Zebra Coalition, a network of Florida-based organizations who provide support to LGBTQIA+ youth between ages 13 and 24.
Equality Florida, a civil rights organization dedicated to protecting and serving queer communities in Florida.
JASMYN supports the empowerment of LGBTQIA+ teens and young adults in Northeast Florida.
Peer Support Space supports disenfranchised populations and provides mental health support to those in need.
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