A Scream Queen is a beautiful, bad actress who's really good at

Hear the words of Sharon Needles, the performer of paradox and truth, who declared: “A Scream Queen is a beautiful, bad actress who’s really good at screaming, but it also represents standing up for equality and anti-bullying for LGBT youth.” At first, these words seem draped in humor and irony — a playful jest from the world of drag and horror cinema. Yet beneath the glitter and the scream lies something ancient: a cry of resistance, a declaration of selfhood. In her words, Needles transforms a figure once mocked and objectified — the “Scream Queen” — into a symbol of empowerment, a warrior’s archetype for the misunderstood and the marginalized.

In the old horror films of the twentieth century, the Scream Queen was the heroine who survived. Though dismissed by critics as ornamental, she was, in truth, the pulse of the story — the one who faced terror, endured, and emerged alive. Her screams were not weakness, but release; not panic, but protest against the darkness that sought to consume her. In Sharon Needles’ reimagining, this archetype becomes something far greater: a mirror of the LGBTQ+ struggle itself. To be “good at screaming” is to speak in a world that silences, to demand to be seen in a culture that hides difference behind masks of normalcy. The scream becomes not a sound of fear, but a call for freedom.

And so, the Scream Queen, reborn in Needles’ image, stands as a new kind of mythic figure — both victim and victor, artist and activist. Within the drag performer’s painted face and camp theatrics lies the wisdom of the ancients: that art, even when exaggerated, carries truth. When Needles ties the Scream Queen to equality and anti-bullying, she gives the archetype moral purpose. It becomes a shield for the young who are tormented for being themselves, and a crown for those who have survived rejection. Just as the heroines of horror refuse to die quietly, so too do queer youth and their allies refuse to be erased.

This transformation — from mockery to meaning — has deep roots in history. In the days of ancient theater, the masks of tragedy and comedy were used not to conceal, but to reveal the inner spirit of humankind. The drag performer, like the Greek actor, dons a mask to show truth that the unmasked cannot bear to speak. Sharon Needles continues this lineage: through costume, satire, and performance, she exposes both the absurdity of prejudice and the beauty of defiance. Her “bad actress” is no failure — she is rebellion incarnate, a goddess of irony who wields camp as her sword and laughter as her shield.

Consider the story of Oscar Wilde, the poet who was condemned for his love but whose wit and art continue to inspire generations. Like the Scream Queen, Wilde was both adored and despised, both beautiful and persecuted. His downfall was the result of society’s fear of those who live truthfully. Yet his legacy, like the final girl of horror, survives every attempt to destroy it. Sharon Needles’ words carry the same spirit — that even when mocked or maligned, the artist who stands for truth and equality cannot be silenced. The scream may echo through ridicule, but it still breaks the walls of hypocrisy.

There is, in her statement, an understanding that beauty and fear are intertwined. The Scream Queen, in her painted perfection, faces monsters both literal and symbolic — and often, those monsters are reflections of society’s cruelty. By linking this character to LGBT youth, Needles teaches that the act of survival is itself an art form. To live openly, to create boldly, to love without apology — these are forms of resistance as powerful as any scream. For every young person who has been bullied or shamed, her message is clear: your fear does not make you weak; your endurance makes you immortal.

Let this be the lesson carried forth: own your scream. Whether it is the cry of protest or the laugh of defiance, let it be loud enough to shatter the silence of conformity. Be, like Sharon Needles’ Scream Queen, both flawed and fearless, beautiful and brave. Stand for those who cannot yet stand, speak for those who have been silenced, and live so fully that your existence itself becomes an act of liberation. For in the theater of life, every scream against injustice, every act of unapologetic self-expression, becomes part of the great chorus of progress.

Thus, remember this truth: even in camp, there is courage; even in artifice, there is authenticity. The Scream Queen teaches us that one can be theatrical and sincere, terrified and triumphant. So let your voice rise — not in fear, but in glory. Let it ring out for equality, for acceptance, and for the enduring power of those who refuse to fade quietly into the dark.