Wrappers In My Driveway and Other Halloween Delights

As I slide into that cycle of self-indulgence and self-hatred that the leftover Halloween candy in my house always provokes, I can’t help but reflect (with peanut M&Ms at hand) on Halloweens past. In the church I grew up in, all holidays—with their pagan origins and crass commercialism—were verboten, but Halloween was particularly bad. Anything directly associated with witches and ghosts and all that devilish business was something to flee with a vengeance. My childhood memories of Halloween are of my family closing the curtains, turning off as many lights as we could, and huddling together in the back room of our house. If someone actually braved the darkness to ring our doorbell, we would all go silent and hold our breath until we heard them go away.

Listening to the chattering and laughter and shrieks that floated in despite all the barriers we erected, I always felt a strange convolution of desperate longing to be one of those costumed children and smug pride that I wasn’t. I think sixth grade was the zenith, which is when my elementary school decided to have all the students in costume do a big parade weaving in and out of every classroom. The two or three of us not in costume had to just sit at our desks and watch. Looking back on it, I have to wonder why they didn’t at least try to pretend we were judging the costumes or something inclusive like that, but I guess they didn’t care as much about making everyone feel special and included in the 80s. Teachers just let you be the big weirdos and losers that you were.

Time passed, my family left that church, and gradually the great divide between us and holiday celebration began to recede. Halloween was the last to make it over, and even then my mother struggled with tremendous guilt. The first year we handed out candy, she insisted on including little slips of paper with Bible verses printed on them in the vain hope that some eight year old scarfing down a fun-size Snickers bar would have his heart touched by John 3:16.

Now that I am an adult, the barriers have been completely removed, and I am like every other American going to Costco and buying the jumbo-sized bags of candy for $11.99. For a number of years, I enjoyed seeing my students dressed up in costumes, and I took a real delight in handing out candy to the flurry of children that would come to my door practically vibrating with excitement and sugar. But lately, the shine has begun to tarnish. Let’s start with the fact that a large percentage of the girls who attend the school where I teach use the holiday to dress as inappropriately as they can—it’s not a dress code violation, it’s a costume! But the fairy tale characters I remember from storybooks and Disney cartoons never had bustiers, clinging skirts that ended at mid-thigh, and stiletto heels. I could be wrong, but I don't recall there ever being a Little Bo Peep and Snow White: The Whore Years.

And it doesn’t stop there. My costume last night was apparently “candy robot,” because that’s exactly what I felt like as the kids came one after the other in a steady stream and I mechanically reached into my brimming bowl and dumped a handful into each open bag. Most of the kids were fairly polite, but when one particular boy came to my door, my costume changed into “grouchy old woman.” As I leaned forward to drop some candy into his sister’s bag, this boy (probably about eight or nine) nudged her over and began reaching into the bowl for himself, shouting “I want that one!” I instantly snatched the bowl out of his reach. “Hold on a minute,” I said blocking his greedy hand. “How about you just wait and let me give you some candy?” “I want that one!” he shouted again, and moved as if to grab at the bowl again. I (gently) smacked his hand down and informed him, “You’ll get what I give you.” I picked out the smallest piece of candy I could find and dropped it in his bag. No John 3:16 from me—just the harsh Halloween lesson that you don’t always get what you want, sonny, so suck it up.

At that point, I was ready to be done. Stupid kids with their inappropriate costumes and grabby, ungrateful hands. Stupid Halloween that justified them. And just then, a girl in a clown costume that looked both clumsily and painstakingly made came walking up the sidewalk to my porch. She smiled shyly behind her plastic red nose and touched her rainbow-colored afro wig self-consciously. “Happy Halloween!” she said as she stepped onto my porch. When I gave her the standard handful, she watched it drop into her pillowcase in genuine amazement and exclaimed, “Wow! Thank you so much!” I wanted to hug her and tell her that she had just restored my faith in children, but instead I threw another handful of candy into her case and said, “Your costume looks great.” She thanked me again and practically skipped down the sidewalk.

After she disappeared around the corner, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I turned out my lights and hid out in the back room for the rest of the evening, just like old times.