The Wake

I believe that my Halloween roots were much like any other child’s. There are photographs of me in costumes I don’t recall wearing, with other children I don’t know. I remember that my aunt and uncle would bring us to Edina to trick-or-treat, where they handed out the king-sized candy bars. I know that I was an angel, a rabbit, a Kirsten doll, a clown, and a pumpkin. My elementary school had a Halloween parade every year where the local business owners would stand outside their shops and give us goodies. Things were looking good for me in the Halloween department. Then, when I was eight, the unthinkable happened: my parents decided that we weren’t going to celebrate Halloween anymore. I was pulled out of school on the day of the class parties and the parade. I no longer dressed up or walked around collecting candy. Just like that, Halloween dropped off of my radar. The next four years can be called the “Dry Years,” because, for me, Halloween ceased to exist as a holiday, and with regards to my parents’ decision I remained puzzled but unquestioning.

This famine season lasted until I entered junior high, when I suddenly became very aware of Halloween and its absence in my life. It was a thirteen-year-old’s worst nightmare: I was different. I had a void in my holiday schedule. During the other 11 months of the year I was just like every other kid, but for October I was, in my mind, a Halloween outcast. This period is titled “The Pariah Years.” For weeks leading up to Halloween I dreaded the inevitable costume inquiries, to which I would have to reply that my family “didn’t do that”. My horror at being left out quickly morphed into a wary curiosity about this mysterious ritual and its vaguely sinister connotations. It was when I discovered horror movies that I began to develop a fascination with anything that hinted of the macabre. I lived for sleepovers at friends’ houses, those feasts of forbidden fright from which I would return home filled with guilty delight.

It was at the rebellious age of 14 that I realized what had happened as a result of the moratorium on Halloween: not only had I missed a few years, I had been cut down before my Halloween prime. I had been robbed of those crucial Halloweens between the ages of 10 and 13, when the holiday reaches its heyday. Outraged, I determined to make up for lost time by living up Halloween in truly depressing junior high fashion. Thus, I entered a third phase, christened “The Pretender Years.” I carried my costumes to school in my backpack, changing in the school bathroom, away from the disapproving gaze of my parents. It was during this time that I made my second important discovery: Stephen King. From the day I checked out Christine from the library, a terrible and sublime obsession took root in my brain - one that became the cause for a couple years’ worth of teenage angst. I stashed my books in hiding places around my bedroom, pulling them out at night to devour like forbidden cookies. I was waging a war against my ingrained morals, reading two hundred pages of Pet Sematary only to throw it down and jump into the shower in an effort to wash away the dirty feeling that sometimes overwhelmed me. This scene would repeat itself over and over during “The Pretender Years,” albeit with less frequency as time passed.

In high school, my preoccupation with horror transformed yet again; I abandoned my passive interest and began to actively seek out fear. This has manifested itself in a myriad of ways, but the end result is the same: I love to be terrified. Is this a twisted consequence of my parents’ decision to stop celebrating Halloween? Probably not, although I think that may have a small part in it. But their choice has given me a unique appreciation for Halloween, one that can only come from going without.

The lesson is simple: always appreciate this great holiday and its bounties of candy, costumes, and pure terror. Now, dear readers, I commission you to go into the world and spread the eerie joy of the season to one and all. Let the festivities commence!

Quote: Then, when I was eight, the unthinkable happened: my parents decided that we weren’t going to celebrate Halloween anymore. I no longer dressed up or walked around collecting candy. Just like that, Halloween dropped off of my radar.