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    • The tradition that resurrected Halloween
    patheur

    The tradition that resurrected Halloween

    Sakege Posted on

    I’ll just say it: I hate Halloween.

    I hate carving pumpkins: the fibrous insides stain my hands. I hate horror movies: I grew up terrified of going to hell; I don’t need anyone to remind me that there are horrors in this world. Look, I even hate candy: get out of here with your fun-size Snickers, your Smarties, and Tootsie Roll Pops. Give me a bag of salted peanuts and we’ll call it a day.

    But do you know what I hate the most about Halloween? The costumes.

    I’ve always been bad at Halloween costumes. In my earliest memories, both grumpy adults and spoiled children would say, “What are you supposed to be?” Nothing destroys the suspended disbelief of a child’s imagination more than having your costume questioned.

    Instead of offering a place to hide, the Halloween costume sheds light on your ghostly imperfections. All eyes on you, baby! But there were already too many eyes on me to begin with. My parents, my teachers, and the Ever-Watching Presence of the Triune God watched over me. In high school, the eyes of my classmates pursued me, searching for imperfections like hawks stalk their prey. And there were so many imperfections to find! Beads, big beads, knock-off Doc Martens, and used American Eagle jeans. I was exhausted from the effort I had to make to avoid being seen. My biggest fantasy was to simply go unnoticed. Go unnoticed. Be normal.

    The author dresses as a soccer player, with his little brother in 1994 (left) and as a soccer fan, with his grandmother and little brother in 1996 (right). (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)
    The author dresses as a soccer player, with his little brother in 1994 (left) and as a soccer fan, with his grandmother and little brother in 1996 (right). (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)

    And what reveals our fantasies more than our Halloween costumes? While my classmates were Spiderman, Harry Potter, and Legolas the Elf, all I could imagine was someone I was supposed to be in the first place: baseball player, soccer player, soccer fan. One year I simply acted like a man, slathering on my dad’s shoe polish to mimic facial hair: bushy mustache, goatee, pointy sideburns—the look I would one day sport if I was lucky. My friends were like Dracula and Darth Vader; I was like a better version of myself.

    I was still going through the motions of Halloween, trudging around a sack of candy on a cool fall night, but from the photos in my mom’s scrapbook, you can tell my heart isn’t in it. My brother the ghost screams with joy, my parents smile in their witch and Mrs. Doubtfire costumes, and then there’s me, forcing a smile through my icing mustache, my eyes like those of a zombie, the walking dead.

    As an adult, I have succumbed to fear: fear of missing out on Halloween parties. I’ve reluctantly donned costumes: By stapling the label of a package of tofu to my shirt, I became “Killer Tofu” from the ’90s show “Doug.” I took off my shirt, threw a beach towel over my shoulder and was like a surfer. I drank enough beers to forget where I was, to forget it was Halloween, to forget all the “selves” I was having trouble becoming. In these photos I look happy. But right above my alcohol-fueled smile you can still see my empty, desperate eyes. Some invisible vampire, sucking my joy like it was blood.

    The author (far right) with friends, in 2006. (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)
    The author (far right) with friends, in 2006. (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)

    A decade ago, I found myself sitting at a disturbingly silly Halloween party with some friends. As we screamed over the music and removed the decorative fake white spider web gauze that kept falling into our beer, a spell fell upon us. We all realized it at the same time.

    “This party sucks, right?” I asked.

    The color returned to Natalie’s ghost-white face. Jonathan took off his mask. Josh’s face rose from the dead.

    “Halloween sucks,” Natalie said, “let’s get out of here.”

    We rejected the creepy status quo, returned to Natalie’s house, and started our own tradition. To this day, on Halloween, we watch our favorite movie, the 1989 Christmas classic “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

    Christmas suits us. Their traditions speak of solidity, of a friendship that lasts. None of the torturous volatility of Halloween, a day with one hand behind the back, ghouls and disappearing acts. Halloween is for ghosting. Christmas is for showing up.

    Besides, we are now 30 years old. Halloween is a young man’s game. The sweets, the long nights, the pressure to dress like the Sexy Cowardly Lion. Then there’s the creepy stuff: I’m too old to be voluntarily terrified. That’s what scared me so much when I realized: “Christmas Vacation” is actually a horror movie.

    At its core, “Christmas Vacation” is about Clark Griswold’s manic drive to organize the perfect family Christmas. He argues with his family, decorates a tree, puts up with his in-laws, buys elaborate gifts, carves the turkey, and spends days decorating the house with lights. Clark longs for the American dream (family around the table, pool out back, the best lights in town) and drags his entire family into his Christmas drama, turning his dream into a nightmare.

    Instead of enjoying Christmas with his family, Clark immerses himself in fantasy: all the things he could have if he were a little better, a little richer, a little more loved. Terror follows Clark. The film repeatedly uses horror movie tropes to show the absurdity of its fantasy. Clark finds himself trapped in the attic. A cat is burned alive. In search of a last-minute Christmas tree, Clark revs up a chainsaw while wearing a Jason Voorhees-style mask.

    Horror movies have monsters, and “Christmas Vacation” has the bumbling man-child Clark Griswold, the architect of terror in his neighborhood, his family, his own heart. “Griswold” even sounds like the name of a monster.

    Horror movie or not, our “Christmas holiday” tradition keeps me close: a warm fire on a cold night. I like to think that I no longer get swept up in the dark web of Halloween: the pressure to party, to dress up, to be someone. But all season long, Halloween lurks, peeking its pumpkin eyes around every corner: a sweet cornucopia of longing, of fitting in, of being seen. I know I belong here, on the couch, with my friends, but sometimes I still get scared, the Griswold in me is willing to make a mess for a little love.

    This Halloween we will be at Natalie’s house. We will laugh together, without fear of being who we are. On the way, I’ll stop at the store to buy the punch. And if someone asks, “What are you supposed to be?” I could just tell them: Clark Griswold.

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    Sakege
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