Trick-or-Treat

I’ve always loved Halloween. The spook, the glitter, and everything in between. I started loving it even more as I turned into a teenager, when I started exploring more of the world around me and began to discover rituals, beliefs, and legends that belonged to the holiday. Something about exploring history makes me feel a little bit closer to humanity, you know?

With my love of Halloween, you might imagine, I went Trick-or-treating for almost as long as I possibly could. I adored it as a little kid and my love only grew as a pre-teen when, painfully weird and often called out on it, I used it as one of the rare opportunities to be myself with little repercussion. I can remember going out with my friends at 14 or 15, our only costumes pink sleep onesies with footies. We wandered around the closer neighborhoods on our own, getting into 15 year old debauchery like petting dogs and shrieking at small children from trees. Candy was only a bonus at that point.

But I can also remember my last trick-or-treat. I had convinced myself that I was too old to go trick-or-treating, so I was convinced to go at the last minute by my friends. I did not grow up in the kind of household that could procure last minute costumes with money, certainly, but I had a certain creativity and resourcefulness--plus a mother that had a tendency to hoard. Between all of that, putting together a spur of the moment costume was EZ PZ. Some flowy skirts, large dangling hoop earrings, and ethereal (or probably just frizzy--give my memory a break) hair and I was ready to go; my costume as a goddess was as good as it was getting and I was feeling pretty good.

And it was good! For a while, my friends and I just wandered in the crisp fall air (before the terrors of climate change had made themselves QUITE so obvious), knocking on doors that looked like good gettings and just generally having a good time. It was still fun, to be honest, and I was glad I had come. As the hours kept coming and the night got darker, the crowds started to thin out, smaller kids taken inside by tired parents and houses were starting to run out of candy. A few continued, though, and finally we came to a door. I knocked, and when someone answered, it was a man.

“I can see a treat right here.”

I giggled uncomfortably. The way he said it made his meaning clear. He gave out candy and tried to chat with us but suddenly I was no longer having a good time and made my way to the back of the group..

My friends wanted to continue, but I was now oh so aware of my cleavage. My dress. My vulnerability. And so, I went home.

It wasn’t the first time I was sexualized as a child. I’d had C+ cups starting at around 12, so to some degree I was used to it--or, as used to it as any woman ever gets. But for some reason, it stands out so vibrantly to me. Was I the only one that night? (Probably not.) Why were my friends so unbothered? Why did some man think it was acceptable to make a gross comment to a kid on Trick-or-Treat night?

These days, some folks find me a little annoying, I know. I get nails deep into the trenches of feminism on the daily, always ready for an argument.

“I can wear whatever I want.” I tell my teacher who doesn’t want me to wear spaghetti straps, for some reason.

“Oh? And WHAT is being LADYLIKE, exactly?” to the older man at the grocery store that doesn’t like my swearing.

“You know, women don’t appreciate being called “females” like we’re another species.” to my friend who I thought would know better.

But I can’t help it. I remember that feeling. That I’m not the only one. And that that was my last ever trick-or-treat.