Last year, I wrote this post about Halloween to give some insight into the reasons I have no time for this holiday.
Once upon a time, Halloween was about the kids. It was about children being able to dress up and rove about their neighbourhoods like little balls of buzzing excitement and anticipation, knocking on the doors of the people they lived by and receiving a handful of sweets.
If it was still about that: the apple bobbing and the pumpkin carving and the cutesy Spiderman costumes and the sense of fun and community, then I’d have no problem with this day. Hell, I’d evangelise it (Matt puts it so much better than me, so go read his post – he’s a Halloween lover.)
It’s all good and well if you live in a neighbourhood where everyone gets along and the children are well-behaved angels who smile sweetly at you in their witch costumes and hold up their pillowcases for you to fill. It’s all very well if they say please and thank you and your heart swells as you watch them run away, little heads bobbling in their cowboy costume hats. But here’s the thing:
The kids in my area are loitering, bad mouthed, racist, violent, threatening little beasts and just because it’s Halloween, I’m expected to completely forget that they keyed my housemate’s car and throw empty beer bottles onto my lawn and regularly shout out racist epithets as I walk unassuming from the station to the house. I’m just meant to be all “oh that’s water under the bridge,” go out, spend my money on sweets for these people and hand it over with a smile.
Last year, the child that threw a brick at my car as I backed out of my driveway one day, turned up at my door with a plastic mask hanging lopsidedly from his head and yelled “trick or treat!” into my face. The response that leapt to my lips was “are you fucking serious?” But because I have restraint, I just arranged my features into an expression of disdain, tossed a single lollipop into his bag and closed the door.
An hour later, a group of ten year olds told me that if I didn’t give them the rest of the stuff I’d bought for the one or two lovely children in the area (gorgeous little girl at no. 5, I’m talking to you), they’d egg my house. I had no reason not to believe them; they’d done it two years earlier, aged 8.
Then there are the teenagers who loom up behind my front door dressed head to toe in denim and Adidas and, with their jutting chins and smatterings of acne, sullenly growl “trick or treat” or, if they’ve had particularly trying days “you got any sweets, love?”
There are the adults who bring their children back around to your house if they feel like you haven’t coughed up enough out of the stash meant to last you the entire night and the entire neighbourhood. There are the drunken grown ups screaming and puking and bare knuckle boxing their way into oblivion.
But the worst part? The women that seem to think Halloween is a synonym for SLUTTY. Slutty Bees, Slutty Cops, Slutty Red Riding Hood, Slutty Teachers, Slutty Pumpkins, Slutty Hermione from effin’ Harry Potter. There are the acres and acres of exposed flesh seeing as costumes seem to get more and more slutty and less and less appropriate for such a holiday that is supposed to be all about the kiddos.
And I think if I’m honest, that’s what I hate about it: it’s just not about the kids anymore.
Still. I have bought the requisite candy for tonight and will be doling it out accordingly to the darling little girl at no. 5 and the sweet little curly-haired duo from round the corner.
And if any teenagers turn up on my doorstep, I’m punching them in the face.
So, Halloween? Love, Hate or Couldn’t Care Less?