Each year since the year I took the vow of ignoring
Halloween, I find myself grieving a bit more about the void left by its
absence.
A series of Halloween incidents provoked my
decision to take vows of abstinence from a holiday I adore. Beyond dealing with adults in & out of
costume holding out pillow cases for candy, beyond children & parents who
never learned to say please & thank you, one unfortunate event ruined Halloween
for Jaki Jean.
During one of the final years of Halloween at 11802
Dorrance Lane, I ran out of candy.
Although I had stocked up for weeks in anticipation of the hoards of
pirates & princesses & goblins & ghosts that are shipped into
Meadows Place, the invasion of families seeking a safe place to take their
tricksters & treaters exceeded all expectations.
Assisted by my brother John's children, I began to
extinguish the candles in the spooky luminaries lining the yard. A van stopped in front of the house & a
group of little & not so little greedy ones descended onto the sidewalk, in
search of more candy to be deposited in their already swelling bags &
pumpkins & pillow cases.
Apologizing to the expectant faces before me, I
explained that I had run out of candy & began rolling my grandmother Sims'
iron pot (which had doubled brilliantly as a cauldron for my witch costume)
back toward the front porch. The
greedy goblins turned to the adult with them for instructions.
A brief exchange occurred & the young woman in
charge followed me into the yard & halted my attempt to return my cauldron
to its proper place.
"You aren't out of candy," she stated
& I assured her that this was not the case.
I was out of candy.
She moved closer, invading my personal space
(always a big mistake), & in a voice raised several octaves & decimals,
shouted, "You don't want to give them candy because we are Mexican!"
I looked across the yard to find my niece &
nephew, halted in their retrieval of the spooky bags of sand & extinguished
candles, watching what was escalating into a scene with a crowd of onlookers.
My very beautiful & very biracial niece &
nephew. Caucasian sperm, Chicana egg –
beautiful babies.
I was incensed – a complete stranger, armed without any more
information other than I was a Caucasian woman living in a safe middle-class
neighborhood, accused me of racism, specifically a prejudice against
Mexicans. A stranger who knew nothing of
my background or my beliefs or my family.
I wanted to scream out Are you fucking kidding me? Look at these
children with me.
Instead, I told her to get off my property.
OK, I
probably told her to get the fuck off my property or I would call the police.
She moved to the side walk, emitting forth a series
of expletives in Spanish, as if I did
not recognize the meaning of puta or perra
or coño.
Then a Meadows Place police car cruised slowly by
& my accuser gathered her goblins into the van, pausing long enough to give
me the finger.
The children & I went back into the house to
watch movies, gorge on candy & eat the feast I left for us on the kitchen
table.
Although I tried for several years after The Night of the Living Accusation, Halloween
was never quite the same. So I stopped
decorating, stopped carving pumpkins, stopped buying massive quantities of
candy & goodies.
But every once in a while, during the weeks leading
up to the event, something hits me right in the center of the note & I long
for another evening of princesses & pirates & ghosts & goblins.
This year, that something is Mummy Dogs.
Little creepy creatures created with crescent rolls
& hot dogs & eyes of mustard drops.
And I want a Halloween before The Night of the Living Accusation.
I want a night of luminaries & carved pumpkins, a table laden with Eye of Grapes, Queso dotted with bits of spicy brain salsa, finger(ling potatoes) for dipping, bowls of nuts & goldfish, too many cookies, and Mummy Dogs.
I want to open the door, distribute yummy candy &
once again have a wizard point to the sign next to the door stating Potions Sold Here, & with a smile & a twinkle in his eyes,
request:
"I'd
like a potion, please."
Mummy Dogs hit right at the center of the note of longing.
