Halloween is for Amateurs: or “Why I Don’t ‘Do’ Costumes (a Memoir)”
I remember every Halloween costume I’ve ever worn. I’m an asshole for detail, my own worst enemy, my toughest critic. I always enjoyed Halloween. I loved going trick or treating. I would obsess over my costume for weeks, an obsession many of you may have shared. I’d decide what I want to be and my dad was usually instrumental in making it so. In my earliest Halloween memory, age 2, I was a clown. My mom made that outfit, a half-red/half-white Raggedy Ann and Andy Print one-piece jumper. And my face was covered in greasepaint.
The next year, I was also a clown. Only this time I wore plastic mask, which I remember selecting from the store, and really enjoyed wearing it. (Although it may have looked a bit like the Clown Mask in ‘Halloween’)
Then I was Dracula. That probably came from watching ‘Dracula’ with Frank Langella on a mini black and white TV in our motorhome. The year I was Dracula, two things happened. One, I was scared by my preschool teacher who dressed up as a clown at our pre-school Halloween party. I was also mugged in my home for our trick or treat candy. I was 4. I was done trick or treating, and I took over the role of handing out treats to those still scavenging. The doorbell rang, and three tall, teen-age looking girls in unremarkable costumes were standing at the door. They weren’t even wearing masks. Or make-up. As I was handing a mini snickers to one, they tore the wooden bowl of candy from my hands, laughing, poured all the candy reserved for an entire evening of trick or treaters into their pillow cases and ran off, still laughing. I sobbed. Dracula. A miniature vampire victimized once more.
Then I was a haunted cowboy. This look was inspired from the opening of an episode of Star Trek, the original series. To recap, Capt. Kirk & Co. have landed on a 1960’s version of Earth, and encounter an adult male with a disfiguring ailment who perishes defending his tricycle. His pathos spoke to me and I named him ‘Haunted Cowboy’. Safeway started carrying a version of prosthetics you could apply yourself, and that’s what I wanted instead of make-up, or a mask — prosthetic appliances glued to my face: authentic, realistic, fantastic. Everyone asked me what I was. I was a haunted cowboy. They were rarely scared. Mostly confused. Someone may have even thought I was cute. Harrumph. This is not the stuff with which my nightmares are made. I wanted my face to infect their slumber. So I entered my kindergarten costume contest. Justin, from my class, was dressed up as a scarecrow. And he won. I’ll admit, his make-up was top notch. He looked very friendly. Most of my classmates looked friendly. I was the only one who dared to embody the personification of their worst fears on their face. I didn’t even place. My brother won as well. He dressed up as a clown. Wearing my hand me down clown outfit.
The next year I was Popeye. But I never felt like I was stylized enough. My costume didn’t match the image in my head. In my head I was Robin Williams (the movie version of Popeye had just come out, and I watched it non-stop.) I imagined jauntily strutting down the street with the black short-sleeved sailor shirt, complete with sailor-collar, red-detailing, and blue bell-bottoms, one-eye half-closed, practicing my maritime chuckle,‘a-gugugugug’. I had a real sailor hat, from a military uniform store we purchased on a naval base in Monterey, and a corn-cob pipe. But I wore a white dress shirt, and white pants. My sleeves were rolled up to reveal…well, the arms of a 5 year old, with anchors tattooed in sharpie.
Next came a skeleton. But not just any skeleton. A hand-painted body-suit, one-of-a-kind custom dad creation, carefully painted on me, as lay on the floor in black footed tights, and a black turtleneck. I used a half-mask that included a white drape to cover the back of my head, and grease-paint for my mouth. The cool part? If you saw me coming down the street, after dark, or caught my reflection in a window, all you saw was a dancing skeleton. I’m still very proud of that one.
I was a hobo one year, probably due to time constraints. The next year, a headless horseman, inspired by the Disney Classic. That was outstanding. Because with my outfit on, and my head hidden, I looked taller than I actually was. Seeing was challenging, but I didn’t care, because people were in awe. The head under my arm was the skeleton mask from the prior year’s skeletal endeavor, adorning a plastic army helmet for shape. And I wore authentic riding boots. I was taking horse riding lessons at the time.
In 4th grade, I started practicing magic, and so in 5th grade I went trick-or-treating as Merlin. I took my character work very seriously. I even contemplated presenting a simple feat of prestidigitation before I accepted my treats, but I determined there wasn’t enough time to fully develop a rapport with my audience at each house. My black voluminous wizard robe was sewn by my mom, and adorned with silver spray-painted stars and moons. A tall, pointed wizard’s conical cap was perched atop my whitened hair. I also sprouted a grey mustache and beard, with the aid of spirit gum and crepe hair. God I loved theatrical make-up. It was probably around that time that I seriously considered pursuing a career in make-up. Of course, I was also contemplating becoming a professional magician, a private detective, and a ghostbuster.
That pretty much took me to the end of my years of trick or treating. By the time I reached 6th grade, I had just moved to Germany, I had a scout meeting Halloween night, and there might have been an age cut-off for trick-or-treating on base. But there was the Halloween dance, earlier in the week! For that, I had my sights on Freddy Kreuger. I bought my first issue of Fangoria magazine, as a costume and make-up reference, and visited a theatrical make-up supply shop in Monterey the month before (I always seemed to be visiting my aunt in Monterey around Halloween…) where I procured my first bottle of liquid latex and nose putty. And I started working on my face. I successfully created a really nasty third-degree burn/scarred look over almost half my face, before it started peeling off. So I just went with that. I threw on my Bugle Boy long sleeve shirt, and corduroy slacks, and went to the dance as a sixth grader with a really bad burn on his face. Got a lot of attention. People really thought it was real 🙂
The following year I started volunteering at the Hahn Air Force Base Teen Center’s Haunted House. First year I was a zombie. They made me up, and I’m sure they did a great job, but I didn’t think I was gross enough. The next year I was Jason, from Friday the 13th. They provided the mask. I provided the scare tactics. I imagine I was a little short. Finally, I was Leatherface, from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I bought the mask from my favorite magazine, Fangoria. They always had a page touting the inventory of faithful movie replica suppliers. It was pretty good. A little flimsy around the neck, since it was made out of thick latex, and probably made for a bigger face — I was hoping it would have been more the consistency of tanned human flesh, but whatever.
Then came high school musicals, summer jobs at theme parks and a career where costumes became my professional apparel. I learned how a costume can magnify, or it can distract from and obscure your presence and purpose.
Did you ever feel the hands of a person through the gloves of a character at a theme park? Or the Easter Bunny at the mall? There’s a disconcerting jolt when you’re confronted with the physical pressure of a human hand inside an anthropomorphic glove. A covered hand can say things that a covered face does not communicate. It breaks a trust, a covenant, a vow, a buy in, a story.
Costumes can represent a misuse of power, a broken promise. I don’t think most people equate costumes with power.
I don’t want to inflict that on others. So I don’t ‘do’ costumes.
That’s why Halloween is for amateurs. Costumes have power and with great power comes great responsibility. I want my costumes to start dialogues and conversations, create experiences and break down the barriers that humans erect between each other to survive their daily lives. I costume myself with apparel that has the potential to:
1) imperceptibly shift power dynamics
2) communicate
3) induce giggles
4) get people to stop and look up
5) break up monotony
6) catch breaths
7) create a visual, visceral impact
8) interrupt
9) raise a ruckus
10) stylishly challenge the status quo
11) acknowledge and elevate the present moment
12) make an event out of nothing
13) shift energy
I don’t wear costumes because I like to. For me, a costume is an obligation, a statement, an external manifestation of my manifesto.
I wear a costume as an act of creation. They are a magnifier of my joy. I identify the things that spark joy in me, and then I magnify them and share them with others.
What were your favorite Halloween costumes? Lemme know.
