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I Won’t Let the Pandemic Take Halloween's Magic Away From My Family

From Woman's Day

I’ve always loved Halloween. Part of this love stems from the fact that I was a theater kid, and Halloween was the one day where dramatics were accepted — even encouraged — off-stage. But the majority of my love is intrinsically intertwined with my passion for crafting. Both my parents believed in DIY, so from the time I was a tot I was encouraged to imagine and create new worlds (usually by ransacking my mother’s voluminous craft closet).

So, as you can imagine, I put a lot of prep work into Halloween. I spend the summer brainstorming, and by September I’m in maker mode: knitting, sewing, and painting during my spare time. I try to use whatever materials I have on hand, whether that means turning old pillowcases into Sally’s patchwork dress for my Nightmare Before Christmas costume or making a Moaning Myrtle costume out of a spare toilet seat my father dug out of the garage. When my daughter was born, I was thrilled for a number of reasons, but especially for the chance to make more costumes. On November 1, 2019, I started planning for the next year, the year she’d finally be old enough to trick or trick and experience the magic of the holiday.

Unfortunately, last year’s next year because this year, 2020, a year that has upended all my ideas of looking forward. Between the COVID-19 pandemic, social uprisings, and environmental disasters, it’s been near impossible to plan anything. And not knowing when things will return to “normal” is an uncertainty that affects all aspects of life — including Halloween.

I know it’s such a tiny thing to be sad about, especially when compared to the daily headlines. I know it’s a privilege to have any spare brain cells to think something as trivial as Halloween celebrations. But it’s still another grief, albeit a small one, in a year of unending grief. Halloween is another normal, mundane aspect of our pre-COVID lives that will be upended by coronavirus.

Photo credit: Jami Nakamura Lin
Photo credit: Jami Nakamura Lin

When I came to terms with the fact that the long-awaited first trick-or-treat wasn’t going to happen, at least not in the traditional way, I wasn’t sure if I should even make a costume. It seemed like a lot of work at a time when both time and energy are in very short supply. Was it a good idea to promise her a costume, I wondered, when I hadn’t even gotten up the gumption to pluck my eyebrows since April?

But then I realized how much I needed something to look forward to. Most of the things I get excited about didn’t happen this year. Vacations were canceled, trips were pushed back. Even the small things I’d once looked forward to — taking my daughter to the children’s museum — are no longer possible. In this world, every day looks exactly like the next, with nothing to break up the monotony. Except for Halloween. Every year it’s the one bright spot in autumn, a season I don’t particularly enjoy. And so I’ve decided to let it still be the one bright spot in an autumn that looks to be unlike one we’ve ever known.

Since resuming my annual maker mode, I’ve also realized how much Halloween and the costume-making process is steeped in family for me. My parents didn’t love Halloween themselves, but they always lent their sewing and building expertise to my sisters’ and my costumes. In 2017, my sisters threw a Steven Universe-themed party, and though neither of our parents knew anything about the show, they spent considerable time helping all of us assemble our props. The fact that the party happened a few months after we learned my father was dying made it even more special.

I realize now that under every Moaning Myrtle toilet seat lurks a ghost. In my case, the ghost is the memory of my dead father, who, like my mother, taught me to treasure making things with my own two hands. He taught me to take joy in the process, not just in the outcome. So yes, I’m sad that I can’t take my almost-2-year-old trick-or-treating for the first time this year. I’m sad that any Halloween celebration she’ll have will be watered down and likely alone, unless our suburb comes up with some safe socially-distanced alternative. But Halloween will still exist, even if it means asking my mom and sisters to set up in the rooms around our house so my daughter can experience the joy of knocking on the door and saying “Trick or Treat!” Even in a pandemic, I can still share my love of Halloween with my daughter. More importantly, in this uncertain time, I can share with her what my family taught me — how to make, and how to make do.


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