The tradition that brought Halloween back from the dead

I’ll just say it: I hate Halloween.

I hate carving pumpkins: the stringy innards get all over my hands. I hate scary movies: I grew up afraid of going to hell. I don’t need anyone to remind me that there are horrors in this world. Look, I even hate candy – get rid of your funny Snickers, your Smarties and Tootsie Roll Pops. Give me a bag of salted peanuts and we’ll call it a day.

But you know what I hate most about Halloween? The costumes.

I’ve always been bad at Halloween costumes. In my earliest memories, grumpy adults and bratty children alike snorted, “What are you supposed to be?” Nothing shatters the suspended disbelief of the childish imagination like having your costume questioned.

Instead of providing a place to hide, the Halloween costume shines a light on your ghostly imperfections. All eyes on you, baby! But there were too many eyes on me in the first place. I had my parents, teachers, and the Ever Watching Presence of the Triune God watching over me. In high school, the eyes of my peers hunted me, watching for imperfections like hawks stalking prey. And there were so many imperfections! Zits, big zits, fake Doc Martens and hand-me-down American Eagle jeans. I was exhausted from the effort of not being seen. My greatest fantasy was simply to blend in with the world. To not be noticed. Be normal.

The author dresses up as a football player, with his brother in 1994 (left) and as a football fan, with his grandmother and brother in 1996 (right). (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)

And what reveals our imaginations more than our Halloween costumes? While my classmates were Spiderman, Harry Potter and Legolas the Elf, I could only imagine being someone I should have been: baseball player, football player, football fan. For a year, I just went as a man, applying my father’s shoe polish to mimic facial hair: thick mustache, full goatee, pointy sideburns—the look I’d one day sport if I was lucky. My friends went as Dracula and Darth Vader; I left as a better version of myself.

I was still going through the Halloween motions as I trudged around a bag of candy on a cool fall evening, but from photos from my mom’s scrapbook you can see my heart wasn’t in it. My brother, the ghost, squeaks with delight, my parents grin in their witch and Mrs. Doubtfire costumes – and then there’s me, forcing a smile through my shoeshine mustache, my eyes like a zombie’s, the living dead.

As an adult, I’ve succumbed to fear: the fear of missing Halloween parties. I have reluctantly put on half-hearted costumes; by stapling the label of a package of tofu to my shirt, I became “Killer Tofu” from the 90’s show “Doug.” I took off my shirt, threw a beach towel over my shoulder and went as a surfer. I drank enough beer to forget where I was, to forget it was Halloween, to forget all the “junk” I was struggling to become. I look happy in these photos. But just above my booze-fueled smile you can still see my empty, hopeless eyes. An invisible vampire, who sucks my joy like blood.

The author (far right) with friends, in 2006. (Courtesy of Raleigh McCool)

Ten years ago, I was at a terrifyingly stupid Halloween party with some friends. As we shouted over the music and wiped away the gauzy fake white spider web decor that kept falling into our beer, a spell fell over us. We all realized it at the same time.

“This party sucks, right?” I asked.

The color returned to Natalie’s ghostly white face. Jonathan took off his mask. Josh’s face rose from the dead.

“Halloween sucks,” Natalie said, “let’s get out of here.”

We rejected the creepy status quo, moved back to Natalie’s house and started our own tradition. To this day, on Halloween we watch our favorite movie, the 1989 Christmas classic “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.”

Christmas suits us. The traditions speak of a solidity, a friendship that endures. None of the devious ephemerality of Halloween, a day with one hand behind the back, devils and acts of disappearance. Halloween is for ghosting. Christmas is for showing up.

Plus, we’re in our thirties now. Halloween is a game for young people. The sweets, the late nights, the pressure to dress like the sexy Cowardly Lion. Then there’s the creepy stuff: I’m too old to voluntarily be terrified. That’s what made it so scary when I realized, “Christmas Vacation” is actually a horror movie.

At its core, ‘Christmas Vacation’ is about Clark Griswold’s manic drive to organize the perfect Christmas for the whole family. He argues with his family, decorates a tree, puts up with his in-laws, buys elaborate gifts, carves the turkey, and spends days decorating the house with lights. Clark longs for the American dream – family around the table, a backyard pool, the best lights in town – and he drags his entire family into his holiday drama, turning his dream into a nightmare.

Instead of enjoying Christmas with his family, Clark falls into fantasy: all the things he could have if he were just a little better, a little richer, a little more loved. Terror follows in Clark’s wake. The film repeatedly uses horror movie tropes to portray the absurdity of its fantasy. Clark gets stuck in the attic. A cat is burned alive. In search of a last-minute Christmas tree, Clark spins a chainsaw while wearing a Jason Voorhees-style mask.

Scary movies have monsters, and “Christmas Vacation” has the clumsy man-child Clark Griswold, the architect of terror in his neighborhood, his family, his own heart. ‘Griswold’ even sounds like the name of a monster.

Horror movie or not, our “Christmas Vacation” tradition keeps me close – a warm fire on a cold night. I like to think that I no longer allow myself to be drawn into the gloomy web of Halloween: the pressure to party, to dress up, to be someone. But all season long, Halloween lurks, its lantern eyes peering around every corner: a sweet abundance of longing, to belong, to be seen. I know I belong here on the couch with my friends, but I still get scared sometimes because the Griswold in me is willing to make a mess for a little love.

This Halloween we are at Natalie’s house. We will laugh together, not afraid to be who we are. On the way I stop at the store to pick up the egg nog. And when someone asks, “What should you be?” I might just tell them: Clark Griswold.

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