Halloween Parades

Friday, October 29, 1965, started like any other bright October morning. I woke up, late as usual, but happy knowing I would have a great day in school; it had to be a great day: I was in second grade, and we were having our class Halloween party. I couldn’t wait!  

Neither my mother nor I were what would be considered “morning people,” and if I’m being honest, I’m still not a morning person, so naturally, the morning rush culminated with me rushing out the front door of our six-month old house and checking for the familiar yellow bus which was rolling down the street, getting close to my corner stop.  

Oblivious to how the day was about to unfold, I quickened my pace to a happy-go-lucky skip, listening to the fall leaves crunch beneath my feet and watching those that were able to escape my path fly into the air, seemingly happy to get away.  

The bus’s glaring red lights alerted me to the fact that I may have been later than usual and forced me to pick up my pace. My skipping turned into a trot, leaving more crushed leaves in my wake; I was a little more than halfway between my house and the bus when it stopped.  

The day was full of excitement. I broke into a full jog, and, for once, I was actually looking forward to going to this new school.  

Suddenly, my friend Carole’s words pierced through the crisp October air and landed on my ears, “Doretta, where’s your costume?”

My heart stopped, my feet felt like lead, and a lump arose in my throat. Pausing only long enough to judge that I was too close to the bus and too far from my house to turn back, I pressed on, knowing that my mother would be home all day and wouldn’t mind bringing it to me. 

I boarded the bus, suppressing the dread that was trying to creep into my consciousness and ruin my mood. Unfortunately, the dread was winning that battle, making the bus ride to school a tad more than unpleasant. 

Once I arrived at school, however, I realized I had made a fatal mistake by not just returning to my home and chancing missing the bus. I know my mother would have brought me to school. If I’d had any idea what was waiting for me at school, I might have just skipped the whole day; in the years since, I’ve often wished I had. 

Mrs. Smada was not what anyone would consider the “perfect” second-grade teacher. In fact, she was quite the opposite of any image I’ve ever conjured of any acceptable second-grade teacher. She was a squat, elderly woman whose granite face refused to smile. Although, if anyone pushed it, I would have to agree that she did seem perfectly placed in this ancient two-story schoolhouse with large, drafty, unadorned classrooms that housed old-fashioned cloakrooms behind the back wall: the kind that were accessible on each end through heavy doors that squealed as they were forced open and seemed to prefer to be closed since they often closed on their own when one or another of us was back there hanging up our coats. 

Every day, Mrs. Smada stood stoically at the door of our class, not sweetly greeting us the way the other second-grade teachers did, no, she stood barking orders as we entered:  

“Take your seat.”  

“Don’t dilly-dally.”  

“Prepare to begin our daily lessons.”  

Rinse. Repeat. 

Today she added, “Put the bag with your costume in the cloakroom before you take your seat.”  

When I saw her standing there, terror gripped me; I realized I was afraid to tell her, unsure of how to broach the subject of my forgotten costume. However, before I could stop myself, the words escaped and I’d asked if I could call my mother. 

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted, well, I regretted the whole day.  I regretted waking up late, so the morning was a rush. I regretted not putting my costume with my jacket, so I’d have been forced to remember it. I regretted not turning back for it as the bus approached. 

She, almost machine-like in her motions, slowly turned her head toward me; in more recent years, the creepy stares of the automatons at Chuck E. Cheese have produced the same terror that arose in me that day.

As she turned toward me, her already unfriendly countenance morphed into something almost evil. She stiffened, her eyes darkened, and I felt a chill, starting at the base of my spine, run up my back. I looked up at her, and searched her flat, joyless eyes, looking for some hint of humanity; I saw only darkness.  

“It was your responsibility to bring your costume; it is not your mother’s responsibility. No, you may not call her. You will do without your costume.”  

And that was that. 

I was heartsick wondering how this fiend could be so heartless.  

Nothing about her reaction or response felt right.

I was in second grade, and I was young for second grade: still only six years old. Should I really have been forced to shoulder that responsibility on my own? My mother was at home; I knew she wouldn’t mind bringing it to me. 

I will interject here that when I arrived home after school that day, my mother was in tears. She had discovered my costume in my room too late to bring it to me. She held me and apologized for her part in my disastrous day; I knew she’d always have my best interests at heart, and she always had my back. She was a great mom. 

All these years later, I can’t recall how slowly or quickly that morning passed. I would think the time must’ve dragged on; however, my gut is telling me that before I realized it, the now dreaded lunchtime Halloween parade was beginning.  

When the time came, the children disappeared into the school bathrooms and slipped into their costumes. As they grabbed their costumes and made their way to the lavatories, they were laughing, giggling, whispering, giddy with excitement. These were the days of full plastic masks–the kind that elicited actual sweat from glands we never knew we had, the ones with the eyeholes that never quite matched the placement of our eyes. In 1965 we were oblivious to the potential danger these masks presented. All the children in my class had masks like that, completely obscuring their identities. 

Once everyone was disguised, the boys and girls took turns parading across the front of our drab, gray classroom. First, the boys paraded while the girls tried to guess which male classmate was hiding behind which mask. There were popular-at-the-time cartoon characters like Mighty Mouse, Underdog, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck. There were live-action heroes like Superman, Batman, The Green Hornet. There were pirates, police officers, firemen. We guessed correctly, we guessed incorrectly, it didn’t matter, we were having the time of our lives. I thoroughly enjoyed that part of the party, successfully suppressing the apprehension that awaited me.  

Once the last masked marvel was unveiled, the boys took their seats, and the girls lined up across the front of the classroom. Sinking in my seat, hoping to hide from the curious stares of the others, I felt the tears start; I was suffering, fighting hard to blink them back and hold my sniffles in at the same time. Before the last girl had gotten into line, Mrs. Smada, her dead eyes glaring through me and fire spitting out of her mouth, bellowed at me from behind her desk; the sound of her monstrous voice snapped me out of my safe place and pulled me back to reality.  

“Doretta, take your place with the other girls in the front of the room. Did you think you wouldn’t be participating today just because you forgot your costume?”  

I could almost hear the glee behind her words, which cut me like a knife. The others in the class didn’t even try to suppress their amusement at my predicament. As their chuckles started, I dragged myself to my feet, glancing around. Every eye was on me. All sense of decorum faded; my tears were now flowing freely.  

Silently, head down, purposefully avoiding the eyes of my classmates, I followed her direction; she was, after all, my teacher.  

Soon, I, too, was standing in front of the boys with the other girls. To my left were princesses and butterflies, to my right fairies and cartoon characters. But there, in the midst of gaiety, stood I, unadorned, surrounded by festive costumes and giggling girls, dejected and alone, stripped of my dignity, red-faced and puffy-eyed, understanding exactly the shame the emperor felt when that young child pointed out that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. 

I was crushed, and the boys who sat scattered about the room were beastly. Not one of them showed any sign of empathy. They quickly guessed which girl was concealed by which mask. Anne was a princess; Peggy was hiding behind a Minnie Mouse mask; Lois had been dressed as a butterfly. On and on it went. With every guess, my heartbeat slowed, my tears flowed freely, and my eyes remained glued to the black specks in the gray speckled linoleum floor.  

“Why is she making me stand here? Why hadn’t she let me call my mother? How could she do this to me?” Questions filled my mind, yet I was unable to verbalize any of them.   

Too quickly those beasts had finished guessing all the girls to my right, and before I knew what was happening, they turned their horrid attention to me. 

“Hmmm, I wonder who that is!” declared Donny, hardly able to contain his joy at my humiliation. 

“It’s a pretty ugly costume, whoever it is!” chided William. The whole class, both boys and girls burst into a chorus of laughter. I cried some more; praying for it to end. 

“Oh, maybe it’s Doretta,” mocked Richard, looking at the others, seeking and gaining their approval.  

And I just stood there, frozen in time, tears streaming down my cheeks, unwilling to make eye contact, humiliated in front of my peers, wanting to run, yet unable to move, wishing I had never moved to this God-forsaken town.