<< Back 10/30/02 Halloween’s geopolitical overtones are downright spooky By Jay Hardwig This weekend, I took Eli to get his first pumpkin. First shoes, first steps, first opposite-field double — few, if any of these, can match the majesty of first pumpkin. Eli treated the moment with proper reverence, inspecting the available pumpkins at the Farmer’s Market with care and industry before selecting a small squat beauty to call his own. He carried it back to the car with fatherly pride; beaming, he told us it was a happy pumpkin. We were relieved. We asked Eli what his pumpkin was named, and he told us it was “Smacaroni.” We were not surprised: this is the name of many things in his life. More than anyone I know, Eli is surrounded by Smacaronis. The Asheville Smacaronis have proven to be a far-flung and disparate clan, and among those so named are not just butterflies, teddy bears, and imaginary friends, but also pieces of twine, lonely marbles, and a long-since-eaten Graham cracker. Now we add a pumpkin to their numbers. We may not have the heart to carve Smacaroni Pumpkin. The Buying of the Pumpkin was, in fact, Eli’s third encounter with the Idea of Halloween. (So far he has found it to be an excellent idea). His first encounter with Halloween was the Buying of the Costume, an exercise in which the Imaginary met the Economic to the tune of $15: Eli thus became Eeyore, patron saint of somber donkeys, and was happy to play the part. His Second Encounter with the Idea of Halloween was the Explanation of Trick or Treat, and it is safe to say that Eli was astonished to learn the particulars. Those particulars — that one day soon kids across the country will be knocking on people’s doors and getting a very large amount of free candy — have always inspired delight in the Young Among Us, and Eli proved no exception. I have said before that everything seems possible in the 2-year-old mind, but I don’t believe that Eli had dared to even dream of such an event. He literally giggles at the very thought of it. Now he had his pumpkin — the Third Encounter — and a half-hour later we were preparing for the Fourth: a genuine Halloween Party. Granted, it was five days early, but it gave the kids a chance to try out their costumes and, where needed, to refine their technique before Thursday’s big event. Swathed from head to toe in a gray polyester jumpsuit, Eli walked proudly out the door, with ears and a tail and a mane attending. I felt a familiar twinge of jealousy at Eli’s stylistic freedom; he had, once again, pulled off with aplomb an outfit that I could not begin to wear. It is a sad truth of aging that the range of acceptable clothing diminishes; once we are past the age of 4 it is no longer so easy to wear bright green onesies or corduroy overalls or outfits with tails attached, and on most days we have to be out of our jammies before lunch. Eli was not the only kid unashamed to wear polyester; we arrived at our pumpkin party to find a veritable flame-retardant menagerie, a grand collection of creatures real and imagined, running the gamut from bears to squaws to cowgirls. Eli was impressed and delighted: “Lucy is a giraffe!” he told me happily, a strong hint of wonder in his voice. It was as if she had revealed not just a costume but a secret power, forcing him to reconsider his whole image of her. She was not just a girl, but a giraffe: things could never be the same. The random assortment of costumes led to some interesting battles: the chief rivalry of the afternoon pitted Darth Vader against Buttercup, a Power Puff Girl of particular venom. He had the Force, she claimed to have “Eye Power;” it was quickly evident that the issue of supremacy had to be settled and settled soon. Buttercup initiated the hostilities by giving him the Evil Eye — and believe me, it would have overpowered many a weaker foe — but she was quickly dispatched with a few threatening swings of Vader’s plastic light saber. Thus she learned a lesson that the Aborigines, the Apaches, and the Kurds all learned in their time: even the noblest show of steely resolve is no match for superior firepower. As I scraped out the seeds and strings from my own pumpkin, I considered whether other key themes of social geopolitics were being recapitulated right there in our neighbor’s backyard. Surely the wide-eyed white rabbit stumbling gamely among the superheroes could stand as a metaphor for something doomed and innocent; the speed with which the filigreed cupcake platter fell before the yawning maws of the next generation might speak to the fate of delicacy in an era of conspicuous consumption. Any true student of public affairs would have found some correlation in those tall and quiet types who stood on the sidelines and Wore No Polyester, yet had the ultimate authority to grant or withhold cupcakes, candy corn, and extended bedtime privileges. Finally, in a nod to the Age of Empire, who couldn’t sympathize with the Noble Pumpkin, the quiet, unassuming, and rather lumpy little gourd who only wanted to be left alone and instead found itself savaged, disemboweled, and mutilated for the so-called “fun” of the ruling classes? Yes, the lessons lay as thick as pumpkin guts on this patch of Halloween Ground, but few of us cared to notice, preferring the gentle allure of cheese puffs and alcoholic cider to the steely rigors of intellectual pursuit. As such, it was another triumph for the status quo, but with the weekend off, cold beer in the fridge, and college football on the television, I myself was disinclined to acts of subversion. Of course, there is a way in which Halloween itself is an act of subversion, albeit rather mainstream and commercial as far as subversion goes. But think of it: a night of mystery and guile, when skeletons dance and furry beasts rule the block, a night quite unlike the others in our lives. If it were proposed, brand new, in this often safe and sterile world of ours, it would never stand a chance. And yet here it is. The rituals surrounding Halloween are good ones, and I feel grand knowing that Eli will grow up participating in this annual parade of imagination, indulgence, and, yes, a touch of gentle witchcraft. If there is one aspect of Halloween that I hope Eli does subvert in his time, it is the escalation of genuine fear. I speak here not of the fear surrounding Haunted Houses and slasher flicks, but of fear that there’s a razor blade in your apple, fear that there is danger in darkness, the fear of someone who looks a little different from oneself. Kids seem to know that Darth Vader is a product of our imagination, and that his light saber is in fact powerless to do real harm; we adults sometime forget how strong our imagination can be, and cower before self-made bugbears and hobgoblins until we are the ones afraid to go out at night. To that I say boo, and I hope I always will. (Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher who lives in Asheville. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)