for amy
It fits the season! READ ON.
The Costume
The October of 1996 marked the end of my first year in the States as a Filipino immigrant. Unlike most kids, my early childhood was punctuated with the trials of learning a second language, and the tribulations of adapting to a new culture.
I was nearly five years old the day I discovered the wonders of Halloween. My friends and I were in nursery school at the time, engaged in a heated debate over who could fit the biggest orange peel in their mouth, when suddenly the teacher asked, “So who’s ready to go trick-or-treating tomorrow?” My companions swiftly raised their hands in response, whispering excitedly to each other between mouthfuls of citrus. What in the world was she talking about? Was it some kind of field trip? By then I spoke perfect English, but I’d never heard of trick-or-treating before, let alone Halloween. We didn’t celebrate it back home. How would I know? A concerned classmate saw that I hadn’t raised my hand and promptly mentioned this observation to my teacher.
It took me a second to realize that the whole class had gone quiet. My heart skipped a few beats. A dozen eyeballs shot daggers in my direction, boring holes into the back of my skull. When I told them I didn’t know what trick-or-treating was, they gasped, horrified. I wanted to melt into the ground. I couldn't understand why I was being singled out, and never had I been so ashamed of my own ignorance. My four-year old emotional capacity couldn’t handle it, and I started to cry.
An hour later, the entire incident was forgotten (it’s funny how forgiving we are at that age). I emerged from the ordeal a new girl, enlightened, and full of understanding about the concept of Halloween. I was enthralled with the tradition of dressing up in costumes. There was fierce competition among my friends, especially the girls. Awards would be given to the best dressed. They drew inspiration that year from the Disney Princess Collection. I imagined each of them to be clad in the finest silks and gowns, in all the colors of the rainbow, shimmering and glittering with surreal beauty just like Cinderella and Belle and Snow White. I went home that day determined to outshine them all.
Due to the last-minute situation, my mother had taken the liberty of making me a costume before I had the chance to tell her what I had in mind. On the morning of Halloween, she handed me a bundle of red cloth patterned with black polka dots, a pair of black leggings, and a headband with what looked like a TV antenna with pom poms on the ends attached to it. At that moment, I knew that I was never going to be the enchanting and dazzling fairytale princess I had so desperately imagined. My mother was always a practical woman, Halloween or not. She reasoned that this particular costume would shield me from the cold better than the sheer material of other store-bought costumes. It was either wear the one she made, or don’t go trick-or-treating at all. I chose the former.
The ribbon for Best Original Costume still hangs in my room - a lasting tribute to my mother’s handiwork.
For Halloween that year, I was a ladybug.
written October 26, 2007
The Costume
The October of 1996 marked the end of my first year in the States as a Filipino immigrant. Unlike most kids, my early childhood was punctuated with the trials of learning a second language, and the tribulations of adapting to a new culture.
I was nearly five years old the day I discovered the wonders of Halloween. My friends and I were in nursery school at the time, engaged in a heated debate over who could fit the biggest orange peel in their mouth, when suddenly the teacher asked, “So who’s ready to go trick-or-treating tomorrow?” My companions swiftly raised their hands in response, whispering excitedly to each other between mouthfuls of citrus. What in the world was she talking about? Was it some kind of field trip? By then I spoke perfect English, but I’d never heard of trick-or-treating before, let alone Halloween. We didn’t celebrate it back home. How would I know? A concerned classmate saw that I hadn’t raised my hand and promptly mentioned this observation to my teacher.
It took me a second to realize that the whole class had gone quiet. My heart skipped a few beats. A dozen eyeballs shot daggers in my direction, boring holes into the back of my skull. When I told them I didn’t know what trick-or-treating was, they gasped, horrified. I wanted to melt into the ground. I couldn't understand why I was being singled out, and never had I been so ashamed of my own ignorance. My four-year old emotional capacity couldn’t handle it, and I started to cry.
An hour later, the entire incident was forgotten (it’s funny how forgiving we are at that age). I emerged from the ordeal a new girl, enlightened, and full of understanding about the concept of Halloween. I was enthralled with the tradition of dressing up in costumes. There was fierce competition among my friends, especially the girls. Awards would be given to the best dressed. They drew inspiration that year from the Disney Princess Collection. I imagined each of them to be clad in the finest silks and gowns, in all the colors of the rainbow, shimmering and glittering with surreal beauty just like Cinderella and Belle and Snow White. I went home that day determined to outshine them all.
Due to the last-minute situation, my mother had taken the liberty of making me a costume before I had the chance to tell her what I had in mind. On the morning of Halloween, she handed me a bundle of red cloth patterned with black polka dots, a pair of black leggings, and a headband with what looked like a TV antenna with pom poms on the ends attached to it. At that moment, I knew that I was never going to be the enchanting and dazzling fairytale princess I had so desperately imagined. My mother was always a practical woman, Halloween or not. She reasoned that this particular costume would shield me from the cold better than the sheer material of other store-bought costumes. It was either wear the one she made, or don’t go trick-or-treating at all. I chose the former.
The ribbon for Best Original Costume still hangs in my room - a lasting tribute to my mother’s handiwork.
For Halloween that year, I was a ladybug.
written October 26, 2007