Why Halloween Is Not an Inclusive Holiday for Disabled People— Or At All
Me and my sister dressed up for Halloween one year.
No one was maybe more excited for this past Monday to be November 1st than I was. I feel this way every year because November 1st means getting past my least favorite holiday, Halloween. Let me be candid: I hate Halloween. I know that I am probably in the minority on this and I’m okay with that.
It was not always this way. When I was a kid, I got as excited about Halloween as everyone else did—all of the dressing up, the candy, and the parties. I'm including a picture of me and my sister dressed up when I was around 7 years old in this post. She was a gypsy and I was a pirate. I think what I loved most about my pirate costume was the stuffed parrot.
As I got older, I started to examine why I evolved into such a Halloweenie. Some of the answers are based on my personality. Others, however, are rooted in my identity as a disabled person. Some of the personality aspects are things like I don't like scary movies, haunted houses, or kids in costumes. Some people think kids in little costumes are so cute. Not me. I didn't even think they were cute when I was one of them. Oh, and did I mention that I don't like anything pumpkin, either?
If I had to pick one thing about Halloween I liked as a kid growing up, it was that we got to have a party in our classroom (which meant we didn't have to do work) and did art projects instead. But even with that, while some kids were making ghoulish ghosts and goblins, I was making the friendliest looking black cat I could imagine.
As far as how my dislike for Halloween connects with my disabled identity, I think it centers around one story in particular. Perhaps I internalized the experience at the time and didn't realize it until years later. I don't think it would have changed my other feelings about Halloween, but it certainly didn't help me grow fonder of the occasion.
I was around ten years old and just getting to the point of being "too old" to go trick-or-treating, but still young enough to justify collecting free candy from the neighbors. I was with a friend of mine from school, and we were going around her neighborhood. As most adults do when a handful of costumed children approach their stoop with open bags at the ready, she proceeded to validate each of our disguises by calling out what each child was. One by one, as she reached for her next piece of candy she would say things like, "Oh, you are a great Bat-Man" or, "Oh, what a wonderful Princess you are!" and of course, "Don't fright too many people with that scary mask on!"
And then she got to me: "Oh, Quasimodo! How original!" My heart sank. My friend froze. Neither of us said a word. At the time, I didn't even know the story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The only thing I did know of it was the central character, Quasimodo, and I can assure you, that is not what my costume was that year. Whatever it was, it obviously wasn't convincing enough to not be mistaken as a deformed fictional character from a Nineteenth-century novel.
While I don't recall all the exact specifics of that moment, what is seared into my memory is how the moment made me feel. I think that my age didn’t help either. Pre-teenhood is such a delicate time in a maturing child's life, and I was no exception. I wanted so badly to fit in and just be like all the other kids. My disability already made me different in so many ways. Navigating these differences in my various peer groups and social settings was always a pioneering event. Ultimately, the process of learning that what made me different also added value to my life took a lot of hard work, loving support, and deep intentions of self-love. This work has never stopped. Nonetheless, that was the last year I went trick-or-treating.
Beyond my personal misgivings about Halloween, I have also come to see it as a not very universally inclusive holiday. One aspect of Halloween is wearing a costume to get attention for looking different—intentionally. Yet, anyone with a visible disability that makes them look, or act, different, is getting that (frequently unwanted) attention all the other 364 days of the year.
Halloween is also laced with pranks and inside jokes. It's the acceptable day of the year to hide in the bushes and jump out and scare people. I'll never understand why frightening someone witless is so hilarious. On the other side of someone doing a prank is a person who is being mocked or ridiculed—perhaps trembling inside, yet expected to laugh it off for fear of looking like a "wimp" or a "cry-baby." How is this all in good fun?
Lastly, there is what I call the "lifestyle" of Halloween and the economy that goes along with it. Even if a disabled person likes Halloween, they may not be able to decorate their house, either because they can't physically do it or can't afford the decorations themselves. Likewise, candy isn't cheap! Disabled or not, many people today simply can't afford to spend the extra money to buy candy to hand out to strangers.
Do I have judgment for anyone who does like Halloween? Of course not. To each their own. I also understand why some people may think I'm just being too sensitive. "Lighten up," they would say. And, perhaps they are right about that too. But I have a feeling that I am not alone in my dislike of Halloween. After all, we Halloweenies have to stick together.