For the past few days, I have been trying to decide if I would write a Halloween post. I’ve decided against it because I don’t feel like I would be adding anything that hasn’t been said ad nausaeum. Also, one of my biggest values is using my platform to promote other peoples’ platforms. That said, here are a few posts that caught my eye and could teach a few lessons:
Feeling like a flustered child when I see you with already pale face painted in sugar skull patterns, your up-do, your poufy dress, a complete costume that means nothing to you but “creative expression” and a chance to win Best Halloween Makeup. My mouth can’t produce the sentences to explain, to deconstruct the anguish I feel at your nonchalance and your sense of entitlement. It comes so easy to you. There are no questions, no grappling with intricacies of history or context or the mark of colonization on your body. But if I scream, if I walk up to you and let you know what I’m really thinking, I am painted as the irrational, violent one.
I’ve never been a fan of Halloween, and it isn’t for any reason besides that I am pretty indifferent about rocking costumes and I’m lazy. That’s it. But, I didn’t mind the holiday because it can be amusing to see what people come up with. Now, I’m ready to place Halloween in the “HATE” box. SO. MUCH. BLACKFACE! There are too many pictures floating around of college students, adults, fashion designers, random ingrates who decided that their costumes weren’t complete without the use of black or brown paint to change their skin color. AND MY SOUL IS BOTHERED TO THE CORE. The fact that we still gotta tell people “Hey bro. Don’t do that blackface thing” in 2013 is mind-boggling. MIND. BOGGLING. What the hell is wrong with people??
I pulled a “Naughty Native” costume out of its plastic sleeve. The skimpy patch of fabric, shredded at its bottom inch, was embellished with red and blue plastic beads. A limp headband and choker rounded out the look. Freshly embedded in grad school, I burst with guts and gumption. To hell with this costume, I thought. I was going to buy it. I was going to wear it, and I was going to make a point. I can’t recall what that point was, and I fail even when trying to fabricate one and impose it on the past. I do remember I was giddy about my rabble-rousing machinations, hoping my friends would catch the costume’s wink. I was going to have to get it in XL, and I was definitely going to be wearing it over leggings.
In case you aint a reader, head to YouTube so Chescaleigh can give you a good run down.