It started by my parents dressing my little-baby-self up like a cowgirl or a pumpkin on October 31st, a bit of paint on the face, an outfit ensemble. We’d take photos and then get candy up and down the street, careful not to run too much or we’d get in trouble. It evolved into my own creations: goth-raver, clown, grapes, in elementary school, treading the line of being too old to trick or treat, but loving that pure youthful fun, which developed later into whatever-as-slutty-as-possible to go to the parties in highschool. Elements of all those combined costumes still remain in my Halloween dress-up etiquette.
October escapades can be lovingly tainted by the phony fears of manufactured hauntings: a man on a roof, a dark and creepy voice put-on with the aim to “freak you out.” The minor piano trickle that indicates Michael in the Halloween movies is in close proximity to your trachea, the sound playing through your head when faced with a foggy windswept street. But there are also real fears that tend to hover and linger around this time of year, the fears that embolden one to take joy in dressing up as something else, of escaping yourself for a night, and being completely free of their burden. This is why I love dressing up.
It goes even farther for me, and that is why performing is such a delight. It requires that for a night I dress up and play someone else.