Trick-or-treating traumatized me for life

This Halloween weekend is the ultimate party weekend. For the most part, you have four days to do whatever you want.

You can dress up in a silly costume and party it up with friends at a house or fraternity party, only to wake up the next morning wondering why you’re in a Barney suit. Then again, for some, it might just be any other day.

Or you can cough up some cash to walk through a dark and haunted house and feel hands creeping up your skin. Then again, for some, it might just be any other day.

Or you can stay home and wait for kids to ring your door bell and say, “Trick or treat, give me something good to eat.” Then again, for some, it might just be any other day. Wait. If this is really you, then you’re a sad, pathetic person in need of timeout with the bad kids. Wait. Never mind.

But there is one thing you shouldn’t do for Halloween, an activity meant for suckers (if you want a hint, read the above paragraph again).

Illustration by Zon Petilla

Don’t trick-or-treat. Here’s why: As a kid, Halloween and Independence Day were the two most anticipated days. But it was clearly the day reserved to dress in weird costumes and say those three words that captured my childhood innocence, especially considering that looking scary could bring in free candy — which threw a wrench into my favorite quip at the time: “You’re so ugly your mama feeds you with a sling shot.”

By the time I was in the sixth grade, I certified myself as an expert.

I knew the right moment to flash my smile so I could get more candy than my brother and cousins. I knew the houses to go to, like the ones that didn’t hand out walnuts and almonds picked from their backyards.

The people in the houses we visited knocked on for treats would plant giant Snickers bars, M&Ms bags or tons of Sweet Tarts packages in our bags that I’d give later to my favorite cutie at school.

Knowing the right houses meant I led the way. But it was my sense of direction that put me on a path to the worst memory of my childhood which still haunts me today.

We were walking down a street not far from my parents’ home. I directed the group to a house where kids had to wait in line longer than the ones the University High students make at the food court down in the basement of the University Student Union.

Because of the wait, I took the time to crouch down, put my bag of goodies next to my feet and tied the shoelaces that kept me from walking house-to-house in full speed.

About a minute later, a husky high-school girl jumped down from a nearby tree like a panda, and making the Earth tremble in her King Kong footsteps, snatched my bag like a poor little child was never next to it. Then I heard her friends encouraging her to hurry up.

I tried to yell out to my crew for help, but not a word parted from my lips. My stuttering was horrible back then. I felt my heart exploding inside my body. The corners of my eyes got a little wet. My feet were too weak to even hold up the rest of my body. Then a hand rested on my shoulder.

“It’ll be OK,” my brother said, handing me his bag.

But sadness was apparent in my next three words: “But it’s not.”

My bag of candy wasn’t the only thing robbed that night. It was my childhood innocence, too.

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