2024-10-31 00:25:02
Last weekend, my sketch comedy group traveled to Yale University. Our three-hour drive down I-91 transported us from the nearly-bare trees of New Hampshire to the bright orange leaves of New Haven, Conn. When we arrived, towering Gothic buildings bathed in the early evening light cast shadows on cobblestone paths. Police and ambulance sirens echoed in the distance.
After meandering through campus, we climbed up a spiral staircase and reached the dorm we’d be staying in — a warmly-lit suite with dark wood crown molding, a fireplace and high ceilings. As I unfolded my sleeping bag and set it on the couch, my gaze drifted to a chair in the corner. There sat a plush bulldog sporting an odd-looking plastic knife covered in fake blood. As I looked around the room, I noticed dozens of tiny bat stickers scattered across the walls, framed by orange pumpkin string lights. These decorations reminded me of the ones my mom would put up at home when I was younger: skeletons on all of the doorknobs, ghost decals plastered on the front windows and a bucket filled with assorted candy in the kitchen. Halloween would fill every corner of our house, with the glow of fake candles flickering in every room. In this room at Yale I felt engulfed by the same holiday spirit.
When I returned to my dorm room in Hanover a day later, I dropped my bags and looked over at my own Halloween decorations — a mere two plastic pumpkins from CVS, perched on my dresser. My dorm had all the personality of the pathetic metallic Christmas trees in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” They were a last-minute purchase among my haul of laundry detergent and shampoo; I only considered buying them because they happened to be right above the shelf with body wash. I stared at them, two little orange check marks of celebrating the holiday. Just last year, I would drag my friends to get pillows or candles, but somewhere along the way, other commitments started to take priority.
Unlike the winter celebrations, Halloween isn’t the kind of holiday that pushes its way into our lives through a month of catchy songs on the radio or endless TV commercials. Instead, Halloween hovers in the background. Aside from the occasional “What are you being for Halloween?” remark from my friends or fake cobwebs for sale at drugstores, there’s no pressure to have the perfect costume, just one that serves for a night. And, as I’ve gotten older, the pressure to buy in has also decreased — transforming into Halloween is a personal choice. Halloween could look as mundane as deciding not to go out, instead staying in to watch a movie or two. Even at its peak, the holiday only involves as much work as planning a few costumes.
On Saturday night, I found out about a Halloween party only a few hours before it started. With limited time, I decided to dress up as a Magic 8 Ball because I was already wearing a black tank top and my friend had some paper to spare in her dorm. As I stuck my homemade “8” to my shirt, it felt like I was giving Halloween an appropriate, nonchalant nod. But when I arrived at the party and my vision adjusted to the dark basement, I saw a sea of students elaborately dressed up as everything from vampires to princesses to Spice Girls. I looked down at my makeshift outfit and wondered when I’d stopped caring enough to put in that extra effort that came seemingly without question to others.
In high school, my friends and I often set aside time for festivities. On brisk October days, I’d put on a jacket and walk down my street to make cookies at my friend’s house, then huddle in her basement under some blankets and put on a scary movie. We’d spend the month making costume lists and cross out the ideas that didn’t pass muster. And early on the night of Halloween, we would hand out candy to younger kids in costumes before getting dressed up ourselves.
But at Dartmouth, it feels like there’s hardly any time for celebration. There’s always something else I “should” be doing. If you spend a day indulging in Halloween fun, you inevitably fall days — if not weeks — behind in your classes. There is hardly any time to save for yourself, let alone a fleeting holiday. This Halloween, the time I would be workshopping costumes with friends has instead been consumed by scarier things — late nights in the Class of 1902 Room perfecting essays; balancing my old friendships from last year with new ones; squeezing in naps when I have an extra half hour.
Yet, thinking back on my experience this fall, I’ve realized that intentionality with small events, like Halloween, is what helps us stay grounded. Working on a costume or carving a pumpkin is a way to pause and appreciate the moment. It’s a reminder that fall only happens once a year and that we can’t let another season slip away just because of our stresses and obligations. So, this Halloween, take an extra minute, even in the smallest ways: eat that candy, hang some paper bats and play Halloween music while you study. Make this holiday more than just a four-day stress over last-minute costumes. Opting in, even just a little, is a way to carve out space for joy and create moments of normalcy during a hectic term. Among the stress about essays and midterms, these traditions anchor us to the present and help bring back sparks of joy.
