Of Costumes and Confusion

I am fairly certain that I have a faulty gene. That part of human nature that tells us to go with the flow, ANY flow, seems to have backfired in me. I delight in the strange and unknown. I am talking genuinely different, caused more by a random set of occurrences, such as watching more British TV than American, never liking dolls, and refusing to listen to Britney Spears. Did I mention I always thought Pokemon was stupid and never owned a gameboy? Perhaps now one might understand why when it came to choosing Halloween costumes, the usual favorites and popular new costumes never occurred to me, resulting in far more, “Wait, what are you?”s than any child, even one as strange as me, would care to hear.

For as long as I can remember, when it came to the annual costume, I refused to go with any of the old standbys. Or a pre-made costume, for that matter. If I was dressing up, I was to make it myself (with a little help from my grandmother and what I thought to be a magical sewing machine). My preschool costumes were relatively normal: I can remember being Mulan at the age of five. It was not until first grade hit and I was first exposed to British television that things began to go awry. Somehow the first seasons of a campy '60s spy show known as “The Avengers” made it into our house. Upon watching the first episode, I was in love. So naturally it followed that I would be none other than the lovely Emma Peale on October 31st and everyone would think me a clever young thing. When I arrived at school dressed in all black, I was immune to the confused stares that followed me through the room. No one but my British-born teacher knew who I was, and she only after I revealed my identity. Despite being asked 26 times my character, it never occurred to me that Halloween costumes were not much fun if no one knew who you were.

By age nine, I had become a most avid reader, so of course my costume was to be of a literary nature. Even at a tender age, I had a sense of cultural snobbery. Anyone would find my representation of a “doran” from the little-know book Wise Child far superior to the average witch or ghost. I wore a homemade green cloak and stole a breadbasket from the cupboard which I filled with herbs cut and carefully dried from our garden. Again, the confused stares met my gaze, but they could not penetrate the superior feeling of using a literary work as inspiration. It was not until seventh grade, with Halloween again rolling around that my view of dressing-up changed. I was listening to my parents discuss with my aunt and uncle costume parties of old. During a discussion of individuals, my aunt said something that changed my life: “Having a costume where no one knows what you are is just so… so… dumb.” I could feel my cheeks burning as I remembered Emma and the doran. With new resolve, I decided to be something that everyone would know. What did I do? I went, of course, to “Mad Magazine” and decided to be a character from Spy v. Spy. And not just any character. The one female character, The Grey Spy, who exists only twice in the history of the strip. With my costume complete, even down to the fedora and pumps, I was shocked that no one could figure out who I was.

To this day I can’t be anything normal. I no longer go with the shockingly obscure – “The Avengers”, a doran – only the moderately. I still refuse to be a ghost or witch, and derive a strange pleasure from leaving people stumped. Whether it be my up-bringing or biology is still a mystery.