I Am a Spectacle

Whenever possible, that is.

As I begin this writing, it is Halloween Day. There are many clues pointing to this fact: the wardrobes at school heavily favor the color orange, my students are unable to stop chatting and have wild looks in their eyes, and a spider-topped cupcake has just been delivered to my room (teacher perk!). The most obvious Halloween Hint, however, is the fact that I am wearing my Creatures of the Night dress, skeleton earrings, and a bat-sprouting headband. We have been asked not to wear costumes as staff, since we don’t allow it for students… but this isn’t a costume. This is a dress with matching accessories. It is merely an outfit — one that happens to bring me much attention and therefore, great joy.

Predictably, Halloween was my introduction to the world of costumes. The first costume I actively remember was first grade, when our parents actually let us get those plastic Kmart costumes with masks. I was The Pink Panther and my brother was a Smurf. For the most part, however, we were encouraged to come up with ideas for homemade costumes. My brilliant mother took one of the huge boxes from a Tonka truck (the excavator, I believe), spray-painted it silver, and built me a robot costume, complete with my brother’s pilot helmet from The Empire Strikes Back. Huge boxes were often inspirational: my most (in)famous costume was in 5th grade, when I used the longest box in the world (probably 7 feet) to impress my teacher by dressing up as the Prime Meridian. True story.

One day a year was never going to be enough for me as far as dressing up as someone else. I would appear in the living room, announcing to my mother that I was currently someone else: a bluebird, perhaps (see attached photo). Someone (definitely not my mom) made me a Laura Ingalls dress, complete with bonnet — I wore the heck out of that thing. In a stroke of luck, our next door neighbor when I was very young was a talented seamstress, and when she made Batman and Robin costumes for her boys, she made a Wonder Woman one for me too. It was especially fortuitous because I had theretofore been “forced” to wear my Wonder Woman Underoos around the neighborhood to be able to impersonate my hero… and that really fell apart when I decided that, in order to portray Diana Prince (Wonder Woman’s alter ego) I would remove my shirt (all the boys did, after all) and just run around in the panties.

When I was seven years old, I made the life-changing discovery that costumes did not have to be relegated simply to Halloween. That was the year I was in my first play. I was introduced to a world where frequent costuming was not only allowed but encouraged. I didn’t get to wear my costume for just one night (in the dark, most likely covered by a winter jacket), I wore it for two whole weekends, for six total performances!

Of course, in order for people to see me in my costume (the entire point of everything) they had to attend the play. Most of my friends from school didn’t go to see plays. During the production of Annie in 1988, the powers that be thought it would be a great way to advertise the plays if we orphans went around to the area elementary schools to perform a couple of numbers for the students. (I was “Pepper,” the orphan who had the worst attitude… and the best lines.) I got to get in some mom’s car, drive across town, walk through school hallways, talk to former teachers, and perform for crowds of 300+ kids, all in costume. It was glorious.

Being in costume around “normals” is quite the buzz. It isn’t for everyone, I get that. Even more than singing a solo, it puts allllll the focus on the costumed individual, and that must sound like a nightmare to 90% of the population. I basked in the attention, the stares, the wide eyes of children. When I was 13, playing “Dorothy” in The Wizard of Oz, I was on a parade float advertising the show. Afterwards, all the main characters went to downtown Grand Rapids (the birthplace of Judy Garland) and stood on the Yellow Brick Road. Before long, I was mobbed by throngs of kids, all wanting to hug me and have their pictures taken with me. It was the best day of my life. Later, as an adult, I was in a production of Nunsense, playing “Sister Robert Anne.” My grandmother was in a rehabilitation facility at the time, so I obtained permission from our costumer to borrow my habit and go visit her. Of course, her facility was 50 miles away from the theater, so I had the hilarious experience of watching the double-takes from all the other drivers on the road as I passed them on the freeway. This was in the days immediately after 9/11, and there wasn’t a lot of random joy and silliness to be had. I felt a little bad as I was entering Grandma’s building and a man holding the door for me greeted me as if I were truly a nun. “Sister,” he said, “these are terrible times.” Not knowing how to react, I went with it. “They are,” I replied. “Pray for us, Sister,” entreated the man. I nodded, hoping to Christ he didn’t notice my Converse All-Stars and red and white striped stockings.

One of the absolute best parts of being a teacher is the wide range of opportunities to costume myself. There are Homecoming weeks, of course, but Camo Day is the tip of the iceberg as far as dress-up chances go. I have worn a tiara on many occasions, as a performer for Fancy Dining Day. Once I was called on to be a Fairy Godmother for a COVID-era, end-of-quarter celebration video. I dressed as Beverly Goldberg one year on a Halloween field trip — that was the year my son was in 4th grade, so I just kept asking him all day if he had to “make.” I bought a gold sequined skirt that was on sale because we have to dress in blue and gold every Friday, and sometimes you have to think bigger than a school-themed sweatshirt.

It comes down to this: my mom went to Harry Potter World, and bought me an actual wizarding robe so that I can feel like Professor McGonagall whenever I want. If that isn’t an example of a mother’s love, I don’t know what is.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie