When I think of Halloween in Farmington, Connecticut, the first word that comes to mind is “cold.” Year after year, that wintry chill would set in just in time for the holiday, forcing me to wear puffers over my princess dresses. Plummeting temperatures meant puffs of visible breath and paralyzed fingers under pink woolen gloves, pouncing for treats with a distinct lack of precision.
In adolescence, cold took on a different meaning. Those years seemed defined by uncertainty. My Halloweens moved indoors, away from candy and trick-or-treating and into living rooms, where the pressure to fit in made the chill of what they call “northern manners” feel more acute than ever before. My fingers were numbed by liquor, rather than the cold, and my costumes were shrouded not by puffer jackets but by a sense of inadequacy.
And yet when I think back to my Farmington Halloweens, when I reach for memory and not for analysis, I do not think of the cold. I do not taste the liquor or feel the chilling anxiety of the invisible race with my peers. Actually, what I remember is warmth. My high school best friend’s laughter as we stepped into our costumes. The tenderness with which I held her hair when she got sick from too much drinking that night. The brief kindling of hope as I waited anxiously for my big brother to invite me to whatever party he was going to. The matching skirts my mother sewed for my middle school best friend and me, and the warmth of her hands as she zipped my jackets over my childhood costumes, even as I pouted and whined that no one would be able to see my princess dress. I remember my father dressing as a chef when I was eight because I wanted to be a cake, and my brother straightening his curls at thirteen because he thought it would suit his pirate costume better. These moments seemed inconsequential at the time, but together, they’ve made even my coldest Halloweens feel warm in retrospect.
My parents stay home on Halloween now. I haven’t seen my brother’s costumes in years, and my high school friends celebrate with people I’ve never met on campuses I’ve never been to. I don’t think I’ll celebrate another Halloween in Farmington, Connecticut. It’s a place that I’ve outgrown, even if some of the people it gave me continue to grow with me.
In the year since I left that town, I’ve become more certain of who I am and who I want to be. I’ve found community, made and lost friends, and shocked myself with my own resilience through it all. I’ve seen myself reflected in my coursework, allowed it to illuminate my passions and refine my intellect, and familiarized myself with independence. And yet life here is not free from that familiar uncertainty; perhaps it’s just a fixture of youth. As Halloween draws near, I find myself returning to questions I thought I would’ve left in Farmington, feeling the chilling pressures of the who, when, and where. These social pressures mount as I scramble to plan costumes, pregames, and decide which parties to attend—they are indifferent to my newfound sense of self.
As these questions dominate my thoughts when my mind wanders in lecture, I ground myself in the knowledge that they probably won’t be what I remember when these fleeting years have passed. One day, as I’m zipping my own daughter’s puffers, I suspect I’ll think not of the uncertainty I felt in these formative years but rather of the warmth that hides in their crevices. Perhaps I’ll remember skipping home from LEO late-night with a friend, or my suitemate’s arms eagerly pulling me into a hug as I stepped into the party. Whichever memory may stand out, I know that I am currently living the moments that will characterize my nostalgia when the word Yale becomes a distant memory.
