Catch Me When I Fall

I am a big fan of Halloween. It's the closest I will ever get to understanding the thrill of being a theatre kid. I like that, for one day, we all get to suspend reality and dive into our make-believe worlds. Want to be a crab headed for a seafood boil? Today is your day. We should, however, all consult Kinsey on why we feel the need to sexify everything for Halloween: sexy onion. If you can pull it off, that would be good for you, but I fear there will be a psychological study in your future. Moving on.

I like Halloween’s sweet, innocent form; I even enjoy a fun, harmless fright. I once lived in a neighborhood that received alot of trick-or-treaters, and I loved it. I would decorate my house, complete with scary lights and music. The kids thought I was cool. One of my favorite memories is of this little girl who came to my door and said, "I remember your house from last year! When I grow up, I am going to have a house just like this for Halloween." This little girl gave me one of those moments that exemplified the magic and possibility of care and community. Halloween is a portal in this way.

But portals aren't all made equal.

Then there's the other side of the holiday. When I worked in commercial radio, we gave away tickets to a haunted house that required a health waiver. This place was so over the top that they warned people with heart conditions to avoid it. I always wondered why people would choose—better yet, pay—to experience bone-shaking, blood-curdling fear. It never made sense to me. As I've seen, read, and experienced it, life already provides enough jumps and frights; I don't need to pay an insane clown to heighten my awareness.

When I've asked people who enjoy haunted houses what the point was for them, the answer seldom changed: the fear is the point. It wakes them up, challenges their nervous systems, and makes them feel alive.

The fear is the point.

This last week, I've thought a lot about haunted houses as I've entered one against my will. Our country is inside a house of mirrors, faced with the demons of our past, the monsters of our present, and the kind of dark forces the future has yet to imagine. Whoever designed this hall of frights is at the top of their game. I've felt every inch of my body tense as I've witnessed the horrors lurking around every corner. My heart has pounded as the amalgamation of the unknown meets the wildest parts of my imagination, all solidifying around this country's unatoned soul and what that might conjure. I've searched for the emergency exit—quieting my news alerts, decreasing my time online, resting in the safe parts of the haunted experience—and yet, IT finds me. Over and over.

The fear is the point.

The architects of this haunt built it to knock you down and keep you down, filling you with so much idle fear you dare not move—particularly into action. The whirlwind of atrocities makes you feel stuck, paralyzed, as if your feet are in quicksand. The more you fight it, the more you sink. Which way do you turn? Which monster do you fight? Are they coming for me? What was that scream? Why are they running? Should I be running?

The fear is the point.

Then it hit me: most people don't go to haunted houses alone. In fact, most go in groups or find their people along the way because there is safety in numbers. What you fear, another might not. What you know helps the group navigate the dark hallways. Community is our way out.

Fuck fear. Build community.

Okay. Let's imagine ourselves getting out of this place.

We come together to figure our way out of the wretched hall of horrors, knowing that no one person can do this alone. No heroes are here; everyone is a bit scared and a little off-center. Yet, we all make it out together because everyone does their part—even if that means closing your eyes, holding on tight, and sending hope to the ones brave enough to lead the way with eyes wide open.

Do your part.

The way out is through, but you don't have to take this walk alone.

Community is the point.