It was October of 2007, with Halloween just around the corner. I had just emigrated to America with my family less than a month ago. Now, it was time for me to experience all the wonderful things America had to offer me. My aunt decided to take my band of cousins and I to go trick-or-treating since this was the first American holiday I would be celebrating. The concept of trick-or-treating blew my mind. I couldn’t believe all you had to do was knock on a door and people passed out candy for free! It felt like a dream come true, though it also seemed strange that here, in the land of plenty, begging seemed to be encouraged! We began preparations at five o’clock, aiming for six o’clock as the time we would commence this exciting journey. My aunt pulled costumes out of a Walmart bag and laid it out on the floor. There were four costumes in total, ranging from a bright green fairy to an enchanting witch. One caught my eye in particular: a pink dress adorned with a large bow tied behind the back and a poufy mesh skirt. Along with the dress, a jeweled crown, star-shaped wand, and plastic pink heels were included. Immediately, I knew that it had to be my costume.
Once the clock stroked six, we were out the doors and thrusted into the night. Although it was chilly out, I didn’t care since adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I had prepared for this moment ever since my cousin, Ngoc, informed me about the magic of Halloween. I walked around my neighborhood, dressed in the sparkly pink dress like Pinkalicious’s, with my cousins as we yelled “TRICK-OR-TREAT” at the top of our lungs. While roaming the streets, I saw children my age with masks that transformed them into skeletons and ghosts. I felt a strange yet exhilarating fear as I’d see these creatures turn street corners. Many were small—the size of children—and some part of me knew they were children—joyful children—hiding their smiles behind the costumes of eerie figures. Parents and older siblings held lanterns to light their paths as witches and bats ran up to every house’s porch for their share of candy. By the end of the night, my plastic bag was filled with a variety of chocolates and fruit-flavored lollipops. As the years passed, I adopted many American culture and values into my life. I celebrated all the holidays, from Christmas to the Fourth of July, and slowly, I assimilated into the American way of life. English became my primary language, and my Vietnamese became more stilted. After ten years of living here as permanent residents, my father was naturalized as an American citizen, allowing my sister and I to acquire citizenship as well. But still, the questions remained. Where are you from? asked the Americans. I grew up in Nebraska. No, where are you REALLY from? Oh, I’m Vietnamese. Is that the same as Chinese? No, I’m from the country Vietnam. The repetitive questions were a constant reminder that I would never be considered a true American.
Once the pandemic began, the world came to a standstill. News stations across the nation announced the latest updates on the COVID-19 virus nonstop, while the CDC cautioned Americans to protect themselves by wearing masks. These masks would not be worn with delight and rewarded with Halloween candy. The masks also did not erase the eyes, the feature which clearly marked my ethnicity. Suddenly, Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders were the target of hate crimes in America. As the COVID death toll rose, the hate crimes increased. I no longer felt safe doing the mundane tasks I did before the pandemic. When I walked into a grocery store, all eyes were on me as if I were in a costume that resembled the virus itself. I could have been wearing a costume of a glowing red ball, emanating spikes—an embodiment of the pernicious Coronavirus. Each move I took, people surrounding me would flinch or purposefully stay clear of my path. Underneath their masks, I could feel their disapproving frowns. “Hey, how does that bat taste?” yelled a group of boys as they passed by. As the sound of laughter filled my ears, I felt trapped within a box, leaving me no room to escape. In the past two years, I have witnessed the ugly and pretty sides of America. The most depressing part of all was that we were not in the midst a holiday that we knew would come and go. Instead, we were in the middle of a pandemic whose end was not in sight. For Asian Americans, this endlessness was particularly nerve-racking. Like many Americans, I was afraid of the virus itself, doing everything in my power to protect myself from it. Yet, at the same time, I was afraid of the hatred that was directed towards me. How I yearned, during this time, for Halloween—for my early days in America, when I was naïve, when I wore a costume that deemed me unrecognizable, when I knocked on doors of random strangers and was greeted with smiles and a handful of sweets.
