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Halloween memories

      

Liam Britten

editor in chief

en I was six years old, I knew
exactly what I wanted to be for
Halloween; not coincidentally, it was

the same thing I wanted to be when I grew up: a
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

I’ll bet a lot of you who grew up in the late
“80s to early ‘90s went as the same thing. Hell,
with the collective feelings of nostalgia for the
era our culture is going through right now, a lot
of kids today are probably going to be Ninja
Turtles. So, when it came time for my mum to
get costumes sorted out that Halloween, I made
sure she knew I wanted to be one.

On a trip to the mall that October I saw
a bunch of pre-made Ninja Turtle costumes at
Zeller’s; judging by the volume the store had
on hand, every single child on the planet was
going to be a Ninja Turtle that year. I thought
that was the best damn costume ever; it had a
crappy plastic mask, a crappy plastic weapon,
crappy cardboard shell and looked nothing like
a Ninja Turtle actually looked. For God’s sake,
a massive Ninja Turtles’ logo was emblazoned
on the chest of the thing! I know marketing
is important, but the Turtles in the cartoon
weren’t that brand conscious; as I recall, they
wore nothing but ribbons for clothing. Overall,
that overpriced piece of crap was really an
overpriced piece of crap.

But oh, how I wanted it.

I thought I’d be the most badass kid in first
grade with that officially licensed, not-at-all-
real-looking costume. I knew the costume was
not that realistic looking, but... it was licensed!
Officially!

So, when my mum showed me the costume
I’d actually be wearing, my six-year-old heart
was broken. Turns out my mum had decided to
make the costume herself and make it look like
an actual Ninja Turtle. Weak.

The costume was miles beyond the
Zeller’s piece of crap costume. The primary
colours used in the manufacture matched the
cartoon version well and the fact that she had
included the little details—like gloves, a shirt
and pants—meant that my whiteboy skin was
covered in a much better way than the Zeller’s
costume could have done. Another advantage

was that there was no mask; instead I was to
wear face paint on my trick-or-treating trip so
that I would be able to speak without mumbling
into a sheet of plastic over my face.

But it wasn't officially licensed! This was
the important thing! I didn’t care about looking
like an actual Ninja Turtle—the entire point of
my existence as a little boy was to accumulate
more crap with a Ninja Turtles logo on it
and this costume robbed me of that chance.
Needless to say, I was choked that I wouldn’t
be able to add money into the coffers of the
merchandising juggernaut that was Mirage
Studios Ltd.

On the Friday before Halloween at my
elementary school we had our costume day.
My mum took me and my brother to school
that day, me in my non-licensed Ninja Turtles
costume, and my brother, Spencer, happily
dressed as a construction worker. My mum
didn’t know I wasn’t happy with the costume; in
a rare display of childhood selflessness, I never
told her. She wished me a good day at school,
but I knew it would suck.

So imagine my surprise that year when I,
dressed as a real-looking but unofficial Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtle, won my class costume
contest. I never saw it coming. But there I was,
with a tub of candy large enough to give me
type II diabetes, all thanks to my mum’s fabric
work. I even made some friends that day by
giving some of that candy away. Not bad, huh?

After that, I was totally down with that
costume. I trick or treated and went to my
bowling team’s Halloween party a real happy
camper. Candy was eaten, pumpkins were
carved, and wee little Liam was satisfied. All in
all, a good Halloween. Of course, the greatness
of the Ninja Turtle costume was quickly
eclipsed by the Super Mario costume my mum
made next year. But for 364 days, I thought it
was the best ever.

So, thanks for the duds, Mum. By the way,
I’m thinking of dressing up as Darth Vader next
year, so if you could whip up a costume for
then, that would be great.

Thanks!

Your friend in high fidelity,
Liam Britten

Editor in chief

The Other Press