I asked my mom to dig up this photo. I wanted to show it to you because I remember this particular Halloween more than any other.
That’s me in the middle—my sister Erica on the left, Ingrid on the right. It’s 1987, the year my sister Greta was born.
I remember this Halloween because there was contention about my costume. As you can see, I was Skeletor, the main antagonist in Masters of the Universe. Skeletor was evil and scary—naturally, this bothered my mom, the church pianist and child-rearer of our very Christian family. She spoke in hushed tones to my dad. She asked me not to wear it. She didn’t understand.
Honestly, I’m not sure I understood either. I didn’t even like Skeletor. It’s not like I had the figurine or watched the show—we didn’t have a TV. I remember seeing the cartoon series once at my friend Chris’s birthday party. My cousins Karl and Erik had the Masters of the Universe castle and other toys, so I was aware of Skeletor.
Looking at the photo now, I can still smell the plastic. I can feel that tiny rubber band—held by two staples—securing the mask to my face, tangling in my hair, pinching my neck.
Earlier that week, for the kindergarten costume party, my mom had dressed me in a homemade bear costume she’d bought at a yard sale. It was brown with puffy yellow circles for ears. She drew whiskers across my cheeks with a black marker. I could tell she was proud. After all, “Aar-bear” was her nickname for me. This was the perfect costume. “So cute,” she said.
I didn’t give it much thought—until I got to school. That’s where I saw Aaron Degerness dressed as G.I. Joe. Other boys were pirates and vampires. Jake Brandt had fake blood dripping from his lower lip. They looked scary and cool all together. Cool, while the same number of letters, is a very different word from cute.
They looked at me, puzzled. “What are you?” they asked.
Some thought I might be a cat. I knew I was in trouble. “No, no,” I said. “I’m a bear.” Then, thinking fast: “I’m a grizzly bear. Grr!” I raised my yellow paws. They didn’t buy it.
How could I have been so foolish? I thought to myself.
Next came the walk-through. We filed behind Mrs. Guy, parading through the neighboring classrooms in our costumes. I stayed close behind Sara Vatnsdal, the pink ballerina. It didn’t help. They still saw, pointed, and snickered.
That’s all I remember.
My greatest fear is that people will laugh at me. It’s stupid, I know. I’m a grown man. Most days I know who I am. I’m confident in my identity. But fear feels like fear no matter how old you are. It still feels as real as it did when you were six.
And that’s why I dressed as Skeletor. Skeletor is the opposite of a cute bear. Nobody laughs at Skeletor. Nobody mistakes him for a cat.
I admit, dressing as a character whose look is the result of an accidental acid splash—I looked it up on Wikipedia—might’ve been overcompensating. “Cuddly cute teddy bear” to “evil bare-boned skull head” is quite a leap. But when you’re six years old in 1987, you lack the language to explain feelings you don’t understand.
It’s difficult to say, Mom, all the kids laughed at me at school. I was humiliated for being your cute bear. So my plan is to never get laughed at again for my Halloween costume. That’s why I picked Skeletor—he was the scariest thing I could find at Ben Franklin. Don’t worry, I’m not headed to the dark side. I’ve just overcompensated a little.
Love,
Aaron
P.S. After reading this story, Holly Moline, a dear family friend said the costume had been passed down to them. Her daughter wore it the next year. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for me), she has a picture:
