*It was one of two days in my young life that I simply couldn’t wait for nightfall, the other being Christmas eve. Because after sundown and dinner, my younger brother Tony, my best friend Donnie Minnis and I would take to the streets, knock on doors in our Oklahoma City neighborhood and gleefully declare the phrase that, to us, was more like one word: “Trickatreat!”
Benjamin Franklin? Einstein? Ray Charles? In my 11 year-old mind, the true genius deserving of a statute at every town hall in America was whoever came up with the idea that called on kids to annually don costumes and go out and collect candy.
Not that there were many honest to goodness costumes in my neighborhood. Unlike today’s elaborate, Instagram-ready, over-the-top outfits–and those are just the ensembles of the adults–the costumes being sold during my ‘60s youth seemed fairly hokey to me. Mama would not have spent the money on them, anyway.
Instead, a few days before the big night, she gave us a dollar and we walked around the corner to TG&Y and chose from a selection of plastic mold masks–time honored monsters and popular cartoon characters– that covered only your face, kept there by a rubber band that would irritate your skin on the back of your head and sides of your face if you wore it long enough. A couple of Trick or Treat paper bags each, and we were ready to go.
Come Trick-or-Treat, right at dusk Tony and I hooked up with Donnie, who lived next door, out on the sidewalk. Mama stayed home with Kevin, our youngest brother, and passed out candy to kids who rang our doorbell.
While dime store masks were the extent of our outfits, the costumes of other kids in the neighborhood were often a zany mélange of frugality and ingenuity. Take a white bed sheet, cut two holes in it to see where you’re going, and you’ve got a ghost. Likewise, holes in a large brown Safeway grocery bag with a Magic Marker-drawn face created a robot. The head of a robot, anyway. A pillow case could serve as Trick or Treat bag.
At the time, I couldn’t appreciate the inventiveness. I remember standing on a doorstep trying to separate myself from a group of roguish, low budget ghetto ghouls, when the lady of the house opened the door and noticed a kid in street clothes whose meager disguise was a black Lone Ranger-styled mask and a white bath towel for a cape.
“And who are you?” she cheerfully inquired. “Are you supposed to be Zorro?… Robin, the Boy Wonder?“
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Which one?” I blurted, annoyed at his lack of commitment and detail. “If you’re Zorro, where’s your hat and sword? And Robin wears green gloves.”
The boy shrugged. “I’m both,” he sheepishly said, ignoring me and addressing the woman.
“You can’t be both,” I said. “Who ever heard of one man bein’ Zorro AND Robin?“
“Robin is a boy and Zorro is a man,” Donnie chimed nonchalantly.
“Zorro got a mustache,” Tony said.
The woman smiled at our childish conjecture, dropped miniature Tootsie Rolls into everyone’s bags and closed her door. As soon as she did, “Zorobin,” examining my own half-baked costume effort, laid into me. “Oh–and like Fred Flintstone (my mask that year) wears PF Flyers. Get outta my way.”
In any case, I knew that when we finished hitting most of the houses three or four blocks east and west of Sixth and High, where we lived, we were going to back home and then immediately take our hustle to the other side of town.
Daddy would drive us to Nichols Hills, a suburb where wealthy white folk lived, and drop us off on a corner. We’d walk up one side of a well-heeled street and down the other for several blocks, systematically going to houses collecting candy and rendezvousing with Daddy where he’d first left us. Then he would drive us to the next block. It was a scorched earth operation conducted street by street, until Donnie, Tony and I had each filled two large Trick or Treat bags.
Nichols Hills was another world. The kids were white, many of them decked out in costumes they’d either bought or their parents spent considerable time creating. The only Negro kids we saw were the few whose parents or guardians enterprising enough to do as we’d done. We got a few curious looks–mostly from accompanying white parents–but everyone was cool.
White people would come to the door looking like Andy Griffith in a cardigan or Dinah Shore in pearls and peddle pushers, holding a bowl of something and wearing that requisite White People Smile—the one I’d see on the faces of some whites when Mama would take us downtown shopping on the bus on Saturdays. White people, I thought, smile for no reason.
While holding my bag open for goodies, I’d discreetly peer past the man or woman into their home and glimpse a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting: roaring fireplaces, furniture that matched, massive throw rugs. Cozy, homey settings. Sometimes, there were other adults, holding cocktail glasses and chatting, as if having a small party. Or there’d be a big floor model color TV blaring a movie or TV show. These people were living.
You had to watch white people, though, for every few houses one of them would casually do something that should be illegal in Trick-or-Treat: into your bag, they’d drop some fruit. Like an apple. Or an orange. A banana. Fruit, as in food. Or some damn peanuts.
Trick or treat is about CANDY. Back in the day, that meant orange slices, candy corn, tiny boxes of Milk Duds and Boston Baked Beans and Red Hots; pink and yellow taffy wrapped in wax paper and Bit O’ Honey and Kraft caramels (or the chocolate ones); Mike & Ike and Lemonheads and Sugar Babies and Now & Later (there was no “later”), Pixy Stix, Bazooka and Super Bubble bubble gum, big, red Wax Lips and Jaw Breakers—you know, CANDY. None of us kids appreciated the odd treat giver’s ode to health.
However, it was at one of the last houses we solicited in the rich folks’ neighborhood that I truly got a surprise. We rang the bell and in a couple seconds, smiling and holding a pan of homemade fudge squares, appeared…a black woman. When you’re a child, every grown up is old. In retrospect, I’d say she was in her early thirties. She opened the “storm” door and greeted everyone warmly, dropping candy into everyone’s bag.
The other kids were leaving the porch when she got around to serving us. “Y’all be good, now,” she said, offering a wink. Even at 11, I knew it was unusual that she’d be living in this neighborhood. That wink suggested she sensed Fred Flintstone’s bewilderment.
Back in the car, I couldn’t wait to tell what I’d seen. “Daddy, colored people live out here, too!” I said, worn out from all the Trick-or-Treating.
“There,” I pointed back to the house in the middle of the block.
Daddy did a U-turn, headed back down the street. There she was, leaning out the door of the house, passing out more fudge. “Huh,” he grunted and kept driving.
Back in our personal universe called Sixth Street, Donnie got out of the car and made a beeline for his place. Tony and I followed Daddy into the house, took off our shoes in the living room and proudly assessed our riches, during which I overheard Daddy in the kitchen, talking to Mama about the woman we’d seen in the ritzy neighborhood.
“Stevie saw a colored girl at one of the places,” he said, mischief in his tone. “I wanted to tell him, ‘Boy, she don’t live there; she’s the maid.’”
Really? Wow. Of course. That woman does what my Grandmother does for a living out in California, I thought; what mama does for the Porter family at their home out near the Oklahoma State Capitol building: she cleans up after those people. Naivety gave way to bemusement at the stark reality.
Oh well. I bit into a miniature Baby Ruth and got ready for bed, content that there was equality in sugar, at least. Hershey’s chocolate kisses and Slo Poke suckers were no sweeter on the white side of town than where I lived. Candy is candy.
Steven Ivory, veteran journalist, essayist and author, writes about popular culture for magazines, newspapers, radio, TV and the Internet. Respond to him via [email protected]