My mind holds one emotion on Halloween in Glasgow: distracted. My thoughts race—my skirt feels tight against my skin, I have to get up early tomorrow morning, and my throat hurts from screaming over music just to have a conversation.
On costumes: scams. We’re all desperately trying to hide something about ourselves in layers of disguise. The optimists choose an attractive character or pop-culture phenom to elevate themselves—something they could never be in everyday life. Others avoid pointing out that these costumes are far from a conceivable future. My group opts for a funny or niche costume, taking the personality route.
On going-out culture: performative. The best parts are not the actual partying but the small moments of connection. This Halloween, amid blaring music, my friend and I had a conversation that seemed to silence the rest of the room. We were both dressed as iconic film characters, surrounded by people self-medicating to forget their responsibilities. Instead of indulging, we scrolled through our notes apps, comparing dejected poetry and drafts of prose. We laughed at the anger and angst contained within the emotionally charged words we’d written. We discussed the future—grad school, careers, places to live. She confessed, “You know, I don’t actually want to be here anymore.” Thank God—someone else sick of pretending. We were the first people at the party to call it a night.
On festive tunes: whimsical. I’m an advocate of queueing Mariah Carey the second the clock strikes midnight on Nov. 1. They do that here in the U.K.—no need to wait until Thanksgiving is over. This week, I walked into a coffee shop to do work. I was greeted by the smooth jazz of an old-time Christmas song when I took my AirPods out.
On holiday lights: Comfort. My house sits at the end of a gravel road in Montana, animated by snowy mountains and expanses of pine trees. When it gets dark, the blankets of snow seem to absorb the light as much as they do the sound. At home, we always leave our Christmas tree lights on. I always found comfort in the eeriness of a dark house during a snowstorm, with only the Christmas tree glowing—as if the lights were alive, protecting the house from the cold outside.
On home: a blessing. I never thought much of moments spent reading in front of the fire while my parents cooked in the background until I didn’t have them. Two years ago, not being home for Thanksgiving destroyed me. As a member of the poms team, I had to return to Boston on Thanksgiving day. A blur of bouncy curls and red-lipped smiles rushed feverishly around me while I ached with homesickness. This year, I am better adjusted to life’s unpredictability, but I still grieve the time lost at home for Thanksgiving. In the U.K., our last day of class falls on that infamous Thursday. Instead of eating turkey, I’ll be attending a two-hour final preparatory lecture. I suppose the anticipation will make going home for Christmas break all the more rewarding.
On reflection: necessary. Things can get lost in translation during the chaos of the holidays. When the carefully constructed persona used to combat noise and problematic family members disappear, who is left? For me, it’s probably the version of myself writing in her notes app. She writes with no intended audience and no revisions, scribbling down raw articulations of daily thought. As travel, shopping and general busyness pick up, I’ve made it a goal to prioritize activities where I feel most like myself. In college, we have the rare opportunity to remove ourselves from work and studying over winter break. Our time is meant for contemplating what really matters
