When I was growing up in Chicago, we took the Halloween cry of “trick or treat” literally. If people were too stingy to hand out a treat, they were fair game for a trick. For the most part, people were willing to provide candy to all the ghosts and goblins. There were always a few curmudgeons who turned off all their lights and wouldn’t answer the door. But you could still hear their TV in the backroom. They ran the risk of having their windows scribbled with wax, or their front yards blanketed with a roll of toilet paper.
Most of the little kids showed up in costumes. But teenagers didn’t always bother and would still expect treats. Some people were sticklers for the rules and refused to give treats to the kids with no costumes. But the next time they answered their doorbell, they might find a flaming paper bag on their front porch. Only after they stomped out the flames would they realize the bag was full of dog poops. Like I said, Chicago kids took “trick or treat” literally.
Years later, I was living in Des Moines, Iowa. They had their own peculiar interpretation of “trick or treat.” In Iowa, that meant the kids had to perform a trick, or tell you a joke, so that you’d reward them with a treat. So, you couldn’t just step away from your favorite TV show for a few seconds to drop the candy into their bags. You had to stand there and listen to each kid tell you why the chicken crossed the road, or firemen wore red suspenders before giving them their reward. And of course, half the time you couldn’t hear their jokes because their voices were muffled by the rubber masks they were wearing. By the time you got back to the TV, your show was over.
Mexico is different. Trick-or-treating was never part of the traditional celebration for Day of the Dead. Many of the older Mexicans discouraged their children from begging for treats. Even today, not many Mexicans will be handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. It’s mainly us expats who contribute to the sugar highs and tooth decay among Mexico’s youth.
There aren’t many young kids living on my block, but I still manage to go through 10 kilos of candy every year. You might wonder how that can be. Well, it starts with the Mexican grandmother who lives across the street. She doesn’t even wait for the bewitching hour. She shows up on Halloween morning asking for a bunch of treats that she will distribute to her 21 grandchildren who are scattered all over town. Of course, that doesn’t prevent the four kids who live with her from coming over multiple times that evening.
Then there are entire truckloads of kids that get schlepped from their Mexican barrios and dropped off in the gringo neighborhoods. If your porch light is on, or they see a U.S. license plate on your car, they will find you. They don’t call out the Spanish words for “trick or treat.” Instead, they say “Queremos Halloween” which literally translates to “We Want Halloween.” There is no implied threat of any pranks or vandalism. Fortunately, they don’t make each kid tell you a Spanish knock-knock joke.
I’ve learned not to be too extravagant in the candy I buy. If word gets out that you’re handing out Mars bars or packs of M&Ms, you will be overrun with repeat offenders. I just buy the same treats that locals normally put in their piñatas. I’m pretty generous to anyone who shows up. I give them treats whether or not they are wearing costumes. I even hand out plastic bags to any kids who didn’t bring their own. I suppose plastic bags aren’t the most eco-friendly thing to give them. But I’m reluctant to hand out paper bags. I wouldn’t want the evidence to be traced back to me if one of my less-generous neighbors finds a flaming bag of you-know-what on their front porch.
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