Taxation Without Representation

 

It was late October in 1985. I was just a few months into a mid-day napping, Oreo-eating, coloring-outside-the-lines kindergarten adventure. My parents knew Halloween was coming up soon and had decided to use this holiday to dress me up—and scar me for the rest of my life.

I don’t remember exactly when they purchased the costume, but I do remember the exact day I wore it. It was a fateful Thursday that happened to be the last day of October. My elementary school had decided to let us kindergarteners wear our costumes to school and trick-or-treat to the older kids’ classrooms.

That morning, I was slipped into a slick plastic lime-green overshirt that reeked of a chemical smell, and to round out the costume, lime-green face paint was smeared all over. Sigh, ok, I guess I can deal with this—after all, candy was involved! But what was that? They were coming toward me with a green plastic balloon of some type! It wasn’t my birthday or anyone else’s that I knew of. Wait, hold on! It’s an alien face on the shiny lime-green balloon, and it’s being strapped to the top of my head.

At least there is candy involved was the mantra I repeated at each classroom. I begrudgingly held out my bag as the older students awed and smirked. I held steadfast in my belief that school would soon be over, I would have a mountain of candy, and once home, I would be out of this outfit.

I walked through the front door—and what appeared? My brother in the same costume with what appeared to be a pumpkin on his head!  No, somehow the alien perched atop of him was shiny orange instead of the lime green I had been saddled with. Now there were two of us! And I have to wear this for how much longer? And we’re going to see who? I’m not sure this was worth all the candy in Henderson County.

The next morning, everything returned to normal. I didn’t hear a peep about my costume at school, which gave me the ride home to dream of all the chocolate bars, candy corn, and other sugary sweets I’d be devouring. When I arrived, to my surprise, half of our candy was gone—something about a parental tax.