The Real Horrors of Halloween

Every Halloween, it happened.

And every Halloween, a few neighbors complained.

For more than a decade, my daughter and I lived on the edge of an affluent suburb that was mere blocks from one of the poorest sections of Cleveland. We rented a three-story duplex near one of the busiest corners of town, and most Halloweens a few cars slowly pulled up to the curb and turned on their blinkers so that five, six, sometimes more children could tumble out of each of them and march down our street.

These children were almost always African-American, and it was clear from the condition of their cars and the barely there costumes that they were from somewhere else. They usually carried pillowcases or large shopping bags, and sometimes their parents held out a bag, too, when we answered the door.

Because we lived near this intersection, I always bought extra bags of candy. For several Halloweens, I was out with my own daughter trick-or-treating. I was a single parent at the time, so there was no one else to answer our door. It didn't seem right, though, for our home to be lights-out empty while my kid gathered the bounty from knocking on other people's doors. Driven by guilt as much as generosity, I would leave a basket of candy on the lighted porch steps with a note: "Please take only one."

Some neighbors suggested I was pathetically naive, but the basket was stolen only once in the six years we did this. That did not dissuade the critics.

"It only encourages them to come here," one neighbor said. When I asked who "them" might be, she frowned.

"I resent having to give candy to kids who don't even live here," she said. Her solution was to ask every child whether he lived in the neighborhood before she would drop a single piece of candy in the bag. And if the children were willing to admit they didn't?

"I tell them to go trick-or-treating in their own neighborhood," she said. "It's not up to me to save the world."

I'm hard-pressed to see how Bazooka bubble gum or mini 3 Musketeers bars contribute to world peace, but the willingness to give without condition might stoke the hope of a child who deserves to feel worthy of a simple kindness.

As efforts go, it's a small one to drop a single goody in every open bag.

But those who ration their benevolence by a geography that children can't control, such as that woman, might want to consider why those children are coming to their neighborhoods.

It's probably fear, not greed, that motivates their parents' drives across town.

The Associated Press reported earlier this week that a new poll shows fewer low-income parents and minorities will allow their children to go trick-or-treating this year. The reason is as simple as it horrifying: They fear for their children's safety. We're not talking about hyped-up tales of razor-bladed apples or poisoned candy; what scares them to death is the random violence that's killing children in blighted urban neighborhoods, often only blocks from some of the nicest streets in America.

As usual, confidence soars with income. Of the 1,013 adults interviewed by phone, 93 percent of those earning $50,000 or more said their communities are safe for trick-or-treating. Only 76 percent of those making less than $25,000 felt that way about their communities.

Here's another take on the findings from the poll by AP and Ipsos, a research company: While 73 percent of whites will let their children go trick-or-treating this week, only 56 percent of minorities said they'd do the same with their kids. Some lessons in life, the kind that teach you who matters and who doesn't, sure start early. For some children, anyway.

This Halloween, if we're home, our doorbell might ring. And ring and ring. The children on the other side of our door already will know where they live. They don't need the reminder.

The trick is how we'll treat them and whether they'll feel welcome in our neighborhood, where we're lucky to live every day of the year.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "... and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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