That time Halloween came to Cherkasy — Home is where the cat is

I have a confession to make: I’ve never really liked Halloween. I’m never ready for it, and it always seems to be much more of a hassle than it’s worth. I remember my first ever Halloween in the United States. I was 8 years old, and my Cuban parents and I were very confused about what we were supposed to do. But the concept was fun: dress up and ask for candy.

My parents had no money, and so my mother wrapped me up in a white bed sheet, put a gold belt around my waste, slapped chancletas on my feet and sent me out holding two twisted wire hangers she had covered in aluminum foil. Those were my scepters, and I was King Tut.

After a couple of hours trick-or-treating around the neighborhood—I don’t even know if I did it right—we got home to look at all the candy: tootsie rolls, lollipops, Hershey’s kisses—all sorts of candy I had never seen before. The most astonishing candy we collected was this lollipop with a strange hazy substance in the middle. Scared it was poison, my mother started hammering at it trying to get to the middle. How many hits with a hammer does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Two. Still confused, my mother threw it away, turned to me and said, “you’re not eating that.”

Since then, my appetite for Halloween has never really grown, until this year. You’ve never lived until you try bringing Halloween to Ukraine. Because we’re tasked with bringing American traditions to our host countries, and hopefully in the process help build communities, I thought this was a great opportunity.

The first question was: do they even celebrate it? As with many other questions in Ukraine, it’s never a straight answer. One person told me only children like to dress up. Another told me very plainly that because of religious reasons, people here don’t do anything. And yet others said that it’s not big, but growing. So I decided to take a little from every answer and plan something educational and cross cultural.

I approached the local library and they very enthusiastically agreed. The library has become my second home, where I hold two clubs and have connected with the librarians who run Windows on America. I also asked the United States Embassy for some help, and they agreed to send over candy, decorations and supplies for arts and crafts. Over the next few weeks, I would have to prod and push to get my partners to be engaged—as Peace Corps Volunteers, we’re supposed to empower our communities to help themselves, make suggestions, guide them, but not actually do the work.

“Are you making a flyer to invite people? Let me see it.”
“ Put a phone number on the flyer so people can call and say they’re coming.”
“How many schools have you spoken to?”

I don’t know what I expected. I thought maybe a few kids would come, we’d do some face painting, play some games and talk a little about how we celebrate Halloween in the US. I mean, Ukraine doesn't really celebrate Halloween, right?

Turns out, they do. Students from schools across the city came, about 75 kids packed in the library. A fellow volunteer came, and practically saved the day with games and a presentation on the history of Halloween—I wasn't ready for the onslaught (huge shout out to Miles Green). The librarians baked pies and carved pumpkins for the first time in their lives. Like my mother did during my first Halloween, they recycled old clothes and turned them into costumes and props. They turned the library’s basement into a haunted house, a legitimately scary experience. They even got television news to come.

They truly took ownership of this event and made relationships with schools in the area that will last long past Halloween.

I thought my very first Halloween would be the most memorable—how can you forget the destruction of a Tootsie Pop. But my Halloween in Ukraine undoubtedly will always be a close second.