Halloween and Oz

My first Halloween occurred when I was ten years old. I was going to school in Calgary, at Dalhousie Elementary. I hadn't been there that long. My family had moved, again, from Columbus, to Toronto, to Calgary. I guess it was time for my brother and I to get back into school.

So my first experience with Halloween was mixed. I remember bad plastic costumes. I remember doing the whole Trick or Treat thing around Silver Springs with Shawn. I also remember a boy named Greg. It was custom in school for everyone to come back to school in the afternoon dressed in their Halloween costumes. Dalhousie was the only school I attended that made the students to go home at lunch. And that was a challenge for me, because Silver Springs was probably about 30 minutes away by car. Way too far to walk obviously. And in all honesty too far to drive home and back. Lunch was an hour. That's all I had. I remember my mum used to drive to school every lunch time and pick me up and we used to drive somewhere nearby where we would have a sandwich and a drink. Mum was good to me. I have so many memories of my mum as someone who really knew how to, and did in fact take care of my needs.

On the afternoon of Halloween, Greg came back to school dressed as a girl. And for that matter so did David Miller. But it was obvious that David was having more fun making fun of it, making fun of being dressed as a girl. But Greg wasn't. He took it more seriously. As seriously as any boy could who was only 10 I suppose. I wondered how he felt that day at school. He was dressed as a girl. Some of the girls gave him a hard time. I think that was because he was wearing make up, and at that time, they probably weren't allowed. I studied Greg that afternoon. I resolved to have the courage to do exactly what he had done the next. I never did. I wanted to. I wanted to have the courage to do that, but I faced two significant hurdles. One I was scared to do it, even though I was becoming aware that it was a desire that wasn't going away. And I had a suspicion that my mum wouldn't want me to do it.

It was in Dalhousie Elementary that I read a book. I wasn't a great reader. I certainly didn't turn the world on fire by the number of books that I read. But I did read. I liked the feeling of getting lost in a story. I also used to be amused that as an young reader and young writer, I noticed that my writing style would emulate what I was reading at the time. I wish it still did that. How handy would that be? If I had to hazard a guess as to why that was the case, I would say that it was because I was still unformed in my personality and style.

When I was in school, a couple of times a year we used to have the opportunity to buy books through some catalog thing. I remember doing it in Australia, and I remember doing in Calgary. I still have a copy of "101 Elephant Jokes".

I read slowly. When I started "The Marvelous Land Of Oz" by Frank L. Baum I had no idea of what would happen. In the story, the main character's name was Tip. If you have read this story, then you will know what exactly I am referring to. The main character through the story discovers that he was transformed by a witch. The story ends with him undoing the effects of the transformation allowing him to return to his original identity. And of course, his original identity was Ozma, the Princess of Oz.

It's hard to read a story where you relate to the main character and follow them through their journey only to find out that the character changes so much they in effect cease to exist and are effectively replaced by another. That's what happened in this story. And it was disturbing for me to read as an 11 year old. I think it unnerved me most because it was so close to what was going on inside of me. At the time i remember talking to my mum about it. She said something, though it wasn't memorable, and I can't remember really what she said. I think she fumbled with her words something about "how unusual".

I have wondered if that is what is happening to me. It's like reading my own story and discovering what I was almost afraid to discover, that I am not who people perceive me to be. And I can't be that person. I have tried. And I have failed. Maybe that failure hasn't been on the surface where people can see, but I have felt it. It has definitely been a failure deep within me.

Is it an unforgivable sin for a writer to so drastically change the main character of a story? To a point where they are unrecognizable? Is it forgivable of a person to do the same thing to themselves?