When I was a child, at Halloween, kids would put on their costumes and venture out into the early evening twilight, carrying a shopping bag waiting to be filled with candy. There were no fun-sized candy bars; we received the real thing, not a sample-sized facsimile—there’s no fun in one bite. The excitement was in the underlying dread of a potential cavity from binge-eating a Milky Way, a Hershey's, a Baby Ruth, and a Payday.
We’d wander for miles, fueled by sugar, adrenaline, and a sense of freedom in the darkened suburbs. When knocking on doors, there was always a bit of trepidation about whether you’d get a Reese’s Cup or a shriveled apple from the back of someone’s crisper drawer.
In our modern age of safety-conscious, convenience-obsessed helicopter parents, we’ve replaced the tradition of true “trick-or-treating” with something far more mundane and sterile: Trunk or Treat.
For the uninitiated, Trunk or Treat is a hometown solution to Halloween’s most pressing problems: walking, strangers, and fun. No free-range children are exploring the neighborhoods, as they dodge family dogs dressed as pirates or serial killers and enjoy all the frightful lawn decorations.
Instead, they’re made to gather in school or church parking lots where their bodyguard parents open their car trunks to distribute candy like cheerful drug dealers. This is an unspecial event— a sugar-fueled speed run through Halloween that’s as exciting as receiving underwear for Christmas.
Of course, there are those helicopter parents who must include themselves in every facet of their “precious ones’ lives.” They must wear a costume as well and upstage their child. Dressing in a group theme is always a winner for a child’s sense of individuality. Okay, Daddy wants to be a Minion too. But who’s going to stand out in that family? I’d guess it would be the glandular-disorder Minion standing at six feet and wearing a size twelve shoe.
These parents want continuous control. It’s the staging, the presentation, and the type of candy available for distribution. It’s not Halloween; it’s a corporate event. You can almost hear them saying:
“Now, Heather Lynn, no more than two pieces of candy from each car; cash is acceptable and will be put into your college trust, and don’t wander out of Mommy and Daddy’s circle of trust. It’s a horrific world beyond those halogen lights.”
When I was of trick-or-treating age, I would have been mortified if my parents had suggested wearing a costume and joining me on my candy odyssey. If my friends saw my mom wearing anything that suggested a costume, I’d have to enter into an FBI protection program, because my street cred would be as dead as Dracula.
Trunk or Treat was conceived with good intentions—safety, community, and convenience. But sometimes the simplest idea can become convoluted, twisted like a two-headed monster with a migraine. When the SUVs circle like the wagons, a fierce competition begins between parents to see who has the best Halloween-themed display.
Moms are committed to creating a whole cinematic display in the back of their Hondas, Subarus, or Jeeps. Crafty couples have created the entire set of Hocus Pocus and The Exorcist. There might be a skeleton in the driver’s seat, or is that just Tommy’s mom on Ozempic? Don’t even throw a plastic pumpkin in your trunk and think you’ve set the stage. Your vehicle will be shunned like Typhoid Mary
There’s also a subtle class divide between the parents with full-size candy bars from Costco and the ones who, at the last minute, grabbed a bag of off-brand “Nestlé’s Crack” from the dollar store. Kids with a heightened sense of smell will sniff out the best chocolate faster than an airport security dog. They huddle around the Tesla, drawn by the scent of premium Swiss chocolate.
And when it’s over—after 30 minutes of trunk-hopping and a few dozen selfies—the kids proudly show off their pillowcase full of candy, cash, and glow sticks, and a lingering question, “Wait, did we even go trick-or-treating?”
No, my sweet overprotected one. You went parking lot panhandling. Your parent loved every minute of it because they didn’t have to walk uphill, talk to neighbors, or check for hidden razor blades.
So as we celebrate another year of Trunk or Treat, we raise our pumpkin spice lattes to the death of adventure, the triumph of convenience, and the glory of the American automobile. Halloween will never be the same, but at least we’ll all be home before it gets dark.
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