Parades Before Lockdowns: A Principal’s Lament

Let me start by saying: Halloween in an elementary school is not a holiday. It’s a hostage situation with glitter. Every year, I braced myself like a man preparing for battle—armed with nothing but a clipboard, a walkie-talkie, and the faint hope that no one would vomit in a mask.

This particular year, one of my teachers—who I suspect had been waiting for this moment since August—suggested I dress as a clown. “I have the makeup,” she said. “You just need to rent the costume and wig from Johnnie Brock’s.” I briefly wondered if she was typecasting me. I’d already been a pirate, SpongeBob, a king, a doctor, Tarzan (never again), and an M & M. So sure, why not let someone else take the reins.

I arrived early, met my makeup artist, and let her go to town. She was talented. Too talented. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a face that screamed, “I just buried a body behind the bounce house.” The grin she painted on me was so wide it could’ve been seen from space. The upside? I wouldn’t have to fake a smile all day. The downside? I looked like the final boss in a horror movie.

As I walked to my office, a kindergartener spotted me and asked, “Mr. Clown, can you make me a balloon animal?” I told him my balloon shipment was delayed due to supply chain issues. He nodded solemnly and walked off like we’d just shared a moment of deep economic understanding.

Then came the cafeteria call: “B.R., hurry. It’s a fight.” I sprinted down the hall, clown shoes flapping (metaphorically), and found two third-grade boys locked in mortal combat over Pokémon cards—which were banned, of course, because nothing says “learning environment” like trading card chaos. I separated them, gathered witness statements like I was auditioning for Law & Order: Elementary Unit, and marched them to the office.

Mom #1 was a gem. She listened, made her son rake leaves as penance, and even apologized. Inner voice: “I love this mom.”

Mom #2? Not so much. She hadn’t spoken to her son yet but was already convinced he was the victim of a vast school conspiracy. She arrived, took one look at my clown face, and screamed, “Oh, so you think this is funny?” I tried to explain. She wasn’t having it. Tony, her son, cried. They left. Inner voice: “Well, that escalated.”

By 2:00, it was parade time. Teachers were duct-taping costumes onto sugar-fueled children. Our Grand Marshal, Coach Henson, was dressed in a sweatsuit covered in cereal boxes. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

The parade route was a suburban pilgrimage: out the front door, down the sidewalk, through the playground, around the building, and back to the classrooms for parties that would leave custodians weeping. Parents lined the route like paparazzi at a toddler fashion show. Inner voice: “Let’s just survive this.”

I walked behind Coach, helping one of my autistic students navigate the sensory overload. I leaned in and asked Coach, “So what’s your costume supposed to be?” He grinned and said, “Just wait. When we get to the playground, I’m going to jump on the monkey bars, pull out a toy machine gun, and pretend to shoot the parade. I’m a cereal killer!”

I stopped in my tracks. The parade stopped. My heart stopped. I grabbed him by the Cheerios glued to his chest and hissed, “You f-ing do that and you’ll be fired.” Inner voice: “I’m going to end up managing a Red Lobster in Topeka.”

I told him to finish the parade. No theatrics. No monkey bars. No toy weapons. Just walk.

He muttered about me being a joy killer. I muttered about liability insurance and national news coverage. And we finished the damn parade.

Some days, leadership feels like juggling flaming swords while blindfolded. Halloween was one of those days. But beneath the chaos, the costumes, and the clown makeup that nearly got me canceled, there were moments of real connection—a kindergartener trusting me with his balloon dreams, a mom teaching her son accountability, a student finding calm in the storm by holding his principal’s hand.

I learned that empathy doesn’t always wear a smile. Sometimes it wears a painted-on grin and clenched teeth. Sometimes it means saying no to a joke that could go terribly wrong. And sometimes, it’s being the chief parade worrier, quietly making sure everyone gets through it safely—even if you look like a deranged circus escapee.

And here’s the truth that hits hardest: I’m grateful I was a principal when it was still safe to have events like a Halloween parade. Back then, the biggest risk was a rogue cereal box or a Pokémon-fueled fistfight. Today, in this fractured climate, I wouldn’t take the chance. The idea of an open event—hundreds of kids, families, and staff exposed—feels less like celebration and more like vulnerability. The threat of someone doing something truly catastrophic, with a real weapon, is no longer abstract. It’s a possibility we have to weigh. And that breaks my heart.

So yes, I’m thankful for the chaos I knew. For the parades that ended in cupcakes and not lockdowns. For the moments when empathy could still wear a costume and walk the sidewalk without fear. Sigh.