On Wednesday when the principal at my school announced over the intercom that the next day students could wear costumes to celebrate Halloween, I smiled to myself as a little plan hatched in my head. The principal didn’t say anything about teachers being allowed to dress, but I figured it would be better to ask for forgiveness than permission, so that night I went home and dug out my old Statue of Liberty costume, which had been languishing in the basement for far too long.

Right off I noticed a spot where the hem was still a little dirty from the time I wore it in a Fourth of July parade. That morning I’d dressed very quickly in the early half-light, shoving my feet into my most comfortable sandals, forgetting I had liked them so much I had bought them in both black and brown. At the parade grounds I noticed I was wearing one of each, and had to walk past the entire town in mismatched shoes, guarded by my five-year-old son Chase, dressed as Harry Potter in a robe, round glasses, and sporting that famous scar. He was nervous, and stuck so close to me he kept stepping on my feet, and catching my hem with his shoes. Four-year-old Porter was riding in the same parade, dressed as Draco Malfoy, and so busy throwing fistfuls of candy that when he ran out, he accidentally threw his favorite wand instead, much to the delight of a young child who could not believe his luck. Fortunately, the boy’s father understood what had happened, and retrieved the fallen wand before tears could well in any eyes. Abby was an old lady of eight, dressed as Hermione Granger, and walking next to the car that carried Porter, waving her wand and throwing taffy and butterscotch to the crowd.

Pulling out my Liberty costume Wednesday night, I saw the spot on the hem and knew I should wash it out, but the little five-year-old foot that left the print is now a size 12 ½ college student . . . I decided I was just too lazy to clean it that night. No one would notice anyway.

Luckily for me, I walked into school on Thursday morning to find some of the other teachers had dressed up as well. Two even suited up as Donald Trump and Joe Biden, and the principal sent someone to watch my class so the Statue of Liberty could be photographed with the two presidential candidates. Between every period of the day I stood outside my classroom, holding my torch aloft and greeting students as they entered. Even students I didn’t know were giving my costume some love. “That’s a lit costume,” they said. “Lit,” in youngspeak means “cool,” never mind that I was actually holding a torch.