It’s all I ever wanted to be, no more, no less. Not Superman, Spiderman, or Batman. Not the Incredible Hulk, Robocop, or Sideshow Bob. The only character that I would settle for, for five years in a row, was awesome ninja boy in a little black suit. I know, I know; I made him up.

Anyway, at the beginning of each Halloween at about three p.m. I would commence the ninja outfitting exercises. First, find the suit! This process usually took a half hour, which always ended up with me asking my mother where my ninja suit was.

“Again!” replied Mama Diaz.

I’d come back with, “Duh Mom, I don’t want to be anything else.” That usually angered my mother because during those years she was heavily involved with cosmetology, studying to be a beautician. So naturally, she’d want to throw on a bunch of Halloween make-up on my face creating a giant scar traveling from my cheekbone to my eye.

“Why not just a small scar on your forehead? Or let me at least put one right below your jaw,” my mother would urge.

“No Mom! No! Have you ever seen a ninja with a scar? Do you want me to look like a sissy?” I would swear up and down each time my mother wanted to create “Scar-man” out of me.

We generally argued for the next hour or two about all the places she could not put a scar.

By six p.m., all the spotlights were on me. Dressed in black, with ninja stars tucked away in the front of my belt, a boomerang holster on my right hip, and of course a giant sword tucked down the back of my shirt like He-man, I was ready for the Halloween escapade to begin.

The funny part was, I didn’t know that the numb chucks and metal stars I had been using every year for my infamous costume were illegal. It’s not like I actually used them when anyone was around.

Running rampant into the night, like a cross country star, I would make it my goal to hit every house in the south-eastern region of Chula Vista. For a six year old, this meant everything between Oleander and Montcalm Street-about 15 blocks.This ninja was getting some serious candy.

As seven ‘o clock rolls around, my fellow candy crusaders have grown weary. For the most part, they’re tired of trying to keep up with me. My cousins usually dressed up as cowboys and goblins; my sister, for the most part dressed up as a different pop star or famous model. Then the oldest of the relatives, usually had something expensive with sparkles.

At the end of the night, our clan would come together and swap goodies. And that’s my Halloween story.