Mask on my face, its black plastic covers my child-sized head. I press the plastic box on my chest, hanging from a string around my neck. It swings lopsided due to the string being too short on one side. My Darth Vader mask comes alive, that iconic mechanical heavy-breathing sound going through the mask’s mouth.

It was Halloween of 2007, and, as a second-grader, I was ecstatic to dress as Lord Vader. I couldn’t see too well in the red haze of the mask, as it frequently banged around my tiny head. I had found it at a garage sale only some weeks earlier and could not believe someone would be selling such a highly-regarded treasure such as this. I had also purchased a lovely red lightsaber – one Anakin Skywalker surely would be proud of (spoiler alert) – and my costume was flawless. All day, I wielded this “weapon” with the ferocity of the Dark Lord. Finally, when the candy had been eaten and school was coming to a close, it was time to take a photo to commemorate this day of candy and fun. I was excited and lined up at the edge of the back row. My costume draped around me like a true Jedi. I smiled underneath my mask.

Yet, as I smiled, it was unknown to me that I would be cropped out of the photo for the yearbook months later. There, the four different Snow Whites stood, their smiles clear and uncropped. Only the tip of my red lightsaber could be seen, an indication of what could have been.