Thirteen years ago, I was a bookish, bossy, awkward ten-year-old with buck teeth and frizzy hair and a lingering belief in magic, when one day my dad brought home a book about a wizard boy and his friends. It’s hard to put into words what a made-up story can mean to you, especially a made-up story that has meant so much to so many people, but the best I can say it is this: recognizing flashes of yourself in imaginary characters, flashes of the parts of you that have been tucked away and studiously hidden because they were weird or different or somehow silly, is the unloneliest feeling in the world. Because suddenly, all at once, you have a whole new kindred spirit alive in your imagination, and more than that, somewhere out there is an author who maybe knows that part of you, and maybe she has it too, the bit that’s bossy or weird or still believed in magic at the much-too-grown-up age of twelve, maybe still believes today, and if you have it and she has it, then maybe there are others, and maybe, if a grown-up thinks so, it’s okay to be shy or mean sometimes or have buck teeth or frizzy hair, and maybe you can even, somehow, do great things despite all these obvious shortcomings you’ve tried so hard to squirrel away. And all at once, in the turning of pages, life feels a little bit better.
It’s been books like these that have reassured me over the years (and in the case of Harry Potter, over the most difficult middle and high school years) that it’s perfectly alright to be exactly who I am. I feel so lucky to have grown up alongside these characters, and I’m so sad to let them go, and silly as it sounds a series of children’s novels have taught me so much about being brave and kind and doing what is right even when it’s difficult. Thanks a bunch, J.K. Rowling. It’s meant a lot.
Mischief managed.
