I was sitting in a dorm room at one in the morning holding a collector's edition Hermione's wand and wearing Harry Potter glasses. It was dark and loud with talking, talking about classes, about movies, about life, about books, when friends began to criticize a series I hold dear, Harry Potter. They took every element of the book and stripped it down so far that the magic became hard to grasp, difficult to remember, from the way in which they were describing the story. Every mistake, every loop hole that J.K. Rowling left unfixed and opened, they ripped apart and used as evidence as to why the series is not worth the merit and fandom it has received. I was truly shook up. I began to analyze the series in my mind, to evaluate the feelings which had so strongly stemmed from the story of a young boy wizard, orphaned and alone, developing friendships and coming to terms with his life, his trials and destiny, and how he conquered the evil in this world. I soon realized that the loopholes do not matter, they will never matter. The story was something more to me; it was a childhood, a life, an adventure.
It was seventh grade. I was a slightly chubby thirteen year old, round belly, skinny legs. My group of friends was not "popular", we were not the middle school athletes, the super nerds, or the kids that people feared. We were simply the in-betweens. We belonged nowhere, and because of that, we belonged with each other. We were diverse and different, each of us unique in our own quirky way. But one crucial thing united us, we loved to read. And I read. I read everything I could get my hands on from as early as I can remember, and seventh grade, a particularly nasty year for me, being the subject of mild bullying that I completely survived, was the fateful year I discovered the books that would change my world, Harry Potter. I was in the library, happily searching the old dusty shelves of too few books for my next journey, my next escape, when I ended up in the aisle with the Harry Potter series. I knew of it. Oh, I knew about it. I had watched the first movie the year it came out when I was only in kindergarten. Yet, I had refused to read it up until this moment, believing, as in hipster-like fashion, that it was "too popular" to be worth it.
I gave in.
In a few months I had savored them all, careful not to read them too fast lest they end too quickly. I was, quite honestly, and not the least bit melodramatically, depressed when I had reached their end. I no longer knew what to do with myself. I was completely immersed in this world of imagination, of endless magic, of friendship and danger. It took me away, it carried me off to a place where it didn't matter whether or not I was pretty, whether or not I was "cool", and it taught me that being different, being a part of the group that has no group, is completely fine, and sometimes, it can be a good thing.
After middle school, I slowly transformed. I was no longer the shy, quiet girl huddled behind a book like I had been. I was a different person, happy, outgoing, and confident. I became a runner, made new friends, even changed schools. I had molted, but deep down, the core of who I was never changed. I remained an avid reader and never forgot the story about the boy wizard, his two best friends, and the parallel childhoods we had together. Now, in college, I think about the books almost every day, for they are not simply a part of my life, they are a part of me.
So that night, sitting in my dorm room, listening to friends bash the books that I had esteemed and lived, that were an integral piece of what made my childhood so memorable, I realized something. It occurred to me that I was incredibly lucky. I was allowed to be apart of this world, this beautiful journey through the imagination, without question, but only wonder. I had a childhood full of play, pretend, and magic. The story means something to me not because it is the greatest piece of literature that ever graced the earth, but simply because it was my story. Harry Potter represents what my childhood felt like, stood for, and meant to me.
There is a simple wonder to the unquestioning minds of children which I find too many of us forget as we grow older. Too often are beautiful stories cast aside as for only "children", when really the imagination and sheer illogic of the tales is what makes them great. The simplicity and imperfection is incorrectly taken to mean they are not for adults, when really I think adults are the ones who need the stories most. We are not meant to live these dull and humdrum lives that society throws at us. We are meant to be free. And no other genre exhibits such breathtaking liberation as that of children, for children, when allowed to live the childhoods they deserve, are truly free.
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