Tuesday, October 24, 2017

How Reading Harry Potter (WAY LATE) Was The Best Path for Me

I never read Harry Potter when it came out.

Why?

Put simply: I was terrified of it.

A teacher in High School, whom I knew outside of school as well and trusted, said something about it when it first came out that made my head spin and my heart sink.

"It's about abuse, Jess. He's a prisoner under the stairs. It's going to end with him dying; Hogwarts was just his way of finding hope before he dies under the stairs."

I couldn't touch it. I've made no secret of the fact that I suffered abuse before I was adopted at age 4. I can't fathom what reading about the adventures of this child would be like if, in the end, it was all a way to save him from suffering.

I've had friends, and family, chide me for this denial of literature. More often than not, when asked about Potter, my response was a brisk, "I haven't read or watched it. I have my reasons." I was lobbied, bribed, threatened (in a loving way) and I remained unmoved.

Even after my husband tricked me into watching the first Deathly Hallows movie, I resisted the books. "How'd he trick you?" "Jess! Look at the Alan Rickman movie!" Yes, that's a more reliable way to get me to do anything I refuse to do than just about any other incentive. So suffice to say I was Team Snape before I knew what the hell that meant.

Two years ago, because of my husband's enthusiasm for Harry Potter, I bought him the boxed set of books. We already own the movies, because like I said, "Alan Rickman" is a phrase on par with "expensive dinner at prestigious place" and "all the ice cream/mac-n-cheese you want" in my house. I will stampede for that, given the right mood.

My husband was not, when we met, a "reader." I am proud to say that my influence has broken him down. He now has a bookshelf instead of a nightstand, just as I do. After a year, he was still on Chapter 3 of the first book, having been distracted by a bunch of other books I'd bought him and the busy life of working 60+ hours a week.

The summer of 2016 was a challenge for me. I can't say that it was any particular thing, but stress from a job that turned out to be toxic for me and the uncertainty of family members being ill led me to investigate escapist reading in a way I had not before. I considered, and intended to, start reading Harry Potter. Life intervened, and I found myself on a journey of both painful self-discovery and the horror of nearly losing my father.

I have written about the passing of my father here, and the grief is still very much with me, but in the summer after he died I began to look around and the things I considered the loose ends of my life. I wrote letters I'd been contemplating for years. I repaid kindnesses I'm certain people forgot they had paid me, but I thought of them at least weekly. I filled the world with a little bit of the joy I missed, and I turned my attention to the books I had been thinking about for a year.

Getting through the first book was not what I expected. No one had told me that J. K. Rowling does not write character-driven books. These were action/adventure books. I understood the age range for which they were intended, and I enjoyed the plain language with which the books were written. The tone was a hell of a gear change for me, having been on re-reading binges with Christopher Moore (Lamb continues to save my life) and Neil Gaiman (American Gods will forever have a place in my soul).

Gradually, I grew acclimated to the writing style. I began to understand the intricacies of the fandom (Book Ginny is vastly superior). I found the determination of my friends to see the movies on opening nights, maybe even in robes (miss you every day, Melissa Moses), charming and completely understandable. I even developed favorites of my own, with Snape a clear top contender. I marveled at the world Ms. Rowling wrought, and the people in it.

I finished these books in record time, finding myself sobbing through most of them but determined to finish. As I acquired this new knowledge, I realized most of my friends would laugh at my delay so I immediately set about telling my sister-since-we-were-8-at-daycare Melissa Bentley about it. She responded to my statement that I hadn't read them until now with, "Oh, too mainstream for yah?"

In fairness to Melissa, she's right. I tend to shy away from things that have mass appeal. Not because there's anything wrong with them, but generally I find them lacking in ways I consider vital. I explained the origin of my misapprehensions. Her instant response was, "Well crap, I wish you would have told me."

As I put down the final book, I remembered that conversation. I also thought of the mechanism I'd be given. Somehow, through the fight of the books, I had also slowly but surely processed the death of my Father. I also found the still-painful loss of my Mother had been processed again, in a way that felt easier to bear. For a moment in my life, my understanding of the world was made a little bit better and brighter for reading books that I could have read over a decade before but it wouldn't have been the same.

I find myself grateful for this gift. I have learned the short-hand of the books, and get teased with affectionate playfulness by many of those who love me about my late arrival to the Potter party. My affection for the books, and characters, will forever be linked to the words on those pages letting my loss and confusion find outlets. I have rarely been more grateful for literature, or more convinced of its healing nature.

So while I'm way past late to enjoying Harry Potter, I certainly delight in the magic given to the world. And yes, before you ask, I've read The Cursed Child and seen/read way too much Pottermore. Also, if you didn't fall in love with the Niffler in Fantastic Beasts there's something wrong with you. I'm a jumble, I admit, but I am certainly a grateful one.

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