As a young girl, I hardly ever rebelled against my parents’ wishes. When I did rebel (such as when I saw, or rather heard, my first Rated R movie at the age of 11) I felt extremely guilty about it. In fact, when I went to family therapy for one session around the age of 12, I cried over simply having cussed at all. I was clearly a delicate child.
The one rebellion that I never felt guilt over? Definitely reading Harry Potter.
My parents were not, of course, against Harry Potter because of its extremely obvious theme of witchcraft, which is very clearly prohibited in the Bible. Instead, they were against it because Harry lived under a cupboard at the Dursley house, which was definitely child torture. (I was, for a similar reason, prohibited from watching The Rescuers. Instead I repeatedly watched The Rescuers Down Under.) However, an avid reader from a young age, I could simply not abide by being kept away from a book. I promptly borrowed the entire series up to that point from my friend and hid them under the mattress of my futon.
I think about all of this because today I am preparing to run a Harry Potter D&D style dice game this Saturday. My almost-six-year-old nephew (who will be playing “Stinky Sluggo,” who specializes in transfiguration magic) is so excited that he asked for us to make peanut butter cookies in Harry Potter themed shapes. Before and afterwards, I started compiling a game appendix that includes every spell mentioned in the Harry Potter universe (thank you, Wikipedia).
In essence, I am exactly the person those fundamentalists were worried about.
I just thought that was kind of charming. (I have a terrible sense of humor.)
(P.S. Who wants to see the first half of The Deathly Hallows movie with me at midnight? That’s right. All of you.)