I was thirteen years old, with gangly arms and a fiery attitude, too loud and too opinionated, when I got my heart broken for the first time. I was confused, to say the least. I was confused because my ma and my grandma had warned me, “sweetie, stay away from boys, they will break your heart.” And so I did. I was happy to; they were loud and they were messy and they ate like pigs.
But this person who had hurt me so much was no boy. She was my best friend. This was supposed to be my safe place. And so it hurt more than a boy leaving me ever could. And I didn’t know what to do. I could go to my sister but to her friendship was still a field of flowers and ice cream that never melts. I could go to my mom but she had too much to think of, as it was.
I needed someone. And there she was- the african-british girl with large hair and even larger teeth, the one who liked to read a lot but had to spend too much of her time saving her best friends from dying. There she was- Hermione Granger. I told her all my secrets, kept hers safe. She became a part of my life, I became a part of hers. Soon, I found joy in their laughter, comfort in their friendship, and a home in their school. Along the way I met three boys- one too scarred, the other too reckless, and the third too much in love- and a smart girl made out of firecrackers who would die for each other; the Marauders they called themselves. But their stories, like all others’, had to end. And so it did. But Hermione left me something on her way out - a whole other world carved out of words. When the reality got too much, I slipped in between the covers of a book.
It was spring and I had found friendship and so the Dork Diaries and the Ya-Ya Sisterhood made more sense than ever.
It was summer and I was bored and so I got lost in the Wonderland, and spent hours solving mysteries with Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple.
It was autumn and I was in love for the first time and so I read my way through the John Green novels.
It was winter and I had lost my grandma. It was a pain like no other, the kind of heartache that you feel all over and so I sat down and wept with Violet Markey.
I found love and friendship and comfort in books.
I found strenght and empowerment; when those 3D movies with 2D female characters told me that a woman’s story mattered only when she met a man, I said no because I had read enough of Alice Walker and Chimamanda Ngozi-Adichie to know that women have their own stories to tell and their own lives to narrate; when they say that women’s prophecies are helping men fulfill theirs, I said no because if there is anything Katniss Everdeen has taught me is that women have their own battles to fight.
But most importantly, in this world made out of paper-and-ink, I found hope. I learned that sometimes everything can go wrong, it can all crumble away so easily but as long as there is love and there is hope, we can build it up again. I learned that we must all strive for equality and respect, for justice and for peace, we must all fight for whatever goodness there is left in this world, no matter how tiring and uneventful it may seem sometimes.
I found that love is the way to go, that it is larger than life, stronger than fear.
I found some parts of me splattered across the pages; I still have a long way to go.
I found a little truth of this world hidden between the lines; I still have a long way to go.
And sometimes my eyes rest on that battered little book. I pick it up and dust it off and slip inside. I breathe in the other worldly, and at the same time homely, smell of magic; I take in the chaotic sounds of the chatter in the halls of Hogwarts, and the sound of cauldrons clanking together. And then I spot her the african-british girl with large hair and even larger teeth, the one who likes to read a lot but has to spend too much of her time saving her two best friends from dying. There she is- Hermione Granger. She turns, a familiar smile on her face, the kind that warms the entire room, and whispers, “It has been a long time.”
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