When I was a second grader, new books that came into our school’s library were a hot commodity. The more Accelerated Reader tests you took, the more chances you had to be entered into a drawing, and this drawing determined who would get their first pick of new books that came in. Reading was cool. Reading made you cool. Carrying around a brand new hardback that no one else had gotten to see yet was like carrying around the secrets of the universe in your backpack.
The week that Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was delivered to our school, there was no drawing. I had somehow managed to take enough AR tests to demonstrate that I had the highest reading level in all of the second grade classes, and they rewarded me with being the first person to get to take Book One home.
A lot of my favorite things in this life both began and ended before my time. Most of my favorite bands toured in support of their best albums when I was just a kid. Favorite movies came out before I was born, favorite books were already written. So I don’t mind much if Harry Potter’s not your thing, or if you think it’s silly—but for awhile, this was something that was all mine. It was dressing up as those characters for themed parties, reading and re-reading those books until late into the night. Watching the movies. Arguing about the movies. Skipping class my sophomore year to read them out loud (using fake british accents and everything!) with the boy I thought was cute. Barricading myself in my mom’s best friend’s house the morning Book Seven came out and finishing it in nine straight hours. This franchise has been something that grew with me as I grew with it. So I’ll be there tonight, standing in line with my Gryffindor house-colored beanie and probably an anxious look on my face. And I’ll be real sad to see it finally finished, but goddamn, didn’t we have a good run?
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