Before the Christmas of 2001, I mostly consumed reading materials already available at home. This mostly meant encyclopedias and informational digests. I grew up in a province with no readily accessible bookstore, and my parents were not avid readers of fiction either. I knew I liked reading, but with no elder figures in my life to guide me through the world of books, my hunger and curiosity only grew with time, occasionally satisfied by buying from travelling book salesmen who visited our school.
I mention 2001 because it was the year that I watched a primetime newscast on local TV showing bookstores selling out Harry Potter. I asked my parents for a copy for Christmas, promising to leave it untouched until it was actually Christmas eve. Most children remember the big lies they tell their parents. That was one of mine. I would sneak in reading a chapter on the days leading up to Christmas eve, not realizing I already read half the book before the night of the 24th.
This is why, to this day, I associate Christmas with books and reading for leisure. A core memory, if you will.
Harry Potter was an escape for most people of my generation. For over a decade, some of us associated our turbulent growing-up years with a franchise that allowed us to live a parallel life. We would study spells and potions and delve deep into the intricacies of the wizarding world. There was the secret, silly hope of getting sent an acceptance letter to Hogwarts and being sorted into the house that fit one’s personality. And let us not forget the merchandise collected over the years, the fanfiction read, and the theories of what would happen next as the series went on.
I unfollowed J.K. Rowling on social media more than a year ago over her trans-exclusionary comments. Out of curiosity, and because of the buzz surrounding the upcoming Hogwarts Legacy game, I checked her Twitter account earlier today. There is absolutely no surprising me at this point that what she stands for are fundamentally anti-trans sentiments; at the same time, there is an ache from a still-healing wound.
There is this gutting pain knowing that what is perhaps the most consequential piece of pop culture for me would have its creator unravel in this specific way. It has since become personal.
Coming to terms that I am nonbinary has parallels with my earlier realization of being different throughout adolescence. Only this time, I have no rabbit hole of Hogwarts to fall back on that only childhood innocence afforded me. There is no escaping the lived reality of being queer, and the many layers of violence and denial it exposes me to.
I am hardly alone. There is a sea of queer ex-Harry Potter fans who have since voiced out their frustrations. Harry Potter will make Rowling billions more even after she’ll pass. For kids like me twenty years ago, it will be a gateway to books and more reading. But we can no longer willingly gloss over the faults of its creator. We have—at least in my view—an underlying moral discourse facing us when we talk about the books and films and games tied to the franchise. There are far more difficult things in life.
But why make this point exactly?
Because someone as influential as Rowling has been deliberate and precise in her crusade. And that crusade is harming people who only want rights and inclusion. Powerful people like Rowling and their voices can hurt us in waves, and in many, many ways.
Ultimately it’s because people like us, fans or erstwhile followers of Rowling’s works, can shift the crucial points of an important conversation.
I will always keep in my head a version of Hogwarts I first visited in 2001. But I will also bear in mind the choices that its creator has made since then and the choices that I—as a queer person—must also make.