It was funny to admit that, at 34, I had never even attempted to read one of the Harry Potter books.
It’s sort of like how I’ve only ever seen one of the Star Wars movies. (I call it “Star Wars” but people tell me it’s “A New Hope.”) I didn’t really care. I also have not seen The Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Indiana Jones, X-Men or any of the Rocky movies. (But I regularly get Doris Day songs stuck in my head and saw Spice World in the theatre seven times, so my taste is questionable.)
It seemed most of my friends and much of my family had read all of the Harry Potter books and loved them deeply. They hadn’t really appealed to me, I suppose. I’m not big on fantasy books or movies — um, except for that brief obsession with the Twilight series in my mid-20s.
I had only seen one of the Harry Potter movies and that was purely by mistake. I had been heavily pregnant and persuaded to tag along to the theatre, really only interested in the air conditioning and buttery popcorn.
What I knew about Harry Potter could fit on the head of a magic wand. I knew there was a wizard school called Hogwarts. I knew there was a flying sport called Quidditch. I knew people were divided into “houses” according to their personalities or something. And I knew when one of the books was released, people kept spoiling it by shouting “Snape kills Dumbledore!”
Our son recently turned eight and one of his best friends absolutely loves Harry Potter. She’s read all of the books and watched the movies, but he never seemed interested. Like mother, like son. But I could see he was experiencing the same niggling feeling of maybe missing out on something. I felt it, too …