When I was 12 years old, I was in crisis. Although my body was going through changes that I’d known would happen for a long time, they still took a mental toll on me. Signs of womanhood clung to my bones in ways that have never stopped feeling wrong, the swell of bust and hips, a voice that never dropped, but, most of all, how I was seen. Gender labels felt temporary in childhood, like placeholders for something to come in the same way a child’s milk teeth might sit in a mouth — something I could rip out of my body without much care in hopes something better may take its place. But, it was as if that mouth became full of too many teeth; when womanhood grew in, all it did was destroy the little peace I had.
When I was 12-years-old, I got a Harry Potter box set for Christmas. Like the little nerd I was, I read the entire thing in two weeks and I loved it. The world sucked me in hard and fast, holding me in its pages like a much needed blanket and protecting me from the harsh winter of 7th grade. I related to Harry in such a visceral way, as the boy under the stairs understood me far more than my peers ever did. He, too, was lost.
I think that was the main reason why I liked the series. The world had the aesthetics of somewhere I wanted to be in, far less boring than my regular life. The characters wore the skin of characters I could love; they were shaped to be complex. Harry Potter wasn’t my favorite series (not when the world of Percy Jackson was there), but it was damn near close.
When I was 14, I finally accepted who I was. I was trans — maybe not fully a trans man, but close enough. That turmoil wasn’t over, but I felt at peace knowing who I was finally. My skin would always feel too tight and too loose in all the wrong places and how I was perceived wouldn’t change for a long time, if it ever did at all, but I could finally feel at peace with my sense of self. Then, when I was 15, the author of that world that had cradled me for years proclaimed her hatred for people like me.
Now, I believe in the concept of “death of the author”; what the author intended is one of many interpretations. While it should be taken into consideration, I believe that what you get out of a story should only be aided by the author’s perspective; it shouldn’t get in the way of your own interpretation. That said, in this case, the author is very much alive, in the most literal sense, and her perspective is intrinsically tied to the text.
I wanted to cling to the books for so long, as these characters were everything to me, and this world was my escape in some of the worst moments of my life. The more I clung to the text, however, the more cracks started showing. I’m not here to do an entire literary analysis of the text, but as a reader, I have a lot of thoughts. The world of Harry Potter is supposed to be an escapist fantasy, rooted in reality but full of magic and wonder. However, this world has the exact same problems as ours does while offering no real commentary on them. Slavery is justified time and time again, blood purity is a widespread ideology, and poverty and hunger still exist despite their ability to fix it through magic. Harry Potter is a magical capitalistic hellscape.
The characters also have their issues. The only explicitly black character is named “Kingsley Shacklebolt” for f*ck’s sake. Remus Lupin and his lycanthropy is a canonical metaphor for AIDS — a really badly constructed one that perpetuates questionable stereotypes about the disease. I won’t get further into it, but under the surface — under the magic wands and the defeat of wizard Hitler — the series was never as progressive as it felt like when I was a preteen.
As I started seeing all of these things, an uncomfortable realization came to me: this world never truly welcomed me. I could never see Harry Potter the same way — something that I once held so dearly feels repulsive to me. Now my books are gathering dust in a corner along with all of my memorabilia. This along with things my family gifted me long after I couldn’t enjoy HP anymore. All of the fanfiction I read and enjoyed so much now sits in some digital archive, untouched by my accounts because I can’t bring myself to even enjoy fan works. Because support of Harry Potter, because keeping it relevant, no matter how much queer joy you artificially inject into it, just keeps her relevant.
Today, amongst all of the anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ+ legislation being passed, I don’t want to financially or culturally contribute to a franchise owned by someone who doesn’t want me to exist. Someone who is actively using that money and relevance to promote her beliefs and help campaigns that will pass those harmful laws. It feels wrong. It’s not “harmless fun” to me and many other trans people, it’s our lives, and for many it’s the final line in a death sentence. For Harry Potter, the author cannot be omitted or “die,” not in any way that matters and not while her shriveled little heart keeps beating.