Something About Harry
If I occasionally seem to march to a different drummer, at least in regards to what passes for popular culture these days, the truth is it has less to do with principle than pragmatism.
Take Mel’s movie. Please.
While I have some curiosity about the particular theology that drives a man to extrapolate a phrase or two from the Gospels into a two-hour bloodbath, a massacre of the Prince of Peace, I can at least understand why you might want to see “The Passion of the Christ.” It’s controversial and water cooler material, and certainly people are talking.
It’s just that I’m squeamish. It has nothing to do with principle. I’ve heard and read reports from people who were genuinely moved, and from others who thought it was baloney. These people run on all sides of faith, practice and (sigh) politics, so it’s obviously a powerful piece and I’m not going, thank you.
But then, I pass on a lot of things, for different reasons. Mostly, I look at my life and don’t see a lot of hours I wonder how I’m going to fill.
I’ve never seen an episode of “Law and Order” or “Survivor.” I’ve never caught “The Sopranos” or “Sex In The City.”
I read “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy in college, mostly because it seemed the thing to do, but I wasn’t thrilled by it and I just haven’t gotten around to seeing any of the films, as grand and wonderful as they sound. Maybe I’ll get the flu or something and watch them then.
This puts me at odds with not only a lot of people but, specifically, my family. I skip out on culture and they revel in it, sharing secrets I can’t possibly understand. I don’t have a lot of guilt about this, but still. I’ve probably been missing out on things, just because I think I’m too busy.
But I got caught last week. My guard was down and my mood was good, and I wandered through my living room and it came out of left field. My wife was watching Canadian TV and there it was. I caught a glimpse of a very big man knocking down a door, and there was a letter and an owl and a geeky kid with round glasses, and over the course of two hours or so I learned to believe in magic again. I do believe, I do, I do.
This was Harry Potter, of course. The first movie. The second one sits on my desk now. I’m going to watch it tonight.
I’ve avoided Harry for reasons I think I listed above. My wife and son, on the other hand, are devotees who wait for new books the way people anticipate playoff tickets. They buy two at a time and read in tandem, making noises and comments to each other while I roll my eyes.
Or used to.
My sister once showed the movie “Hook” to my father, and she described something in his eyes afterward that she couldn’t quite identify. I could explain it now, explain how in the heart of a gruff, tough man who worked with his hands and brooked no nonsense there was Peter Pan, flying through a window and heading straight on to morning.
I saw echoes of “The Wizard of Oz” and half a dozen Grimm Brothers tales. I saw stories that began around campfires and ended in mysterious, wonderful worlds where Good battles Evil and magic is real and we are children, still, always.
My wife set the first Potter book on my nightstand that evening.
I understand now. I know about Hogwarts and Quidditch and Snape and Dumbledoor. I am friends with Harry and Ron and Hermione. I worry about Neville but know he’ll be fine.
I hate Draco, of course.
And I know there was a period when people made noise about this series, questioned the propriety of books about wizards and witchcraft, were genuinely concerned for children and didn’t notice that kids were reading, they were actually reading, not to mention forgetting millennia of storytelling and letting petty fear suck the joy out of their souls, while trying to scare the rest of us. These are frightened, little sad people and I am at war with them.
They are Muggles.
I am wild about Harry now, and I’ve set aside Tom Clancy and Stephen King and Garrison Keillor for another storyteller. The books are here, waiting for me, and if this sounds strange, a middle-aged man delving into a children’s story, then I apologize for nothing.
There’s a Peter Pan in my heart, too, and now a kid with glasses and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. And if you catch me outside, sweeping the sidewalk or the garage floor, and notice that I’m holding the broom with an interesting, far-off look on my face, you’ll know where I am and what I’m dreaming of doing.
3:14:01 PM 
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