The Harry Potter Feud with my mom.

We were visiting my hated aunt and uncle the summer I was sixteen or so. I couldn’t relate
to the cousins my age, so I got delegated the task of entertaining the under-tens. We
played with stuffed animals and barbies for a bit, and once they got bored and wandered
off, I poked through the books. There it was, an innocent little paperback titled Harry Potter
and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I’d barely heard of it and I thought, Heck, I’ve got a few hours to kill.
If it’s boring I’ll forget about it.

So I started reading.

Now, I will say that a couple chapters in I was marginally sure my mom wouldn’t want me
reading it if she knew what it was about. I’d long since learned never to ask her questions
about fantasy books, and to lie when she asked me about them, because invariably she’d
tell me I wasn’t allowed to read them. So I was prepared to lie about the content.

The story was interesting. Not what I’d call compelling, but I was at the end of my teenage
years and it was about an eleven year old. I continued reading after dinner. After lights out I
removed myself to the hopefully abandoned living room to finish it up. Mom was there, but
ignored me when she saw a book in my hand. I was two chapters from finished when she
asked the dreaded question: “What are you reading?”

Well, surely the title wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t all that invested, so I looked at the cover and
said, “Something called Harry Potter.” She couldn’t possibly object, knowing nothing of it.

I was wrong.

Mom immediately flipped out, stating it was evil and sinful and I wasn’t to read it. I was sick
and tired of this shit. I said, “Too late! Two chapters left. Just let me finish the ending or it
will keep me up all night wondering.”

She had to relent. We weren’t in her house and obviously her sister let her kids read it. It
was a losing battle all around. However, within me a spark of defiance had been born. Mom
didn’t like it? Alright, I was going to look for the second book.

And thus… book two, and then book three, borrowed from my neighbor and read at her
house. Book four, purchased the day it came out by my sci-fi-reading dad and sneakily
given to me when I came home. The fourth was what cemented my obsession. I started
reading fanfic, and if you know anything about the Harry Potter fandom, the fic is prevalent.

I was there for the midnight release of the fifth book, in costume. I made my own wand out
of antique spoon handles and epoxy. I dared to keep the books at the house, hidden. I went
to the sixth book’s midnight release in costume with friends I’d made via the fandom and
college (I was living at home through college).
Then, the disaster. Mom found the books. She lectured and yelled, and guilted me with
religion until she had me crying and throwing the books out myself. I’m still heartbroken
about that. Those weren’t just books. They were connections and memories to events,
friends, and my dad/co-conspirator.

My dad was going through a hard time. He was finally sober, but had back pain gained on
the job and they forced him to retire a year early and then decided to stiff him his benefits.
Marijuana helped with the pain, so he was frequently stoned. He and I got along really well
in that time, and one day I confessed about the books getting thrown out. He’d provided
the money for half of them, and he was pissed.

“That bitch!” They were only together still for the sake of my younger brother. “C’mon. Get
your shoes. We’re going to the used bookstore.”

About $70 later I had all six that were out, in hardcover, and my dad smoked weed in the
car. I confessed I was Bisexual (this has changed a lot since then) and he said “Cool” and
then helped me find guys and gals walking by that were hot.

I’ve been to every midnight movie showing in costume. Dad drove me to the final book
release. I was moved out by then, but he wanted to take me. I’ve built so many memories
and made wonderful friends because of the fandom. I write my own fanfiction and YA
stories now. I have my own little Harry Potter shrine pride of place in my room.
But in the end it isn’t just for my prime fandom. It’s for my late dad, and its thumbing my
nose at my mom. It’s my declaration that I grew up and learned to make and do for myself.
And guess what, mom? It never turned me to practicing witchcraft. However the attitude I
received about this and many other things made me stop being a Christian.

EDIT: Wow! That’s a lot of upvotes and views! Thanks, y’all!! I do want to address a common
comment I’ve been getting that boils down to “Not All Christians” and worries about me
losing my faith. To be clear, I haven’t lost my faith. I still believe, I just don’t participate or
label myself that way anymore. There’s too much judging in the church, and I’ve never felt
comfortable and welcomed in one. I’m sure your church is cool and different and I’m happy
for you, honestly. I still know practicing Christians that can be loving and accepting. I have
known people from many religions and lack there-of to be both good people and terrible
people.

Personally, I believe that all gods exist. The Bible says so when it says the Christian God is
above all others. It’s the worship part that I’m deciding on. The Christian God and Christ are
the only ones I talk to, though. We’ll see what happens.

As to those who are currently in the place I once was, know that I’m rooting for you, and I
hope you stay safe. Parents aren’t the end-all-be-all of your existence, and blood doesn’t
make you family. After all, the true saying is “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the
water of the womb.” You can find your family in the people that choose to love you no
matter what, who stick by you through good and bad, and who accept you no matter what
you discover about yourself.