Great time to let your nostalgia run wild
relatable, palatable way. Suddenly, feminism made sense, and it was for everyone. Far from being something to be ashamed to admit, it became a no-brainer.
‘‘Put your hand in your pants,’’ Moran instructs in HTBAW.
‘‘Do you have a vagina? Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said ‘yes’ to both, then congratulations! You’re a feminist.’’
The book was not a paragon. I reread it a few months ago (obviously) and found I disagreed with, for example, the bit where Moran reckons it’s fine for women to slag each other off. But the book was face-achingly funny, gross, articulate, and employed metaphors so elaborate as to be feats of linguistic gymnasticism. It was, for me, the perfect gateway to other feminist literature. The Harry Potter series, books 1-7 (1997-2007) by JK Rowling Fantasy is not generally my jam – plot holes do me in. In fairness, I’ve probably never given it much of a chance. The all-consuming world of Harry Potter ruined all else for me.
Even now, more than a decade after I first read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, when I see a weirdly dressed person on the street, I’ll think to myself: ‘‘Wizard.’’ The books were credited with getting bookphobes excited about reading, and, indeed, my own older brother got stuck into them in his 20s, having never read a book that wasn’t assigned by a teacher. I reread books four, six and seven every summer holidays during university. My parents bought me a brand new box set with ‘‘adult covers’’ for my 20th birthday; the originals had disintegrated.
Whether someone has read the books or not has been almost a dealbreaker in budding friendships. Now, I know it’s better not to ask. My flatmates in Wellington, mercifully, were as keen on the boy wizard as I was.
When I scored a job in Christchurch, they threw a Harry Potter-themed party to send me off. We scattered star-shaped confetti across the flat’s two storeys. Four years and three cities later, I still occasionally find a star in my clothes.