Growing up with Harry

THIS WEEK’S WINNER

MANILA, Philippines - Johanna Rose D. Briñas is going back to college next semester at Ateneo de Naga University. “Books are my drugs, but I only ever get to have my supply out of libraries because my no-nonsense parents are not quite keen on buying books.”

I first met Harry one sunny after-school afternoon many, many years ago.  Even back when I was in grade school, I had but one favorite way to spend an early class dismissal: getting lost among rows and rows of bookshelves in the school library. I went to a private Catholic school for my elementary education. Back then, the school library was an imposing wide room that occupied most of the second floor of one school building. There was one part of the library that had a large sign saying: “High School Section.”

I called it “The Grown-up Kids’ Area.” The shelves there were filled with serious and important-looking high school textbooks. There were also thick, hardbound books that had words that my seven-year-old self couldn’t quite understand — books like Pride and Prejudice, A Tale of Two Cities and Jane Eyre left me scratching my head in confusion when I flipped through them. I figured I wasn’t old enough to fully grasp what they were saying, that I had to be at least as old as the high school students who often hung out there.

Ah, yes, the high school kids. Those boys with their neatly pressed polo shirts and spiky hair; the girls with their glossy lips and sleek, straight hair — they all had that cool, aloof air, that certain way of talking that makes everything they say sound like a meaningful secret shared only between mature people like themselves. I was in awe and, I admit, more than a little scared of them, and that was why I never much liked staying in their part of the library whenever those folks were there.

However, on that particular afternoon in fourth grade, I had finished reading all the volumes of The Baby Sitter’s Club. I was feeling particularly braver than my usual timid self, at least, brave enough to venture forth into the high school section and browse through the books there. What caught my eye were the titles emblazoned in front and along the spines of the books.

I took the first volume out, chose a vacant table, ignored the curious stares from the older students sitting nearby, and began to read. That’s when I met Harry. “Wotcher,” he said. From then on, I was even more excited to come to the library, because I knew Harry was there waiting for me.

I soon found out that Harry is quite an exceptional kid. For one thing, he can talk to snakes. He unconsciously does things that defy logical explanation for his rational, perfectly normal guardians. During the days leading up to his 11th birthday, owls came swarming into their house bearing letters addressed to him. Oh, and he also has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and was told by a friendly half-giant that as a baby, he destroyed the most powerful evil wizard of all time.

Yes, I’m talking about that Harry. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, I’m sure you’re familiar with or, at least, have heard about Harry Potter, the boy who didn’t know he was a wizard. Harry James Potter of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, goes to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizadry, where he learns how to perform magic spells, brew potions and battle dragons, along with his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Harry Potter, who, in the course of seven books, grew from being the scrawny, maltreated kid who lived in a cupboard under the stairs into the gritty young adult out to destroy the most powerful dark wizard of all time: Lord Voldemort. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. That Harry.

I was one of those who became enamored of the series of novels created by J.K. Rowling. Although I finished the entire series without owning a single one of the seven books, I love the story and the series.

I finished reading the first five books during my last years in grade school. By the time I finished the whole series, I had become one of those big kids in the library that I used to be wary of (minus the lip gloss and the ultra-manageable hair). I guess, in a sense, one can say that I grew up with Harry.

Now, it’s finally time to move on; time to finally learn to understand those complicated books in the Grown-up Kid’s Area. But as I write this little essay that’s more of an anecdote, the theaters are abuzz with the release of the final Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2. All at once I am a kid again, in awe of the world and mesmerized by the wonder of magic. Harry is waiting for me. I run to the nearest theater. “Wotcher, Harry,” I say, “Nice to see you again.”