Sitting on the Metaphorical Shelf: My Experience Reading Harry Potter

     Over fifteen years ago, in 2003, my father-in-law, Jay Pace, put a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in my hands. "Read this," he said. "I don't usually like this kind of book, but it was really entertaining." I put it aside, thinking I would, perhaps, read it at some point. J.K. Rowling published the book in 1997, the year I graduated from college and started teaching. That year, I confess, I was just trying to keep my head above water in my classroom. I read only the books I was teaching; that's really all I had time for after staying up long hours writing lesson plans, grading papers, and learning the art of adulting.  I remember students racing to read the series once it became an international sensation, but it didn't seem to captivate my attention. Even when my father-in-law--someone I respected as a person and a writer in his own merit--placed the book in my hands, I struggled to crack it open. In 2004, my father-in-law passed away unexpectedly, a year after he lent me the book. I still hadn't read it and just couldn't seem to bring myself to do so.

Jay Pace, my father-in-law, posing with The Herald Progress at the Ashland train station

       I always imagined I would read the Harry Potter series with my kids. Somehow, though, we never did; like me, they were never interested in the books. I watched as their friends dove into the culture and magic of Harry Potter. I took my kids to birthday parties bearing the theme, and so many of their friends have worn Harry Potter Halloween costumes. And yet, I still hadn't picked up the book. Over the years, I've had students marvel that I was an English teacher and hadn't read those books. "I just don't like that kind of book," I would tell them. I've had students who were required to read J.K. Rowling's work in college classes. One student even wrote her extended essay--a 1600 word essay students are required to write if they are pursuing the IB diploma--on Harry Potter and Shakespeare. I was intrigued by the topic, but I still hadn't picked up the book. At an elementary school book fair this winter, my son's principal approached me, also amazed that I hadn't read Harry Potter. After her encouragement, I bought Jack his own copy, and we were going to read it together. Yet, I never picked up the book; neither did my son.

      I'm not sure what made me make excuses for not reading Harry Potter for so long. Perhaps it was too mainstream. Perhaps it was knowing I wouldn't like it because I tend to like more realistic fiction. Perhaps it was the fact that if I read the first one, I would be committed to reading the entire series. Perhaps it was because it would make me remember my father-in-law, wishing he was here so that I could have discussed the book with him. Whatever it was, those excuses evaporated this year, as I found myself making a promise to one student I taught that I would read the book. I volunteered to supervise the Atlee Book Club this year, and the books they had selected for the final meeting were all books that I had read. "You could read Harry Potter, Mrs. Pace!" one of my students said, smiling. I didn't know how to tell her that I was scared to read that book--that I thought it would be too hard  personally. So, I smiled and told her I would. At her graduation I told her I had read three--no, not three of the books in the series--three chapters. I had started and made a promise to really read it over the summer and to give her a report.

     Like most English teachers, I have a pile of books to read this summer; I adore the unencumbered time this part of the year affords me to read. Harry Potter was carefully placed at the bottom of the stack--until I saw Toy Story 4. I promise not to give any spoilers to the movie in case you will go see it, but there was a line in that movie that stopped me in my tracks: "If you sit on a shelf the rest of your life, you'll never find out." Woody says this in the movie to one of the toys, encouraging her to take action. For fifteen years, I had left Harry Potter on both the literal and metaphorical shelf. I didn't know what I was missing. So, that afternoon, I stopped sitting on the shelf, moved Harry Potter to the top of my pile, and started reading.

     I learned much from reading Harry Potter this first week of summer. For one, I learned that I actually like the book. Dumbledore was the character who I admired most because of his sensibility and wisdom. I loved that  Hermione seemed so real because she was a rules follower who occasionally didn't follow the rules and found Harry to be an innately humble hero. Towards the end of the book, Dumbledore states, "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live" (Rowling 214). I marveled at how much that sentence resonates with the line from Toy Story 4. Suddenly, Harry Potter motivated me in ways I never thought it would.

     I will admit, I still don't love the fantasy genre as a whole, but what I got out of reading Harry Potter was far more important. I learned that I can't make excuses for things that might seem difficult or out of reach. I can't put things off for a future date. I can't dream of what I want my life to be like; I've got to take action. I can't sit on the shelf for the rest of my life. When my father-in-law was living, he was the editor of the Herald Progress, a community newspaper that served much of Hanover County. A few times, Jay asked me to write an editorial for him. I was scared to do it in much the same way that I was scared to read Harry Potter after he died. I never did write for him. He would have loved the blog I started writing three years ago, though. This summer, I encourage you to do one thing that you've been putting off. Let if shift your perspective or change you positively. Let it help you grow as a person.

      Sadly, I never got to discuss  Harry Potter with my father-in-law, but I now know that's okay. For had I read this book when he asked me to read it, I most certainly would not have gained this perspective. I think I still might be sitting on that metaphorical shelf, forgetting to live--and what a rather unfortunate life that would be.

A Yellow Brick Road Farewell

     When I was in high school, I was in the play The Wizard of Oz. While I aspired to be the Wicked Witch of the West and thought I had her cackle down, apparently according to the director, I wasn't "mean" enough. Instead, I landed the part of the munchkin (more than likely, my height helped me acquire this role). I learned to dance on my knees and even acquired a munchkin voice that comes in handy when I want to make my kids laugh or I need a random fun fact about myself in social situations. As a munchkin in Oz, I learned every single line of the play. I'm not sure why; if the Wicked Witch of the West got sick, I doubt they'd ever put me in. Still, to this day when The Wizard of Oz comes on t.v., I know the lines. When my father-in-law was alive, he could recite the movie as well. I remember when we discovered that we had this in common. We were watching the movie in the Outer Banks over Thanksgiving break. Finally, someone existed who wasn't annoyed that I could sing every note of the scarecrow's ballad of desiring a brain or talk like the Cowardly Lion, lamenting he was not king of the forest. There's one scene in particular that I always am drawn to, though--when Dorothy has to say goodbye to the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Lion. The dialogue goes like this:

Dorothy: Goodbye, Tin Man. Oh, don't cry! You'll rust so dreadfully. Here's your oil can.

Tin Man: Now I know I've got a heart, 'cause it's breaking...

Dorothy: Goodbye, Lion. I know it isn't right, but I'm going to miss the way you used to holler for help before you found your courage.

Cowardly Lion: I never would've found it if it hadn't been for you...

Dorothy: [to Scarecrow] I think I'm going to miss you most of all.

This scene sums up everything perfectly for me right now. My heart breaks to have to say goodbye to my students at the end of the school year. 

     I think about all of the goodbyes I've experienced in life--transitioning from a flip phone to a smart phone, saying goodbye to the mini van with too many miles on it. I've moved out of houses and said goodbye to friends who moved away. When I was thirteen, I let balloons go into the sky outside of my grandmother's hospital room--orbs of blue and yellow and pink floating among the clouds--as we prepared to say goodbye to her. I've shed pounds (unfortunately, only to welcome new ones back). I cry every time I back out of my parents' driveway, knowing I won't see them again for a few months. I've had to say goodbye to book characters who became my "friends" as I was reading and tv shows like Friends that were a staple in my high school and college days (thank goodness for Netflix). I know goodbyes are inevitable, but why does it take a brief moment to say hello and forever to say goodbye? Why are goodbyes so hard? This week, I will have to say goodbye to you, my students. While some of you I will be fortunate to have in Theory of Knowledge next year, many of you will never sit in my class again. Seniors, I'm not going to see you in the hallways on a daily basis. You're not going to put up with my memes There's no more tardy table and bells and elbowing crowded hallways. There's no more "us" as a class.

     The question I've been most asked by most people I've encountered recently is "You're a teacher; you must be ready for summer?" And while I need a break from essay grading, I have always had a hard time at the end of the year. Most people shake their head or laugh when I say this. I've even encountered a few eye rolls. 

Yet, I'm saying goodbye to so much:

one of the captains of the football team and several lacrosse players with some interesting new hairstyles.

the Editor-in-Chief and Photography Editor of the yearbook and some other yearbook staff members.

 a student venturing to Japan for college even though he doesn't speak Japanese (I have no doubt he'll be fluent shortly, though).

the creators of the Raider Readers book club and 9 of the top 10 ranked for their academics.

students passionate about politics.

a student who started a Special Olympics tennis league from the ground up.

a fearless jazzercise leader and two students who brought yoga to a local elementary school's field day.

a student who grades my memes regularly--and who has taught me so much (about meme making and life).

someone who taught inner city kids how to swim and provided them with swimsuits and goggles so they could do so.

one of the best drum majors and constant advocates of positivity.

a leader in the FFA.

a student who can construct a paper airplane far better than I can and another who is an expert at going on tangents.

a student with more nicknames than I can count on my fingers,and a gymnast who can far out flip anyone I know even when she's injured.

students who have mastered the water bottle flip, the marker flip, and even created a new system of math.

The Class of 2019

I say goodbye to 

readers and writers and also the students who read the Spark notes instead of the books.

students who are doing wonders for the Speak Up Club.

a bunch of show choir kids who have broken out in song in my first block class more than once.

 students who have taught me about texting shortcuts (fr). 

students who can banter beautifully about Classic rock.

I say goodbye to an EMT.

someone who successfully hijacked two powerpoints and who also made me my very own pair of shoes.

actors who light up the stage in theatre productions and improv.

table artists who leave me daily positive messages.

I say goodbye to 28 seniors, 86 juniors--114 people who have become my family. These are the people who have seen me at my best in the classroom but have also seen me at my worst and still accept me for the teacher I am. These are the leaders and athletes and artists and cultivators of kindness of Atlee High School. I say goodbye to people who inspire me to be better--1% better than the day before. I say goodbye to intelligent, strong, compassionate young people who I have been so lucky to teach.

Goodbyes are not easy. No one ever said they were. In one week, I will have completed 20 years of teaching. 20 years of hoping I made a difference. 20 years of faculty meetings, papers graded and relationships built. 20 years of saying goodbye.

In having to say goodbye, my heart breaks like the tin man.

Like the lion, you no longer need my help; you have the courage to move on.

And just as Dorothy returned to Kansas, I'll return to my classroom and shut the door when the last of my students leaves for the year. While I know there's no place like home, I also know the Class of 2019 will always be my scarecrow: I think I will miss you most of all. 

Juniors, make your senior year the best it can possibly be. Don't become complacent or give up too early. You are capable of such great things.

Class of 2019, go out and make a difference in this world as you have in my life. And know that it's hard to say goodbye because I love teaching you; I always will.