At age nine, I loved being associated with Harry Potter. I had a Hogwarts hat, a Hogwarts sweatshirt, a Gryffindor scarf, and a wand my father carved for me out of tigerwood burl. Every Halloween for three years in a row, I dressed as Harry Potter and went trick-or-treating with a plastic cauldron.
Now, I’m all grown up and rarely think about Harry Potter at all. I have no animosity towards it, but I’m still recovering from Hogwarts burnout.
And yet, I grew into a short young man with unkempt dark hair, a white scar on my forehead, green eyes, thick glasses, and a sharper tongue than is strictly necessary. There is nowhere I can go where people do not compare me to Harry Potter.
My nine year old self would be so pleased.