By: Gabrielle McLaren, Editor-in-Chief
When I was in fourth grade I had to do a presentation on “my hero,” which is a pretty standard assignment for a kid’s first foray into PowerPoint. I picked J.K. Rowling, who was my absolute favourite author. Later, when professors first noticed that I was a strong and avid writer, the greatest compliment they could give me was throwing her name in my general direction.
If I had one of Rowling’s time-traveling time turners in hand, I would go back and tell fourth grade me two things:
- You’re gay (this matters in general, but for this story in particular), and
- Heroes fall. Yours in particular is going to disappoint you. First as an artist, by money-grabbing at franchise expansions and adding unnecessary yet unforgettable (and unforgivable) canon about how wizards shit. Then, and more importantly, as a person.
I don’t know how I’d explain to my younger self how Twitter works, or how to break down the legal court case that Rowling was commenting on — one in which she chose to support a woman who was terminated for tweeting transphobic comments. I encourage readers to do their own research on Maya Forstater, the woman in question, her history, and the human rights case that ensued. Then, scroll through Twitter to see the absolutely heartbreaking messages left to Rowling by trans fans who had previously found solace in her books.
To be clear, this isn’t the first time trans, queer, and other marginalized Harry Potter fans have pointed out gaps and failings in Rowling’s politics. I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to believe the first few online discussions I stumbled upon about Rowling’s transphobia — and that’s my own fault as a cisgender woman, for not listening to trans folks’ concerns more attentively.
The truth is, being critical would have been much harder than clinging to a favourite book series, a gateway and foundation for many of my friendships, and a comforting cast of characters, storylines, and quotes. When Rowling first discussed how her depiction of werewolves had metaphoric links to the stigma around AIDS, it gave me something to cling to when I still had questions about what my queer identity meant about my life and the way the world would see me. More generally, the Harry Potter series preached values of equality, tolerance, and peace, which I do think heavily shaped me as a young reader. But my experience doesn’t negate the hurt Rowling inflicted elsewhere.
Going forward, I’m going to think twice about following and supporting Rowling’s newest creative projects and works, or buying new merchandise that Rowling might get royalties for. But that’s not enough. It’s my responsibility as someone who was influenced by Rowling’s work and who enjoys the world she created to poke at it and look for the cracks that I’ve seen in my old hero.
It’s my job to listen when, for example, Indigenous people call out Rowling for cultural appropriation and imperial ideologies, or worry when fans point out that the speech of Rowling’s “happily enslaved and happy to serve” house elves presents as an imitation of African American slave dialects. I have to think about what gendered or colonial ideologies I may have passively absorbed elsewhere in her work. If I reread my favourite scene from Prisoner of Azkaban on a bad day, I have to use what I know now — as a more mature and critical adult and as someone who’s seen disappointing sides of Rowling — to worry about what ideologies may have bled into her work and influenced me.
It is too easy to simply declare the death of the author and pretend that Harry Potter hasn’t profoundly shaped generations of young readers who were hoping that Hogwarts would always welcome them home.
