On Being Ashamed

I love Harry Potter. And I’m not the tiniest bit embarassed to say so. I’ve seen all the movies, read the books mutliple times, stood in line at midnight to buy books four, five, and six, and gone to school with a scar drawn on my forehead (which freaked my high school Forensics coach out because it was the day of a tournament and he was afraid I wouldn’t wash it off before competing). I was reading a blog yesterday and the author had many entries about her Harry Potter obsession. It made me excited all over again for the seventh and final book to come out this summer. Bart already knows that on that Friday evening, we’ll be standing in line at the local Barnes and Noble until probably one a.m.

Just after reading that blog, though, I happened to see that thing Newsweek does where they ask someone famous (usually a writer) about the five most important books in their life, a book they want to give to their children and one famous work they’ve never actually read. This particular one was Harold Bloom and the books he most wanted to share with his children were Lewis Carroll’s books. He then went on and said that in a generation, Harry Potter will be in the rubbish bin. Now, Harold, was that necessary? Don’t be mean. Harry Potter has done nothing to you.

My point being, Harry Potter is nothing to be ashamed of liking. My other point? You know those “Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants” books? Those I feel deeply ashamed of both reading and liking. I picked up the newest one at the library last night and happened to see some friends on the way out. And I hid the book behind my purse.