“Alright, everyone to The Chair”, declared my mom. The Chair was the wide red-plaid reading chair in our living room. “I have a new bedtime story for you three. It’s about a boy who’s a wizard. His name, is Harry Potter”. On that night, at the age of four, during our Before-bed Reading Time, my mother introduced to me the world of fantasy.
Since the day my brothers and I were brought home from the hospital, we were read to at night. Before-bed Reading Time is one of my earliest memories, but the night my mom decided to read us Harry Potter was my first exposure to the fantasy genre. I heard plenty of times Good Night Moon, and I recognized a wide array of Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes, but Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone was different. It was a story that existed entirely on its own. Harry Potter was its own universe, and not an isolated nursery rhyme. That night as I sat at my mom’s feet with my stubby four-year-old legs curled underneath me, I was enveloped by the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Even as early as the age of four, it was clear that I was a highly anxious and competitive child. In my kindergarten class I strove to be the best hopscotch-er, know my alphabet before the others, color the prettiest pictures, and be the teacher’s favorite. I wanted to be The Best Good Kid. I was, even then, high strung and unfocussed. Becoming The Best Good Kid was all I thought about until that night around The Chair. That need to be the best , that ceaseless competitive drive fell away while my mom read us Harry Potter. A calm fell over me. During the day I was The Best Good Student, but that night I escaped to Hogwarts. I did not need to be perfect in that world. I did not need to shine the brightest while my mom read to us. I just needed to be.
The night my mother showed me that story, I began to view the genre of fantasy as a form of escapism. In books, I could find solace from the pressures of reality. Mom’s nightly routine of reading Harry Potter to us taught me how to view stories. Harry Potter made me feel at ease with myself, but also gave me the craving to dive deeper into the fantasy genre. I learned to lean into the fantasy genre when my daily life became too chaotic. As I struggled with the overpowering desire to be perfect, I used reading fantasy to slip away from noise for a few minutes or hours. What started as my mom insisting on Before-bed Story Time lead to an early childhood filled with trips to the library to check out the latest fantasy novel. My mom showed me the genre of fantasy, but Harry Potter taught me the power a story has to influence one’s reality by offering an alternative reality.