A Saving People Thing

The heroism we misplaced along the way

(As this piece is in response to Holly Wood’s brilliant essay, “What Cuts Down Heroic Children?” it is wise to read that first.)

Like Hermione’s beloved copy of Hogwarts, A History I have carried the Harry Potter books, if not literally, figuratively wherever I went.

As a little girl I remember the time we got a new fridge and as a result we ended up with the most amazing cardboard box. It became a castle, a rocket, a slide. The Harry Potter series became a more evolved version of that box. It became a closet to crawl into when I needed to hide. An imaginary friend to talk to when I was bullied and ostracized. A mirror where I saw myself wearing a dozen faces and on a dozen separate paths. An arena where my doubts and fears were cut down.

Like Ron, I grew up poor. Like Harry, I had family who was cruel and neglectful. Like Hermione I was ridiculed for being smart and wanting to learn. And like them all I felt as if I had something inside of me that was special. A spark that told me I should dream bigger. That despite my own doubts and misgivings I could do more than I originally thought I was capable of. That the limitations imposed on me were empty threats.

There were a lot of things I was told I couldn’t do because I was a girl. And there were a lot of things I wouldn’t be able to do because I was poor. And then there were the things I told myself I would never accomplish because my brain didn’t function right- it was too fragmented, sputtering like a dying engine. Or it was being battered by attacks of anxiety so severe I once had to hide under the table in my college’s cafeteria.

But I got better.

Not in the sense of getting over a cold where you’ll become well whether you make an effort or not. But in the sense that I got better. I grew. I became stronger. More resilient.

I stubbornly demanded therapy and once a week I sat on a couch and picked at the old wounds that had scabbed over. Wounds that had festered. At first I wondered if I was doing any good at all, or if I was only picking at it and making it bleed. But it was actually a form of debridement. I was excising all the dead and damaged parts of me so the healing could take place. So it could scar over. Scars will twinge. Sometimes they burn.

And through it all, in ways big and small those books were a talisman, or a compass or even a brief, but much needed escape. It was not long after the series concluded that I too vanquished what Holly calls, “the most obvious wrong.” But my book hadn’t ended. I had become a survivor, but to me that reflected a static event- a peril I had managed to overcome- and I was not going to let that become my identity.

And so I have been plodding on, looking for less obvious wrongs, both within myself and the world around me. Because that’s what heroes do.

And that’s who I want to be.

And now (finally!) circling back to Holly’s essay. Reading it, despite the dire question it begs to be answered, gave me hope. Hope and comfort that I’m not the only one wondering the same thing. Validation that carrying these children’s stories with me isn’t childish.

“What cuts down heroic children?”

I really want to have the correct answer. I want to raise my hand and barely wait to be called on before confidently blurting out the answer. But my hand only makes it up half way before I let it drop. Because I don’t know. I wish I did.

But, I think it may be okay not to know.

I think it may be okay not to know, as long as we all are asking ourselves this question. Because the answer will be different for each of us.

“What cuts down heroic children?” The answer is our goal, and if we reach it, perhaps we’ll manage to cut down what may be the least obvious (and most sinister) wrong of all.

It won’t be easy. Apathy is a formidable foe and as it stands now merely getting by has been a challenge. We may all set out together, but there is no guarantee we will all make it to the end. It will be full of danger.

But that’s the way hero’s journeys are.