“I kind of
think I might be a Ravenclaw. But I
would be fine with being anything except a Slytherin. I mean, I know Slytherins can sometimes be
okay, but…”
But, yeah,
exactly. Who would want to be assigned
to the Hogwarts House with the You-Know-Who-related PR problem? Clearly, it would be better to be labeled a
bookish Ravenclaw or even a loyal Hufflepuff.
Of course, best of all would be joining Gryffindor, the house of
Hermione, Ron, and Harry himself. Gryffindors
not only save the world from unspeakable evil, they also manage to be funny,
dashing, and charming as they do so.
I have two ten
year-olds. I live in a world in which Quidditch
is a topic of serious discussion, ethics are debated in terms of Draco Malfoy’s
moral compass, and being Sorted is a Really Big Deal. For the past four months, I’ve been working
my way through all 4,224 pages of the Harry Potter series with the twins – a
pleasure for which I had to wait an irksomely long time. Although their closest friends weathered the
terrors of the Forbidden Forest and Godric’s Hollow as early as kindergarten,
my kids were unified in their fear of Scary Stuff – including all things Potter
-- until very recently. I now relish
attempting to make my voice as somber, as mirthful, or as Snape-y as each
sentence requires. They hang onto my
every word. Often, Molly also hangs onto
my arm, my knee, or my entire body. As
soon as I’m done reading each book, Lizzy seizes it and squirrels it away in
her bed for rereading – a feat she usually accomplishes in one tenth the time
needed for the original oration.
This past
weekend, just as we embarked upon the seventh, final, and most wrenching book
of the series, the twins’ older-and-wiser middle-school friend introduced them
to the wonders of Pottermore – the official J.K. Rowling-approved website that
not only allows aficionados to wallow in such details as the significance of wand-flexibility,
but also provides the opportunity to be Sorted into a Hogwarts house via a quirky,
thought-provoking personality quiz. Since
then, I’ve spent more time than a grownup ought to admit to spending, thinking
about Hogwarts houses.
Yes, of course
I took the quiz myself. I was Sorted
into Gryffindor.
Gryffindor! The crimson-and-gold lion-emblemed home of
House Cup winners and troll-slayers! The
manifestly BEST house!
Or… is it? Are boldness and bravery – even if combined
with honor -- truly the best qualities anyone could ever wish for in
themselves? In their friends? Their lovers?
Their children?
Rereading the
series, this time as a parent, is seems more obvious that courage has a few
downsides. In every single book, our
heroic trio -- even brilliant Hermione -- leap into drastic adventures with a
marked lack of foresight, logic, and concern for their own skins. Gryffindors’ bold spirits sometimes trump not
only good sense, but also their own good natures – and I’m not just talking
about that obvious rat, Pettigrew. James
Potter, Harry’s father, was more than a bit of a bully as a teenager. Fred and George Weasley are hilarious in
print, but in real life I definitely wouldn’t sample their licorice twists, if
you know what I mean.
And me? Yeah.
Me. I’ve done a few headlong or
headstrong things that I’m far from proud of.
Sometimes audaciousness has served me well. Sometimes it has sent me to the emergency
room. And sometimes it has sent me into
a moral tailspin. Gryffindor can be a
mixed bag.
Of course, Harry
will always be the ultimate Gryffindor, and our hero -- with good reason. He’s incredibly stalwart, and yet somehow still
lovably real, even in the face of the insurmountable, the improbable, and the unthinkable. Just the same, Harry is also the kid who had
to whisper to the Sorting Hat, “Not Slytherin.
Not Slytherin.”
Until I started
reading the series for a second time, pausing to discuss it with my children, the
significance of that “not Slytherin” didn’t fully impress itself upon me. In concordance with other modern-day sagas,
Rowling’s books illuminate the peculiarly fine line between the dark side and
the light, between the boldness of the crimson-and-gold lions and the ambition
of the green-and-silver snakes, between the Snape we love to hate and the Snape
we hate to love.
“Why do people follow leaders who are
evil?”
Apt question,
kiddo. Too, too, apt, in this season of
our discontent.
Indeed,
why? Fear? Cynicism? Arrogance? Morbid fascination? Denial? Fake news? Bigotry? Thrill-seeking? Saving face? A
sycophantic love of bullies, because they seem “tough”? Kudos to Rowling for digging deep into all of
these issues – all without dulling the excitement of a damned good kids’
story. The discussion that swirled from
this question alone has been timely, difficult, and deeply important enough to more
than justify my cramped forearms and sore larynx.
Kudos, too, to
Rowling for resisting simply black-hatting every Slytherin, and instead
creating characters like Horace Slughorn, the mildly repellent good-enough guy,
and Severus Snape, the deeply repellent hero. It’s obvious to the reader that
although the world needs its Slytherins – with all their cunning – the world
also sometimes needs to tell them to shut up and sit down. It is less obvious, perhaps, that sometimes
the brave, bold, glowing heroes of Gryffindor need to be told the same damn
thing.
Don’t get me
wrong, I’m still in love with Minerva McGonagall. She’s fierce as hell, and I’ve been having
way too much fun, during all my impromptu voice-acting, in providing her with a
take-no-shit-from-anyone Scottish accent.
Likewise, part of my heart will always belong to the fiercely tortured
soul of Sirius. As for Dumbledore… oh,
Dumbledore, you had me from your very first “Tweak”. Nonetheless, it is only when the Gryffindors momentarily
pause in their headlong tumult that we begin to notice those other, quieter
folks.
The
intellectual Ravenclaws have their bookish merits and quirky Luna-ish sweetness,
despite their supposed aloofness and occasional dalliances with the more
serpentine side of magic. Filius
Flitwick is notable among Hogwarts teachers for… just teaching Charms. He, you know, teaches. Like teachers do. On the other hand, Gilderoy Lockhart. Yeah. Ravenclaw.
And this brings
us – last, as they always seem to be – to the Hufflepuffs. The gentle, cheerful, loyal, hard-working
Hufflepuffs. The Hufflepuffs that
everyone forgets about, and no one seems to want to actually be.
But why not?
No. Seriously, people, WHY NOT?
This past
weekend, I learned that I am raising a pair of half-blood Hufflepuffs.
Since then,
I’ve found myself considering HuffIepuff.
A lot. Much of this consideration
has consisted of considering why I’d previously failed to consider Hufflepuff much
at all.
Looking at my
two young witches, I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I was thrilled with
their new labels. Hufflepuffs! Yes!
They’re kind! They’re loyal! They’re equal-opportunity! They play fair! Hufflepuffs embody every value we claim to
want in our children, our friends, our lovers, and ourselves. A member of the House of the Badger will
never hit you with an unprovoked pimple jinx.
Nor will he call you a mud-blood -- even though, let’s face it, you’re
totally a mud-blood.
In truth, I was
completely sure that Molly would be a Hufflepuff before she sat down to take
the quiz. I was less sure about
Lizzy. She’s not bold, although she can
rise to a challenge. She’s ambitious
only in the sense of setting her own high standards. Intellectual?
Yes, she is that. As she herself
suspected, I might have placed my money on Ravenclaw – and when she took the
similar Ilvermorny quiz, she indeed ended up the house most suited to
“scholars”. But Hufflepuff made sense,
too. I have, after all, been closely
acquainted with my kids for a decade now.
Other people who know them fairly well have given me feedback too, via
informal anecdotes and printed report cards.
The words are different every time, but the news is the same: “Ma’am,
your child is a good student. Also,
she’s totally a Hufflepuff.”
This is meant
as a compliment. Teachers like teaching
Hufflepuffs. Other kids don’t mind being
seated next to Hufflepuffs or being assigned to their kickball teams. A Hufflepuff will not copy your test answers,
leave gum on the bottom of the desk, or mock you for wearing the wrong brand of
sneakers.
So… why the
decided lack of enthusiastic cheerleading for the house with the
fuzzy-bumblebee colors? And why our
blatant hypocrisy? Because, even as we
earnestly tell young children to act like good little Hufflepuffs, we systematically
overlook and denigrate their adult Hufflepuff counterparts. We talk over them. We fail to promote them. We refuse to date them. Especially if they happen to be male,
Hufflepuffs are derided as “wimpy” and “lame”.
Bullshit. Kindness is not wimpy. Equality is not lame.
Besides, it’s
not as if Hufflepuffs can’t possess the virtues of the other houses in addition
to their wonderful, kind-hearted, egalitarian defining characteristics. Cedric Diggory was hella brave. Tonks took “bold”
to new levels. Pomona Sprout, puttering
away in her greenhouses, was not without her own formidable intellect and powers. We tend to forget about this Head of House,
not because she isn’t competent, but because she is. She refrains from spiteful, spurious, biased,
or melodramatic additions or subtractions to house points. She doesn’t set up hazardous contests, bait
students into misbehavior, play favorites, try to adopt baby dragons, or harbor
dark secrets. She doesn’t define herself
by her bad-assery. But let there be no
doubt: Hufflepuffs, when the situation calls for it, are capable of being
brilliant, cunning, epically badass, and brave AF.
Don’t believe
me? Okay. But when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
reached its desperate denouement, who stepped up to fight in the terrifying,
corpse-strewn Battle of Hogwarts? The
Gryffindors, yes. They fought with valor
and with heart-rending “Not my daughter, you bitch!” passion. Even though I hadn’t read the series in a
dozen years, this was still etched in my memory. But it was only through stumbling upon an
interview with Rowling online that I re-learned who else fought: some of the
Ravenclaws, and all of the Hufflepuffs.
All of the Hufflepuffs. ALL OF
THEM.
The fact that
I’d forgotten this essential point says as much about who the Hufflepuffs are
as does their valiant participation. This
is how Rowling wrote them. They faced
the Death Eaters from within their own quiet place of non-glory, and I,
arrogant bastard that I am, barely noticed.
And yet, without them, how might the battle have spun?
Maybe I’ve been
fired up by a cute little quiz on Pottermore.
Maybe I’ve been fired up by the simmering don’t-screw-up-their-future wrath
of parenthood and politics. Either way,
this time around, I won’t forget.
Indeed, I’m really looking forward to getting to that scene with the
kids. Not just because it’s an awesome culmination
to a fabulous story, and not just because it carries fodder for layer upon
layer of philosophical, discussion about good, evil, life, death, and love, but
also because it addresses one particular question: what happens when the loud
and the brave are joined by those who know what is right, and are willing to go
to the wall for it?
My kids are not
particularly bold. As such, although
they can easily handle 4,224 pages of text on their own, they want me to guide
them through the wrenching psychological torments of this fictional world. They want me to help uncover those dark
complexities. And I couldn’t be more
glad.
Even if the
Dark Mark reappears in the sky, it’s not all over. Teach your Hufflepuffs well.
