Listen: I’m done with you. Please know that it’s not you. And it’s not me.
Let’s get this out of the way first: I know I’m writing a blog post to a fictional character. You are not real. That’s the thing: I know this!
But the others? The others seem to have been confused about this since time immemorial.
And especially since November 8, 2016.
It’s like a mass psychosis. In the event of a traumatic (if you’re a weak person with nothing in your life but politics who lets the outcome of an election literally make you crazy), certain people need something to hold on to. And in the absence of God, or family, or even sanity, they choose you.
And it’s not your fault. You seem like a pretty cool guy. Brave. Heroic. Willing to do the right thing, no matter the personal cost. Very admirable!
Here’s the thing: You’re not political. Hell, you’re not real, as we’ve already established. But if you were, you’d vote . . .
You’d vote for . . .
Um, actually, it’s impossible to tell from your books. There’s no politics in them! And that’s the great thing!
There are lessons, sure. Great lessons based on timeless human principles of bravery and heroism and self-sacrifice and all of that other corny, sincere stuff that has a distinctly, let’s say, right-leaning flavor to it.
But I digress. See, I don’t like politics. To me, it’s a necessary evil, one that a person needs to pay attention to, because it will pay attention to him, whether he likes it or not.
But I like fiction! Fantasy, sci-fi, classical literature, poetry . . . give me stories! And to the maximum extent possible, keep politics out of them!
And better yet, don’t read politics into stories when they aren’t there.
Your stories, Harry? Your stories have been politicized to the point of parody, to the point beyond parody, to the point where the mere mention of your name pisses me off! And I counted myself a big fan of yours!
At least, I used to. Where to begin . . .
You and Hermoine and Ron and Dumbledore and Neville and Cho and Sirius and all the rest of the damn Weasley familiy were some of my favorite fictional pals. Sure, the first few books were decidedly aimed at little kids, but they were still entertaining. Charming, even. And by the time the fourth book rolled around, things were really getting serious.
What I liked about you and your world, Harry, was that it still had heroism. There was no nihilism at all. Darkness was something to be fought and defeated, not embraced and rationalized. There was no moral relativism, no compromise with evil. You and your crew would fight for the light, or die trying. And you were willing to die for what was right. What a great lesson for all!
To top it off, your most loathesome enemy wasn’t even the evil wizard guy with no nose. It was The Ministry of Magic. The bureaucracy! Those spineless wimps who hid their heads in the sand and expected everyone to carry on as if nothing was wrong while their cities and lives were being terrorized and yes there’s a metaphor to be made here if one was so inclined and holy hell how do these idiots not see it?!
Ahem. Where was I?
Right. Worthless bureaucrats. And few were as worhtless and despicable as Dolores Umbridge.
Somewhere along the line, though, your fans and admirers began to treat you as if you were an actual god or something, and your books as holy writ, used to explain the problems of, and the solutions to, all of our problems!
Yes, the same people that mock the Bible, and indeed the very idea of God Himself, seem to be, I don’t know, praying to YOU and your friends to save us!
Every political enemy became “like Voldemort.”
Every political hero became “like Harry Potter” or “like Hermoine,” depending on the identity group of choice.
Harry Potter fans became these magical, mystical people who of course stand for truth, justice, love, peace, diversity, tolerance, and probably fart pixie dust (but only if they have a, how shall we say, certain political perspective).
But worst of all–oh Lordy, worst of all–even your creator herself, the otherwise admirable J.K. Rowling, who bootstrapped herself from nothing to become one of the richest women in the world based solely on the products of her mind got in on the act.
Since the madness is not stopping, and indeed seems to be picking up, I’m done.
I can no longer consider myself a fan, Harry.
Politics ruins everything. Even you.
And it’s not even a Trump thing. It’s an annoyance thing. The same thing kind of happened with The Hunger Games where every political contest or argument seemed to become “like The Hunger Games!”
Game of Thrones is also on this list. Star Wars, too. I’m sick of it. Sick of it all.
Maybe it’s pop-culture references in general, ascribing deep meaning to what is essentially fluff, that bothers me.
Whatever it is, I’m out. It’s been fun. I don’t blame you, Harry. Still, until these people read another damn book, I’m out. Sorry. Hogwarts looks like a fun place, sure, aside from all of the death-dealing monsters and traps wandering about, but it’ll have to go without me for the foreseeable future.
Abra cadaver and all of that. Expecto patronum.
Oh wait, some people think “patronus” is cultural appropriation.
The Second Coming cannot come soon enough . . .