Books

The neighbors turned their lights off. My dog fell sound asleep. I kept reading. And at 1:03 am, I finished. All was well.

So far, Deathly Hallows is, to me, about the divide between the living, the dead, and the living who have seen death. Harry and I are part of an exclusive club: Those under 30 who have experienced death. And when I say “experienced,” I don’t mean “witnessed.” I mean really, really felt it, all the way through.

Lives lived encaged by the Occupation produce — says UN Secretary General Ban [Ki-moon] — “fear, humiliation, frustration and mistrust. It has been fed by the wounds of decades of bloody conflict, which will take a long time to heal. Palestinian youth in particular are tired of broken promises and they see no light at the end of the tunnel.”

FINALLY someone acknowledges professional boundaries at Hogwarts.

It’s now been ten days since I’ve given a fuck. Well that’s not strictly true, I’ve given a fuck about many things that are important to me. But not one single unnecessary fuck have I given.

And I have Sarah Knight to thank for this liberation.

Hannah McGregor and Marcelle Kosman, the two proud lady scholars in question, have blessed us with a feminist analysis of the Harry Potter world, complete with an abundance of owl hoots.

The human brain is so easily conditioned and, without a word being spoken, the simple elimination of everything except for the “perfect body” in any form of media is enough to instill belief in our young ones that unless they have that desired body, they do not deserve to be seen.

The further I get into this series, the harder time I am having remembering what the eff has happened so far. You see, I am an Old Lady.