Back in my day when I was a wee lad,  taking advantage of my brain and my eyes wasn’t a priority for me.  When playing a video game, I skipped over the text, never considering the story and only vying for the action even if it hindered progress. When looking for snacks, I wasn’t interested in learning the cereal names, just recognizing the patterns and shapes. But as wee lad in the twenty first  century it was inevitable that I would happen upon something different. A book series that would invoke the inner workings of imagination that was introduced by a father that wanted to induce the same experience of reading that he himself experienced.

Now I did have reading experience. I, of course like most young children, read the children’s books, but these books didn’t invoke a motivation to comprehend, to learn, to grind the gears of imagination. The books were simple with illustrations, meant to compete with the distractions of television and video games. I did enjoy children’s books, but they didn’t challenge. Heck, I read manga before I read a real book due to the completely unique illustrations that unfold a complicated story through visuals, but that changed when my dad took a book off the home library. A book so thick that I couldn’t understand the appeal of. A book I judged the cover of. A book called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s stone.

My dad came into my room to read me a book as usual. but the only thing that struck me as odd was he wasn’t approaching a shelf to  bring to me the usual children’s book. Instead he already had in hand a book with the nerd on a broom for a cover. I squirmed at the thought of reading a book lacking images, but I didn’t complain as I wasn’t the one reading and as I was already in bed, too comfortable to move. I maybe could have resisted experiencing the book, instead I  let my dad read me Harry Potter, giving it a chance, putting faith that the Harry Potter books I’ve heard praise about in my school were good. Putting faith that my dad was doing something good. That night I listened patiently as my dad read to me. Though the complexity of the words were not much more difficult than the illustrated books I read before, the same words were used in such a way that my mind couldn’t resist painting the image of the wizard world. I couldn’t stop caring about Harry Potter and his experiences which masterfully took advantage of human emotion and their ability to attach themselves to the unreal. It was like watching a movie in one’s head just like ones the teacher always emphasized. As my dad progressed continually reading each word, I wanted more and more of the story. When my dad finished reading the chapters for that night I couldn’t believe myself then: I wanted more of Harry Potter. I was drowned by the sweet nectar of words. Words I found inferior to the medium of visual entertainment. It was unprecedented.

Though my experience may not be unique for a kid of this era, if it weren’t for this starting point I don’t believe I would have the discipline to read like many children. From then on I looked for more challenging books. More stories. Longer books. Though my hankering for reading has fallen off over the years, that experience has lingered in my mind for so long because had my dad never attempted to get me to read Harry Potter, I don’t think I would be in this class. I don’t believe I would care to look for books. I don’t believe I would be as well read as I am today. For I thank my dad for caring about my literacy and J.K. Rowling for creating such a fantastical world that has changed my views on literature. It’s why I strive to emulate the writing style of J.K. because it’s the reason why it entices so many to read.