Like many Muggle-born wizards, I didn’t find out I was a wizard until I was 11 years old.
Before that, I was just the weird kid. The new weird kid.
I was always quite fond of plants. And reading. OH, DID I READ! I read somewhere that reading to plants can help them stay healthy, and so I started reading to my plants whenever I could.
I ate lunch alone.
No one wanted to swap pokemon cards or comic books with the new kid who read to plants. My mother was in the military, and we moved around a lot, so I never really got to know anyone anyway. I was just the kid on the outside looking in.
Until I met Chuck, Chuck wasn’t uncool. He was just one of those uncanny people who could be friends with anyone without losing face or gaining labels. Chuck perfected the art of being social in Switzerland. He was everyone’s most medium friend. Which, for me, meant he was my only friend. My best friend. He liked to listen to me read to my plants.
My favorite Ponytail Palm and Chuck and I were halfway through The Wind in the Willows when I got my letter from Ilvermorny. I was overjoyed! I wasn’t just a weird kid who read to plants. I was a Wizard in need of training. Sure, I would have to move to Massachusetts and leave Chuck and my parents behind, but this was my chance to know myself. To maybe meet other kids who talked to plants. To fit in.
I dreamed of Ilvermorny. I dreamed of Bowtruckles and Gillyweed and Mandrakes. Then a nightmare, my mother got her redeployment papers. She was to be stationed in Germany.
She and my father wrote to the headmistress of Ilvermorny explained our circumstances. The headmistress wrote back and suggested that if they were going to be living in Europe, I should probably attend a wizarding school there. That same day I got my first three owls. The first was a rather rude and lengthy rejection letter from somewhere called The Durmstrang Institute. The second was a short and polite rejection letter from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. And the third was a heartfelt letter of congratulations from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
I was not thrilled.
I didn’t know much about Wizarding Schools, but it didn’t seem to bode well to only be accepted at one. Further, the name did not inspire confidence. I imagined moving out to live in the middle of nowhere on a quaint little pig farm. What kind of a place would accept an American Air Force brat who reads to plants?
I was scared. I was frightened and disappointed until I got my copy of “Hogwarts: A History.”
“Hufflepuff,” the sorting hat shouted to lackluster applause and a few giggles from green-clad students. I found myself at a table of strangers. Some were just as wide-eyed and afraid as I. Others wrapped happily in the comfort of belonging. I soon learned that, while I was not the only Muggle-born wizard and I wasn’t even the only American there, I was very much the only “American-Muggle-born-person-of-color” in the whole castle. A few weeks in, the pig farm I’d imagined wasn’t looking so bad.
The moniker “Mudblood” came early and often. I thought it was an insult dreamed up just for me at first. Keeping your hands clean when you hang out in a greenhouse all the time isn’t easy. Sooner or later, you accept the dirt under your nails. You stop seeing the smudges on your books and quills. You stop smelling the rich raw earth. I’d been called worse things than Mudblood. Even at 11 years old.
I was just 11 years old when I learned that there is cruelty and ignorance and bigotry everywhere. I was 11 when I found out that elitism and racism and so many other terrible isms could follow me no matter where I went. But despite all of that, or perhaps because of it, I still believe that magic is for everyone. I think that little things are meant to grow into big things. I know that all magic starts with just a few sparks.
I made some wonderful friends at Hogwarts. I had some incredible adventures, and I got into my share of mischief. Through it all, I managed to stay in touch with my first real friend Chuck, even though I couldn’t tell him the truth about my school.
It was a lot to learn for an 11-year-old.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/miltonmudblood/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MiltonMudblood
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MiltonMudblood
