J.K. Rowling is arguably the most successful author in the history of publishing, with the possible exception of God. And “Harry Potter”
was a kind of bible for my generation. Since its publication beginning in the late ’90s, the series has taught tens of millions of children about virtues like loyalty, courage, and love—about the inclusion of outsiders and the celebration of difference. The books illustrated the idea of moral complexity, how a person who may at first appear sinister can turn out to be a hero after all.
The author herself became part of the legend, too. A broke, abused, and depressed single mother—writing in longhand at cafes across Edinburgh while her baby girl slept in a stroller beside her—she had spun a tale that begat a global phenomenon. If “Harry Potter” was a bible, then Rowling became a kind of saint.
When she gave the
Harvard commencement address in 2008, she was introduced as a social, moral, and political inspiration. Her speech that day was partly about imagination: “the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared.”
“We do not need magic to transform our world,” Rowling told the rapt audience. “We carry all the power we need inside ourselves already.”
The uproarious applause that greeted her in 2008 is hard to imagine today. It’s hard to imagine Harvard—let alone any prestigious American university—welcoming Rowling. Indeed, I’m not sure she’d be allowed to give a reading at many local libraries.
That’s because to many, Rowling has since become a kind of Voldemort—the villain of villains in her own stories.
It all blew up in the summer of 2020.
“‘People who menstruate,’” Rowling
wrote on Twitter, quoting a headline. “I’m sure there used to be a word for those people. Someone help me out. Wumben? Wimpund? Woomud?”
She
continued: “If sex isn’t real, there’s no same-sex attraction. If sex isn’t real, the lived reality of women globally is erased. I know and love trans people, but erasing the concept of sex removes the ability of many to meaningfully discuss their lives. It isn’t hate to speak the truth.”
It’s hard to capture the breadth of the firestorm that followed.
Rowling’s words led to a “
revolt” among the staff at one of her publishers, an
outcry from some of her most ardent fans, and a torrent of
negative headlines in news outlets around the globe. Actors who had grown up on the “Harry Potter” film sets—people she had known since they were children—
distanced themselves from her. Many of Rowling’s former fans began calling for
boycotts. They
removed photos of her from their websites and Potter
tattoos from their bodies. TikTokers started a trend of
covering her name on books and book jackets, and
tore her books apart. Players of Quidditch—the fictional sport she invented—ultimately
changed its name to dissociate themselves from her. The abhorrence of Rowling has at times been so intense that it’s led to the actual
burning of her books. A recent novel even includes a scene where Rowling herself is
killed in a fire.
In response to a flood of calls for her to apologize, Rowling refused to back down.
Instead, she published an
essay on sex and gender issues, including an account of her violently abusive ex-husband. She said she was writing “out of solidarity with the huge numbers of women who have histories like mine, who’ve been slurred as bigots for having concerns around single-sex spaces.”
For many, Rowling’s clarifications didn’t help. They only further cemented her transformation from a progressive hero into a hateful reactionary. The head of the biggest Potter fansite in the world said she was “
heartbroken” and shared a guide on “
cancelling” Rowling, while others accused the author of “
destroying her legacy.”