A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far, Far Away, There Was a Boy Who Lived

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, stranded in the BFE, I had no friends to play with. As an infant, this had little impact on me given that I spent half of my time sleeping or eating, and the other half crying because I wanted to be sleeping or eating. Yet when I matured and encountered the desire to socialize and make friends, my geographic isolation hindered me from doing so. Thus, I turned to the only natural alternative— possessing and playing with a collection—no small civilization—of thirty-or-so stuffed-animals. We passed days on end talking and pretending. My favorite game to play with them was a tournament-style death-match. Every time I hosted such a tournament, like a young Michael Vick, Mr. Kill-Bunny (a blue stuffed Easter Bunny), would emerge the victor.

And despite the fact I to some extent tortured them, occasionally throwing them into ceiling fans to soar across the room and slam against a wall (yet again, this was an activity in which Mr. Kill-Bunny excelled— his weightier and more coarse internal beads were more inclined to absorb the momentum of a ceiling-fan blade) these stuffed-animals were my best friends. Hell, I couldn't speak intelligibly till Kindergarten, so I figure they were the first people to understand me, to think I was bright, and funny. So I slept with all of them till the Third-Grade. And even then, when I retired them to the closet in which they still presently reside, I only did so reluctantly. Yes, I was by all accounts aware that my relationship was thoroughly bizarre for a Third-Grade boy. I felt immature, strange and embarrassed by their numerous presence. Yet, putting them away, whispering to them my guilt-ridden, apologetic good-byes, left me empty, and once more alone in the middle of damn nowhere.

So here I was. About 8 years old. Chubby (soon to be obese), yet strong. A football playing boy. And the star pupil of my class. Yet still, I was a bit on the periphery of it all. Inward oriented. Quiet, yet confident. The way years alone tend to make a kid. And I read everything. Dozens and dozens of books, endlessly, all-year long.

And, as you would expect, I eventually stumbled across a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I didn't think I would like. For I had a cousin and a God-brother (who himself was once my cousin by marriage) who were both crazy about that. And I suppose even then I was a contrarian, a quasi-hipster.

Yet, I read it, and fell in love. I finished the first. And went on to the second. Then the third. The fourth. And the fifth when it came out. Then I read them all again. And again. And again. And again. I have read the fifth one about seven times, I believe.

And I look to why I loved it. And I see why. I could escape. And make friends with Ron, Hermione, and Harry. Imagine myself to be a powerful and famous wizard loved by all, who occasionally was hapless with girls, unsmooth, and often poorly spoken. I could escape isolation, that address on Privet Drive, and enter magic through the doors of Hogwarts. And I did so extensively. Perhaps even too much so. For after I turned twelve, there was not a single day I did not check my mailbox for a letter from Hogwarts, for a chance to meet Harry in person, become his best friend (sorry Ron, and hello, Hermione) and get my own wand from Ollivander's.

However, that letter never came. There must be some sort of application process of which I am not aware. Yet, I maintained my love for the books. I was first in line for the last one. I read the whole thing in a night. And I cried when I finished.

My love for Star Wars was about the same. Revenge of the Sith came out. And I saw it. It was my first Stars War movie. And I was hooked. I got all of the old one's in a DVD box-set, and watched them. Again and again and again. On two different occasions I watched all six in the same day.

I bought all of the gear. The video games. The light sabers. The action figures. The attactix. The Lego At-At's. The Lego Starwars Video Game. The snow globes. The Pez dispensers. The T-shirts. The watches. The toy blasters. The voice changing helmets. I read the books. The fan fiction. I did this for years. Summers were light saber battles. School year's were action figure battles.

And Star Wars put in me hope. For the way of the Jedi is a trust in love and all that is good. A fondness for life. And a surrendering to the universe for a hope in the majestic, for something greater, a force, something that could move, push and pull, leap, throw and electrify. And when your a kid, powerless, save for a mind and imagination, you need that. When you are alone and friendless, you need Yoda there to tell you in whatever quagmire you may find yourself that, "Do or do not. There is no try."

What I'm saying I bet hardly makes sense. For I can't fit my heart and soul through my hands, through a pen, onto a page. But you ask why I love Harry Potter? Why I love Star Wars? For the same reason that I had—no, have— thirty stuffed animals. For the same reason I go straight to the toy-aisle whenever I'm at Wal-Mart. The same reason I couldn't sleep after seeing Episode I in 3D. The same reason I won't date a girl if she hasn't read Harry Potter. Because they both possess the magic necessary to craft from thin air the best set of friends an overweight, secluded, friendless, lonely, awkward, gap-toothed third grader could ever ask for.