Birds of a Feather
I’ve been sorted into Ravenclaw three times.
When I was in the first grade, my teacher Mrs. Ocker decided to throw a Harry Potter party. She had just finished reading to us Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, one chapter per day, after recess. We lined up and took turns sitting on what must have been an ordinary classroom chair but in my memory is always remodeled into a three-legged stool. When it was my turn, an assistant teacher put a pointy black hat over my head. It must have fallen over my eyes. Like Harry, I repeated two words under my breath.
Not Ravenclaw. Not Ravenclaw.
Mrs. Ocker’s voice came out of a little speaker taped to the inside of the hat, just above my ear. Unlike the real Sorting Hat, she didn’t take my wishes into account.
I got up from the stool and sat down among my fellow Ravenclaws, who were busy making up a password to guard our cluster of desks. I...