A Very Potter Post: Heralding Hufflepuff

I remember my first experience on Pottermore (the old Pottermore). While I cared about the new book-related information and the fun, interactive tours of Diagon Alley, I was primarily interested in getting sorted into Hogwarts. I zoomed through the first part of The Sorcerer’s Stone right to the sorting ceremony. Like young Albus Severus, I started the sorting process feeling both nervous and excited, and I hoped to be in Gryffindor. I had to be in Gryffindor. I’m embarrassed now to admit that I took the quiz with Gryffindor in mind. The quiz was surprisingly difficult to manipulate, but I did my best to answer as though I were in Gryffindor.

So the moment I finished the quiz and the screen read Hufflepuff I felt a huge wave of disappointment.

It shouldn’t matter, right? I was an adult, and it was fictional, after all. And I didn’t even have to accept the results of the quiz—a short personality quiz couldn’t actually tell me anything about myself. Nevertheless, my heart sank. So I erased my account and tried again. This time I took the quiz and answered honestly. The result: Ravenclaw. While still a little sad about not being in Gryffindor, I felt relief for not truly belonging to Hufflepuff. I have taken other quizzes since then, and I always get interesting results. One quiz told me I was a mix between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. The updated Pottermore told me I was in Hufflepuff. The quiz for Ilvermorny (the American equivalent of Hogwarts) sorted me into Horned Serpent, though I’m still not quite sure what that means. The point is, I never felt quite satisfied with my results because I thought anything other than Gryffindor was second (or third or fourth) best.

In the first book, the sorting hat seems to favor Gryffindor: “You might belong in Gryffindor, / Where dwell the brave at heart, / Their daring, nerve, and chivalry / Set Gryffindors apart . . .” From the beginning of the series, Gryffindors are “set apart” from the rest of the students. Most of our favorite characters from the books were in Gryffindor. The entire Weasley family was sorted into Gryffindor. Hermione, the brightest student in her year, was sorted into Gryffindor. And Harry Potter, the boy who freaking defeated Lord Voldemort, was sorted into Gryffindor. Gryffindor seems to be the end-all be-all of Hogwarts. The books almost push a Gryffindorian agenda since every installment revolves around acts of daring and bravery. Many of the Gryffindors I know see their sorting as a badge of pride—proof that they’re special. They look down their noses at us lowly Ravenclaws. (OK, that’s not fair. I know not all Gryffindors are arrogant, but my old insecurities at not being in Gryffindor made me resentful.)

Even if we couldn’t be in Gryffindor, as we took the sorting quiz on Pottermore we chanted, “Not Hufflepuff. Not Hufflepuff.” Those who proudly accepted Hufflepuff as their house held their chins up high while the rest of us secretly pitied them. Yet sometime during the four or five years since I was originally sorted on Pottermore I have had a change of heart, and my recent adventuring in the Harry Potter world has shed new light on the underrated house. I hesitate to say there’s a “best” Hogwarts house, but if I had to choose one, if you made me pick, I might actually choose Hufflepuff. As a house, it espouses the most noble and most important values, and we should all try to be a little more Hufflepuff.

Let me explain.

As any Potter fan knows, each house is motivated by the characteristics that describe it. In Sorcerer’s Stone (and many of the other books) the sorting hat describes these characteristics quite plainly.

Gryffindors are motivated by courage and daring;
Slytherins are motivated by cunning and ambition;
Ravenclaws are motivated by cleverness and learning;
and Hufflepuffs are motivated by loyalty.

Doesn’t loyalty seem disjointed from the other house characteristics? The sorting hat uses words closely associated with action or motion. Loyalty seems more abstract or even animal-like—dogs are loyal creatures, but they’re not particularly courageous, ambitious, or clever.

While we romanticize the other characteristics, and while I won’t deny their importance in a dynamic human being, I believe loyalty is the loftier attribute. Hufflepuff is the only house that is motivated by relationships, by standing boldly and unflinchingly alongside others. Instead of turning inward and drawing on personal strength and power (like Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Slytherins), Hufflepuffs turn outward. They focus on other people.

So here’s my main argument and one of the overall themes of the Harry Potter franchise: the truest, noblest characteristic you could possess is loyalty, and we’d all be a lot better off if there were more Hufflepuffs in the world. The Harry Potter universe, while full of courage, learning, and ambition, is more about love and loyalty than it is anything else. (While love and loyalty are not necessarily synonymous, they certainly uphold each other. True love requires loyalty, and loyalty often grows out of love.) The books would have no meaning without the relationships and loyalties of its characters.

The greatest sorrows and conflicts come to the characters we know and love when someone is disloyal. One of the biggest cowards in the book (arguably the biggest coward) displays his cowardice via disloyalty. Without Wormtail’s betrayal, “the Boy Who Lived” may have simply been “a boy who lives.” The entire book hinges on the loyalty of a friend. On a less devastating scale, Percy grows disloyal to his family and friends as he advances in his career at the Ministry of Magic. He redeems himself by returning to his family and by realizing that his defiance wasn’t strength, courage, or intelligence—it was disloyalty.

Conversely, the greatest victories and joys throughout the book come through acts of loyalty. At separate key moments from the story, Lily and Narcissa save Harry’s life because of the love and loyalty they feel for their children. Snape remains loyal to Lily and Dumbledore, which makes him integral to Voldemort’s downfall. Harry defends Dumbledore, so Fawkes delivers the sword that disables the Basilisk in The Chamber of Secrets. On an equally admirable scale, Neville puts his life on the line by defending Harry to Voldemort. And Dobby’s ultimate sacrifice for Harry and his friends is born out of love and loyalty for someone who had once saved him.

Think of nearly all of the moments you love from the series; all of the moments that send chills down your spine; all of the moments that make you angry. Think of the moments you paused to reflect on the reading. Think of the moments of greatest emotion. I’d wager that most of these moments have love and loyalty either at their center or on the line. Harry Potter teaches us that love is more important than anything. Love is more important than everything. And love without loyalty is fruitless.

I’m going to go out on an even bigger limb here: I believe most of the inspiring peacemakers throughout history were Hufflepuffs. People like Gandhi, Mother Teresa, and Jesus all thought of others before they thought of themselves. They were motivated not by courage, cunning, or intelligence, but by love and loyalty. They turned outward to others rather than inward to themselves. On the other hand, the evil and power-hungry individuals throughout history could not have come from Hufflepuff. Dictators, religious zealots, and corrupt politicians did not aspire to their esteemed positions out of loyalty for others. Likewise, Voldemort was loyal to nobody, and he only understood loyalty as a means for power, not a force on its own, thus setting the path for his own downfall. Dumbledore learned the price of disloyalty as a young wizard. After losing his family, he dedicated himself, as a loyal servant, to fighting the dark arts. Fiercely loyal to muggles and wizards alike, he counteracted Voldemort’s hatred and inspired loyalty in others.

Now, admittedly, many of the characters and situations I mentioned above also involved a fair amount of courage, cunning, or intelligence. Lily’s sacrifice would have required a great deal of courage. Narcissa’s lie was a cunning strategy to reach her son. But there again, courage and cunning throughout the book are often inspired by loyalty. Lily probably didn’t have to think twice about standing between Voldemort and Harry. It wasn’t really a matter of courage. There was no question. Thus, loyalty provides the backbone for most (if not all) of the noble actions from any of the characters. Loyalty is the backbone for the entire Harry Potter series.

Unfortunately, Rowling has yet to give us a memorable Hufflepuff hero. Certainly we can look to Cedric Diggory as an exemplary Hufflepuff, and people often forget that the sorting hat made Nymphadora Tonks a Hufflepuff. In the books, Tonks is brave and talented, and she gives her life to The Order of the Phoenix. Yet Rowling wrote Cedric and Tonks as minor characters, and Hufflepuffs everywhere await the emergence of a strong Hufflepuff hero. Hopefully that wait is almost over.

Hufflepuff will soon get its time in the spotlight. An Entertainment Weekly article notes a Rowling tweet in which the author states that “This is starting to feel like the dawn of the age of Hufflepuff.” With the Harry Potter spinoff film Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them coming out later this year, we’re sure to learn a little more about what it means to be a Hufflepuff since the main protagonist was sorted into the house during his Hogwarts years. We may even learn more about Hufflepuff when The Cursed Child comes out in less than a month. In any case, I’m excited to learn about Hufflepuff and its champions as J.K. Rowling reveals more about the Potter universe. Until then, I’m content to cheer for the underdog. And hopefully Hufflepuff won’t remain the underdog for much longer.  

Sharing a Cigarette

 “Act out being alive, like a play. And after a while, a long while, it will be true.” ~John Steinbeck, East of Eden

The closer you get to me the more you learn about an informative experience I had when I was twenty. I was traveling through Europe on a dream-come-true study abroad with BYU-Idaho. We had just arrived at our hostel in Innsbruck, Austria, and I was unpacking and getting ready for a much anticipated folk performance at a nearby theater. Someone knocked on the door and informed me that I needed to call my parents at some random number. Up to this point I had called my parents a few times a week, so if they were trying to reach me it meant something was really wrong. I was nervous, but I tried not to work myself up too much. I called the number, and my mom answered.

Mom was in a hospital. I learned that my little brother, eighteen-year-old Eric Robert, had overdosed on drugs and was in a coma. He had extensive brain damage, his organs were shutting down, and he was unlikely to pull through.

Do you know that feeling when you’re walking up a set of stairs and either you can’t see where you’re going or you haven’t been paying attention, and you think there’s one more step? Your breath catches, your heart skips a beat, and your stomach rolls over as your foot falls through the air. The moment is quick, and it usually ends when you cling to a railing and your foot lands awkwardly on the floor, and though you may stumble a bit, you usually stay upright and move on. Hearing about my brother’s coma and his soon-to-be death was like missing that step and not having a railing to cling to. My foot never landed on anything and the fear of falling never subsided.

My mom and I cried on the phone together. I asked what they were planning on doing. Were they going to fly me home early? I would gladly skip the rest of my trip to be with my family, to see Eric before the last of his life slipped away. No. They didn’t have the money. They had a funeral to pay for. My trip would be over in about a week and the funeral would take place after I got home.

That night I went into my room in Innsbruck. I lay on my bed and prayed harder and more fervently than I had prayed in my life. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed my little brother was having an Alma-the-younger or Saul-Paul experience and that he would soon wake up and reform his life. I begged and bargained. I asked to take his place—Eric needed life more than I did. Even as I prayed for these things I knew they would not come true. I knew I was praying for the wrong thing. I moved from sad to angry. What good was prayer if my most fervent pleadings were ignored?

While I prayed, I felt the injustice of the situation. My family was gathered by Eric’s bedside. He wasn’t interacting with them, but they could feel his heartbeat, see him breathing. They could give him a hug before saying goodbye. And they could comfort each other. I was in a foreign country. I was alone in an unfamiliar room. I was curled up in a ball on a hostel mattress, weeping uncontrollably. I kept thinking and hoping I would black out at some point; my head hurt so from the crying. My whole life seemed, at that moment, to consist of solitude and heartache. (I should add that I do not believe my suffering was greater than that of my siblings. Each of us had a unique relationship with Eric, and so each of us experienced unique pain. The common denominator among us was that none of us was prepared to deal with his death.)

I can’t say that I didn’t find some comfort that night. I read my scriptures, and I stumbled upon Mosiah 4:19. The verse didn’t take away my sadness, but it did open my mind and heart to the possibility that God was aware of me and that I could trust Him. As I cried myself to sleep that first night after hearing the news, lying on top of my covers, something like a warm blanket enveloped my body, and I imagined hugging my big younger brother. He was thousands of miles way—his body and his brain were broken and dying. But I felt him there with me in Innsbruck, Austria.

My study abroad group eventually moved on to France. I had dreamed of traveling to France. It was at the top of my bucket list. Now I was in Paris, but the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame, all of it was underwhelming. I just wanted to be home with my family. When my group arrived in Paris late one evening I immediately found a phone booth on the streets by our hostel to call home. My dad answered. His voice trembled as he told me that my brother had passed away. My reaction to this news was different from what I had expected. I cried, of course. That was a given (I hadn’t stopped crying). But I felt an overwhelming sense of peace as I listened to his experience of watching my brother die, how he and my mom were in the room alone with Eric when his spirit left his body.

Eric’s funeral was a whirlwind of feeling sorrow and feeling the spirit. At the viewing the night before, I waited to enter the room. I was afraid of what I would see when I looked in his casket. After gaining composure in the hallway I entered the room and looked at my little brother. I realized that while this was my little brother’s body, it wasn’t really him. It wasn’t Eric. It was just the shell that had temporarily housed Eric. At that moment I knew that life exists beyond death. In my brother’s case, I knew that so much life, so much spirit, could not simply disappear.

The truly painful part of Eric’s funeral was watching my parents say goodbye to him before the casket closed. I remember watching my mother bend over my brother, whispering to him and running her fingers through his fluffy blond hair. She later told me that his hair was the only part of him that still felt like him. I remember watching the total heartbreak in my dad’s face and watching him weep as only a parent could weep. And I remember clinging to my siblings as we said a final goodbye to my brother and closed the casket.

I don’t know why this is the first I’ve written about this experience. I guess I assumed it would be too difficult or that I wasn’t far enough removed from the situation to be able to write about it without an overload of sentimentality and without breaking down in the end. Give me a year or two and then I will process my feelings and thoughts through writing. But here’s what I have been learning (and what has been reinforced by the recent passing of my grandma): I’ll never be far enough removed from the situation. The reality is that after nearly seven years without my brother I feel like I’ll never be able to let go of the pain or the emptiness that tore through my heart when he died. Though his death is in my past, it still impacts (in a very real way) both my present and my future. And even on the days that I only think of Eric once or twice, I’m always reminded that I once had a living younger brother, and now I don’t. I don’t just deal with the absence of him—I deal with the loss of him.

After his death I learned to cope with this loss. At first the coping felt like a façade—I put on a smile and went to work or to school or to church, and I felt fake. Everything inside of me begged to be with my brother or to see him one more time or to hear his voice for just a minute more. Even after the ability to cry was gone (at some point the tears just ran out), coping with my grief was agony. I confided in my dad and told him that I didn’t think I could go back to work or school. I didn’t know how I was going to move on from this. My dad told me that we had to fake like we were getting over his death. We would never really get over it, but if we could force ourselves into a normal routine and go back to our daily activities, then coping with our grief would get easier. The routine itself would become a coping mechanism, and soon it would become the norm.

As time went on, as I put the everyday smile on my face, I got better at coping, and it wasn’t as difficult. Life slipped into a new routine, and coping became the norm. But coping doesn’t mean the pain can’t seep through. A few months after Eric’s funeral my mom was sorting through laundry and found one of his socks. Just when life had been getting back to (a kind of) normal, something as simple and insignificant as a sock unraveled the strength she had been building. She’d folded Eric’s socks for eighteen years and never realized, until that moment, how much of a privilege it had been to do that for him.

Even now, occasionally I watch or read or hear something (or experience something, as with the recent passing of my sweet grandma) that dredges up all the pain that I thought would go away completely at some point, and the grief washes over me afresh. I’ve seen this happen with my family as well. The truth is that seven years is nothing, really. Seven years is yesterday. I have come to accept that the grief and pain may never go away completely. But God blessed my family with the ability to cope, and that is how we were able to go back to normal life—not because the pain was gone or because our grief had subsided, but because we had learned to cope and because we were open to the idea of letting our lives and hearts heal. Coping became a way of life.

Here’s a true statement about me (and, I would wager, many of you): even with my firm belief in the afterlife, I’m very uncomfortable and even afraid of death. I want to feel sure about and at peace with the idea of death. But most of the time, though I think of my brother’s death quite often, I try to forget about death as a natural part of life. But it’s impossible to forget about something so prevalent, as I was reminded when my world was shaken again (albeit not quite as forcefully) when my grandma passed away. As I have tried to come to terms with the terms of death (that is, that everybody must and will die), one image keeps playing in my mind.

After my brother had passed away and before I left on my mission, I was serving in the temple one random afternoon. In the quiet, peaceful setting somewhere in the temple, I randomly turned a corner and (almost literally) ran into my grandma. She was a temple worker at the time, but I had no idea she would be there. I was relieved to see her, and she was delighted to see me. Being a new temple-goer, I still felt awkward and nervous, and running into my grandma helped me feel more comfortable in a different setting and with a strange but beautiful new work.

When I think of death, I think of this experience with my grandma. Death is like being in a quiet, peaceful place. It’s new, and maybe a little strange, but then you turn a corner and run into a loved one. I don’t know that this assuages all my fears, but the idea of being greeted by Eric and Grandma Fullmer (and Grandpa O’Driscoll and many other loved ones) on the other side is one of the best motivations to keep on hoping and to keep “fighting the good fight.”

For me, the best way I’ve found to confront mortality is to cope with mortality. I believe coping is about the little day-to-day victories over sorrow. I believe coping is about making meaningful connections in this life so that the next life seems less intimidating. And I believe coping is about living life while at the same time honoring the memories of people who have passed on.

I found that one of the burdens attached to losing my brother to something like a drug overdose was the fear that people would forget about Eric and the good that was in him, even when he was at his worst. I knew most people wouldn’t forget Eric completely; he made that impossible on many levels. But I worried that people would remember only the angry, drug-addicted Eric. I worried they would forget about the sensitive, kind-hearted boy—the cute, chubby kid with the coke-bottle glasses. I worried people would criminalize him and think the world a better place without him.

Sometime around the two-year anniversary of his death we made a routine visit to his grave. On arriving at the headstone we saw something resting on it: a single cigarette. At first I was angry. It seemed like the ultimate display of disrespect to discard a cigarette on a grave. But my dad bent over and picked up the cigarette. It was whole. It had not been lit. Then I remembered when my brother had tried to get clean he had taken up cigarette smoking to help with the more overwhelming (and scarier) illegal drug addiction.

“This was Eric’s favorite kind,” my dad said, his voice shaking. He replaced the cigarette and backed up to look at the grave marker. My dad looked genuinely happy, if a little teary-eyed. Someone out there (an anonymous friend) was thinking about my brother, and they wanted to share a cigarette with him. They honored him the only way they knew how.

I smiled, and I knew that somewhere my brother was smiling too.