Dear Bloggie

Dear Bloggie,

I have a confession to make. And no, there’s nothing sexual about it, so all you pervs can just sod off. Yeah, I know there’s a lot of pervs on the Internet, preying on innocent teenagers like me. Or not. But still, I needed somewhere to make my confession and since I’m not Catholic, here I am. After all, what’s one more angst-ridden blog in this virtual sea of livejournals, xangas and diarylands?

I’ve read somewhere that it’s always best to start at the beginning. Well, for me, the beginning started years before I was even born. My mother had a younger sister and one day they had a row. Okay, that’s simplifying things a bit, but that’s essentially what it was. According to Pops, this fight was years in the making and long overdue. My mother was always slightly jealous of Aunt Lily- oh, you wouldn’t know, to hear her speak of it. Or not speak of it, since any mention of that side of the family tree is strictly forbidden in our house. And as usual in fights between girls, this one was over a boy.

Oh no, don’t get me wrong. Mum and Auntie weren’t fighting over a boyfriend, in the sense sisters fight over clothes. No, dear Aunt Lily one-upped normal sibling rivalry and went and got herself engaged to said boy. Now you see, Mum has a rather archaic set of ideals, in this case, not unlike what’s-her-name’s father in The Taming of the Shrew. Yeah, and you probably thought I didn’t know literature from toilet tissue. Shows how much you know about “teenagers these days”.

Well, anyways, like I was saying, Mum didn’t believe that one’s beautiful younger sister ought to even contemplate marital bliss before one has settled down as a broody hen. And yes, as in so many cases of sibling rivalry, Aunt Lily was the beautiful one, talented to boot, though in what, no one would ever tell me.

From what I gathered in snippets of conversation overheard throughout the years, Aunt Lily had a way about her. Everyone loved her, from her own parents to the kids at school to the postman. Everyone, that is, except her sister, Petunia. Mum and Pops would never talk about it- Mum gets these awful rashes if so much as mention her sister. But I’ve listened at the keyhole whenever Aunt Marge, my father’s older sister, came to visit. Which is way too many times, if you ask me, though I’ve learned to tolerate her hugs. The presents she brings help too.

Apparently, Mum didn't approve of Aunt Lily's fiance, said he was a freak. They were married, much to my mother’s disgust, within a year of their engagement. My parents don’t have any pictures of that day, but I’ve visited Mum’s parents and they’ve got cabinets chock full of ‘em. That’s how I know Aunt Lily was beautiful- she wasn’t hot or anything. But she was pretty, in a glowing kind of way. I never knew what she saw in James Potter- he looked rather skinny and quiet to me, the sort of person people like me would love to pick on.

Actually, it’s kinda hard to imagine my family associating with any of the people in those pictures. The guys pounding Uncle James on the back didn’t look as if they’d be much interested in industrial drills or soccer matches, which is all my father ever talks about. Grandma once pointed out one of the men, telling me that was my mother’s crush. Cyrus, or some weird name like that. Ugh. I mean, come’on, you don’t go around telling impressionable grade school boys stuff like that.

But sometimes I wonder, what it would’ve been like if Mum had married that guy instead of Pops. Would I be tall and dark like him and still be myself inside? But that stuff’s too deep for me- all I know is, not to be outdone, Mum married Pops a few months after Aunt Lily’s wedding. According to Grandma, Mum could’ve done better, but she just settled for the first proposal. Not very responsible, if you ask me. What if Pops had been a writer or something?

Well, a few months after my parents got hitched, they had me. That, apparently, was yet another manifestation of sibling rivalry as well- though I gather it was rather one sided by then. Mum’s always saying how I was the first grandson, although Aunt Lily didn’t do too badly herself. The Potter had their little boy a month after I was born. They named him Harry, such a common name, like Mum always says.

Harry. I suppose you’ve heard of him. The Boy Who Lived. Because he managed to keep breathing all those years ago, Harry gets instant, life-long fame. He gets to attend wizarding school, meet loyal friends, and defeat his adversaries. He gets books, movies, trading cards, lunch boxes, fanfiction. And me? I’m just the overweight bullying cousin everyone despises. People don’t even care enough about me to hate me. I think I’m entitled to a little bitterness. Do people even bother to write fanfiction about me? I don’t think so. I’ve read some of them- Snape can be reformed and Draco is actually just a misunderstood stud in leather. How come I’m never more than a shadowy figure in the background? Because I’m a Muggle, is that it? Shows how much you know.

So what’s my confession? Let’s just say I got a few letters myself that summer we turned eleven. It wasn’t easy to turn down- things like that just don’t happen twice in a lifetime. But all I ever wanted was acceptance and with my parents it was a sure thing. Now I’m glad I never accepted- life would’ve been even more unbearable in the world where everyone knows who your cousin is.

- DD