This morning as I arrived to my office too late for my liking, I found an owl perched on my desk bearing an unwelcome message. At first I assumed it was asking me for money, and I grabbed a broomstick to shoo it away. It is not that I am cheap, though many of my classmates would put that label on me whether or not I gave. Nor am I poor, though I live modestly and am often behind on my rent. I have been given much in life, more than I deserve, enough and more according to my need, and I aim simply to hold up my end of the bargain, "from each according to ability," with as much of my output as possible flowing to others who live more or less in this way.

I am simply disinclined to give to those more fortunate; more fortunate not only than me, but nearly all the world.

Yes, in my youth, I attending an exclusive boarding school endowed with wealth and power beyond what humans have ordinarily conceived. Did I take the bargain? Yes. My parents wanted me to, and the school went to great lengths to tell me I was special, a message every child wants to hear. I arrived at the school to find everyone had been given the same message, but some more than others, and of those considered most special I was not particularly impressed. It was a disillusioning experience, but I did not know quite how to express what I saw. If I tried to say that I did not consider myself special, my classmates would try and reassure me that, yes, I was, I was indeed almost as good as they were. Almost as good? I was better than them, in my book, but this I could not show either, because any excellence would just convince them they were among people special. I did what I usually do. I fit in. I got by. I half-assed and passed all my classes. I sat silently in history, in more ways than one. In the class I was silent, and on my people a different silence was in play. I come from two lineages. One was subjugated and starved to death by the country where my boarding school is located. While my forefathers fell to famine they shipped our meat, milk, and barley across the narrow channel to their prosperous isle. My other lineage has no country. We had communities at times. The places where these communities were nestled hated us to various degrees. In some we were actively hunted. Others surrendered us easily in face of hostile forces. They would not see the true evil by those close to them, but staring at us. In history class I learned my other community, the exclusive one, was worse than indifferent. Someone tried to stand up for us. They put him down. I don't remember the details. I remember only the feeling, that potential and power did not really mean possibility. I gave up hope that hard study could give me the ability to change the world. I did what I usually do. I fit in. I got by. I half-assed and passed all my classes. I took small part in some internal war that was won by the usual suspects. There was much rejoicing. I returned to Ireland a little more heartbroken than before. I was, at least, home for the holidays I observe, a privilege never afforded to me by my school except on the lucky occasions our calendars happened to line up.

The owl put me in the mind of these strange years, which are not an altogether unhappy memory. I do not wish for their return, but there are pieces of me, pieces that I no longer can fit into my sense of self, but that I miss in ways, and can only revisit in these distant memories. One such piece is a young boy who delighted to fly on a broomstick, which vehicle I had to borrow from my classmates, I was not strong or focused enough for sport. My hands on the broomstick in my office, an ordinary straw broom acquired from the local hardware store, I fell into thought, which gave the owl time to take a cautious step back and catch my eye.

"Hoo?"

It gestured toward the scroll in its talons, different than the ordinary donation request slip. Hmm, I thought, they've updated the form. Fully expecting to be disappointed, and keeping a cautious eye on the hunch-shouldered raptor, I opened the scroll.

An InvitationTo Anthony Goldstein,WizardHouse Ravenclaw To speak at the commencementOf the some-and-such numbered anniversaryOf the School of Hogwarts

Dinner provided

"You oughtta know, Owl," I said. "I don't eat hog warts. Nor any other piece of the hog." In moments of confoundment I revert often to the simple dad joke, though I myself have no offspring. But I did not immediately shoo away the bird. Instead I shut my window, keeping the beast inside, while I opened an interdimensional portal, a simple trick, and one of the few practical uses of magic in my profession. Conducting a simple search, I soon found the source of the words. On some electronic contraption on a different plane my creator was prattling on.

Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw, Jewish wizard

"Ah," I thought, "she's in trouble again." If there is one thing I've learned it's that nobody is special. I was not special for being invited to my school. Our universe is not special for its nature. All life is the product of clumsy creators, who make and tinker with creatures for reasons of vanity but cannot understand the workings of the creatures within, just as the creatures cannot understand their plan. Always the playthings are manipulated and discarded for reasons they cannot control. To my alma mater and to my creator I have little to say. I did not pay much attention in history class but I paid attention to history and I know what is happening and I know who doesn't know and those who do not wish to learn I cannot teach. I typed this report and sent the owl away and asked that this be read in my stead and I know it will not.