We all have our skeletons. We all have things from our past that we’d like to forget, or at least have forgiven. And the few times I used “bloody” as an adjective or an adverb in middle school is one of those things.
I’m not British. I saw two of the Harry Potter movies, and I’m not quite sure what came over me. That kid with the hat in my Pre-Algebra class was saying it, and I thought it would be cool if I said“bloody” too. “That’s bloody brilliant!” “Bloody hell.” I could chalk it all up to youthful indiscretion, but that wouldn’t take away the social pain of the people around me, the people who had to hear me quickly fall into an accent while I described something as “bloody.” I can’t wipe away their scars. But I can at least clear my conscience.
People seemed to like Harry Potter and Ron Weasley! They were funny and young and charming, and, like I said, that kid with the hat, who started wearing button down vests a few years later, said it all the time. I just wanted a little piece of that. A little piece of that magic. I’m sure your peers winced as they watched you sitting at a lunch table next to me, with me exclaiming “Oh, bloody hell!” in a way that only a skinny sixth grade kid in a North Carolina public school can. I’m sorry for any opportunities that you missed, and any fleeting chances at happiness that dodged past you. I didn’t know what I was doing. I hope you understand.
“That’s bloody awful!” I’d shout, like a fool. And it was just that.
So let the healing process begin.