Draco Malfoy made me realize I’m gay. It’s about as weird it sounds.

Between 7 and 11, I was obsessed with Harry Potter, particularly Draco Malfoy. I think it was because he seemed misunderstood: Harry’s limited perspective doesn't let us see all there is to his character. As I grew older, I discovered the Internet, and learned that holy shit people are writing stories about characters in Harry Potter and HOLY SHIT THEY THINK DRACO IS GAY. I took comfort in the idea that Draco could be queer. I felt seen.

In high school, I became an unstoppable gay reading machine. But everything I read seemed as straight as a ruler. Then, my freshman year literature teacher properly introduced me to queer readings. While discussing The Great Gatsby, he suggested we try different readings; feminist, queer, Marxist, they were all valid interpretations. I felt empowered, having finally found a way to see myself in what I read. But I still felt isolated: was queer reading the only way I’d ever see myself in a text? Did people like me even have a place in literature?

But then I found James Baldwin. Go Tell It On The Mountain was assigned to my sophomore year literature class. I opened the novel, read a page, and instantly felt understood. I didn’t have to do any extra digging, or twist or manipulate his words: Baldwin was already speaking my language. I bought as many of his books as I could find—Giovanni’s Room, The Fire Next Time—and devoured them. I devoted my time to finding authors I could relate to and emphasizing the importance of their work to my peers. Shirley Jackson and Sylvia Plath helped me understand and express my depression and anxiety, showing me I wasn’t alone. Simone de Beauvoir gave me a place in philosophy, her radical ideas encouraging me to reach for a more equal society. Audre Lorde, who beautifully expresses the intersection of feminism with race and queerness, let me express the inadequacy I sometimes feel as a queer woman within the modern feminist movement. I had finally found authors that understood me.

This past summer, I took a philosophy: ethics course at Columbia University. On the syllabus, all the authors were men, all the men were white. I was concerned, considering there are many female ethicists, including some who’ve created their own fields. Care Ethics was founded by Carol Gilligan, who felt women and men have different perspectives on morality, and the female perspective was not represented. Care Ethics is critical of how society has gendered caring, and consequently devalued women. Carol Gilligan saw a need within the philosophical community, knew it was one only a woman could fill, and filled that need, without waiting for validation from her male counterparts. That’s feminist as fuck. When I confronted my professor, he said the syllabus lacked diversity because he hadn’t read many female philosophers, or Eastern philosophers. He didn’t recognize the disservice done to everyone in the class that didn’t look like him. Why would he? He already feels represented.

That class made it glaringly obvious how many people believe that women, or people of color, or queer people, don’t have a place in philosophy. Without diversity, it’s impossible to have a complete understanding of all the nuances of any issue, and lack of diversity can be incredibly discouraging for young people who want to pursue those issues. I’ve realized that I want to be a professor. In my classes, I will teach female authors, queer authors, authors of color; I want to show my students that they do have a place in philosophy, in literature, and in academia. I want my students to feel the way I did the first time I read Baldwin, or Beauvoir, or Plath: that they’re understood, that they do have a place, and that they can see themselves in more than just Draco Malfoy.