Ole Golly’s message to Harriet was practical and tender: do what you have to do to survive, and don’t feel too guiltyĭespite not having any openly gay characters (the book was first published in 1964) Harriet the Spy still has excellent queer morals.

It was a relief to read the extracts from Harriet’s notebook, where the “normal” society she reported on from her spy route was so elegantly and brutally reduced to nothingness in a few sentences, always in her assertive, trademark caps-lock font. When you’re an outsider, observing the machinations of other people can often feel like you’re doing the work of a spy. Harriet’s dedication to her spy route made perfect sense to me too. Back then, I didn’t yet have the words for what I felt fizzing through my insides, and even now, 15 years after coming out, I’m only just learning to feel comfortable with how I present: non-binary, butch. As a kid who already felt left out by the mechanisms of femininity that everyone around me seemed to adopt with ease, Harriet was the blue denim baby butch I needed among the endless ballerina narratives. Harriet the Spy blurred the lines between right and wrong in a way that liberated my nine-year-old mind. I’m pretty sure if you zoomed in on a few particularly pretentious photos from 2005, you’d even find a moleskine notebook folded in my back pocket too. And, as many Facebook photos from the early 2000s will attest, there was also a time when I even wore the completely pointless black glasses without lenses. I still dress like Harriet to this day, right down to the cuffs on my baggy denim. In keeping with Fitzhugh’s iconic vision, Harriet proudly wears the same faux-spectacles, crumpled jeans with big turn-ups, the oversized hoodie, the pair of sneakers with long laces, and the leather belt from which hangs an assortment of tools that I always envied as a preteen.

The other is from 1981, and rather than any illustrations, the cover instead hosts a photo of a girl dressed up as Harriet, and this is the version I remember most fondly. One is from 1974, with the original illustrations by Louise Fitzhugh in all their heartfelt precociousness. Out of love, I have two copies of Harriet the Spy. For many, the book offered a rare chance to not feel like the odd one out, or better still, to be glad that they were the odd one out. B ring up Harriet the Spy at any queer gathering and you’ll hear at least a few happy shouts of appreciation.

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh