This personal reflection is part of a series called Turning Points, in which writers explore what critical moments from this year might mean for the year ahead. You can read more by visiting the Turning Points series page.
Turning Point: More than 10,000 books were targeted for removal from school shelves in the United States in the 2023-2024 academic year.
As a kid, I cataloged the books I read each year in a three-ring notebook. I read lots of books, not all of them favorites, but I was proud to read and review each one for my own pleasure, from fairy tales to books on the lives of saints. Even if I didn’t like a tome, I read it anyway. Every book will teach you something, if you let it.
Now, as I near 70 years of age, I’ve made it a goal to read books that have recently been targeted for bans in South Texas public schools. In the spring, a church group approached school boards in the Rio Grande Valley and brought certain titles to their attention, saying that some of the content in the books was “extremely vulgar and offensive.” The group specified reasons for requesting each book’s expulsion, though some of the themes it cited — sexual abuse and parental violence — are also found in the pages of the Bible, which could also be labeled offensive if not read in context. The church group didn’t use the word “ban” — they preferred that officials “willingly remove” these books. This raised my curiosity.
Earlier this year I thought I would make the group’s list my summer reading project, but with 676 titles to get through, I had to extend my goal beyond one season.
I am a writer thanks to the Chicago Public Library. When I was growing up, the library gave me permission to make myself at home with books, since my family could not afford them. Books on its shelves were categorized — for children, juveniles, adults — and you graduated from one level to the next. The library didn’t ban books that may have been inappropriate for your age. It instead recommended books suitable for your development, a sensible approach. I remember once venturing beyond my capacity and attempting to read “Quo Vadis.” The text took care of restricting me on its own; I had no idea what was going on.
I’ve had a wonderful time reading the exiled authors this year. Some I already knew: Sherman Alexie, Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood, Benjamin Alire Sáenz. Some, like Elizabeth Acevedo, I’m finally getting to know, and some, like Sonora Reyes, are new discoveries. It’s not surprising that most books on the removal list are by L.G.B.T.Q. writers, which makes me admire them all the more for their courage to speak their truths.
The poet Joy Harjo has said books are medicine. If so, libraries are pharmacies with a prescription out there for every human. Parents have the right to supervise what their children read, but might they also consider that the book they regard as harmful for their own child may be the perfect remedy for another?
My first novel, “The House on Mango Street,” is among those deemed inappropriate by the South Texas book-removers. Most of the vignettes in the book were inspired by my time teaching at Chicago’s Latino Youth Alternative High School. My students were former dropouts who struggled mightily just to return to school. Some were gay, some were addicted to drugs, some were children raising babies, some couldn’t walk outdoors without being targeted by gangs, some were targeted by abusive boyfriends or parents. This was their reality. As their teacher and counselor, I had no means to heal their wounds beyond listening and telling their tales.
Because I wanted my novel to enter classrooms and libraries, I felt obliged to censor myself by writing about mature themes elusively, in a way that would sail over the heads of little ones. I needed my book to reach teens who were living these same stories, but I was also aware the stories might be read by younger readers, too. So I found myself crafting with care, respecting what children could handle at certain ages, since I certainly didn’t wish to offend anyone, especially parents and school boards. That’s why I told my truth, but told it “slant,” as the poet Emily Dickinson would put it, in a lyrical way so that the tale would be understood gradually by readers as they aged.
I am lucky to receive constant confirmation from readers about how my book changed their lives for the better. I also feel fortunate to have corresponded with a Texas mother who felt my book should be removed from her child’s school, and that we were able to exchange thoughts and come to a place of good will. Like the Mexican saying goes, “hablando se entiende la gente.” Talking to one another, we understand one another.
This year “The House on Mango Street” commemorated the 40th anniversary of its publication. I have learned many spirit lessons since its inception, but foremost is this: Anything we create with love on behalf of those we love, “siempre sale bonito,” always turns out well. I wrote my students’ stories with pure love and only love, “puro amor y amor puro.”
I believe in the power of stories to restore us. I trust that if we approach one another with deep respect and deep listening, love will heal what divides us.
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