As 2009's number one most
frequently challenged author in the country (Mom, cover your ears), I often
catch flack for writing about topics that certain parents, teachers and librarians
would prefer I didn't. Like what? Like a teenager kissing her female best
friend, or high school kids drinking too much and doing really stupid things,
or a discussion of the pros and cons of thongs.
I've also come under fire for writing (lovingly) about a fifth-grader who has two moms, as well as a boy who won't join the Boy Scouts because of the Boy Scouts' discriminatory policies. Biology gets me in trouble, too. For example, parents get all kinds of upset about a scene in one of my novels in which a 12-year-old girl sits down with a box of tampons and attempts to make heads and tails of the dense instruction pamphlet.
Yet these upset parents... their anger springs from fear. I know it does. They love their kids, just as I love my kids, just as those of you who have kids in your life love your kids. Grown-ups who care about what kids read aren't the enemy.
In grappling with issues surrounding censorship, I've come to the conclusion that the enemy--at least in part--is the inevitable us/them dichotomy that arises in discussions of intellectual freedom. I say this because of a recent and unnerving realization: I'm a censor, too. The object of my censorship? Myself.
The dichotomy as I see it:
"Us": liberal thinkers who bike to work, buy local goods to minimize our ecological footprint, giggle while reading essays by David Sedaris and shake our heads at "Jesus talk," deeming it simple-minded at best and dangerously stupid at worst.
"Them": conservative thinkers who go to church every Sunday, buy into conspiracy theories regarding Obama and forward them to everyone in their e-mail address book, whoop and say "hell yeah" when Rush Limbaugh mocks universal health care and shake their heads at the sinful ways of the unsaved.
I'm not one of "them." On Facebook, I've blocked my hate-spewing second cousin, the one who sends anti-Obama propaganda. I think Rush Limbaugh is a jerk. I adore David Sedaris, and I will fight censorship till the day I die. But I'm not sure I'm one of "us," either, because the reason I fight against censorship--work with me here--is because I believe it's my mission as a child of God. (Or the universe, or the connective tissue that binds us all together, or the mysterious pulse of life itself. Take your pick.)
I'm blushing now, because in the
liberal group I hang with, being openly spiritual is about as chic as wearing
dark blue Levis, a belt buckle the size of Texas and a cowboy hat. That's how
it feels, at any rate, though it's quite likely I'm making unfair assumptions.
If I don't talk about God around my hip friends, how can I know what their
response would be? If I choose not to wear my cross necklace at ALA, NCTE or
within 100 miles of New York city for fear of being looked at askance, who's
doing the judging?
Sometimes it's just plain scary to say out loud what I believe in--or to wear a charming and tiny silver cross to signify what I believe in--even though that's what intellectual freedom is all about.
And yet, my book-loving peeps, what better time to take the plunge than during Banned Books Week, a time to celebrate intellectual freedom in all its glorious forms? So here goes. Yes, I am... um... a faith-based person. In fact--gulp--I'm a Christian. As a Christian, I believe that intellectual freedom is essential if we're to lead meaningful, purpose-driven lives.
Now for an added layer of texture that I suspect won't come as a surprise: like me, most of the would-be book banners are also Christians. I say that based on experience, because so many of the angry adults who contact me make it a point to identify themselves as such. They are Christians; therefore, they are good. I am surely a heathen to be writing about gay marriage and tampons; therefore, I am bad. That seems to be their message, whether implied or overtly stated.
But as theologian Krista Tippett so beautifully puts it, "Faith is as much about questions as it is about answers." That's true of books as well, don't you think? Books provide access to multiple points of view, encouraging readers to ask themselves, "Do I agree? Do I disagree? Does this make my heart soar, or does it make me cringe? If I cringe... why? If my heart soars... why?"
I sing in my church choir, and our new choir director--a recovering Baptist, as he puts it--has been encouraging us to smile more, sway more, emote more.
"You don't have to be corny about it,"
he told our group of mainly non-swaying Congregationalists. "But we can't
let the Evangelicals corner the market on singing with passion, now can we?"
Imploring us with his eyes, he said, "A song is more than words on the page. A song should touch your soul. That's its gift to the world."
As I see it, that's a book's gift to the world as well, and just as every song won't do it for every listener, every book won't do it for every reader. Sure. Fine. But as long as we don't limit our options, every reader can find a book that sings to her.
Faith is as much about questions as it is about answers, and though there are indeed truths I feel certain about--love a lot, laugh a lot, don't ban books--I need to probe deeper regarding the issues that make me uncomfortable. Specifically, I need to keep asking myself--regardless of the situation, regardless of whom I'm with--whether I'm living authentically or if in fact I'm censoring myself, padding faint-heartedly along the easy path of "us" versus "them."
I'll work on that. As I do, I'll continue to lift books up, knowing their power to touch our souls. I'll write and read and love and laugh, forever and ever, amen.
--Lauren Myracle, author of ttyl and Luv Ya Bunches, two of the aforementioned, frequently challenged books.