The Part Where You Learn

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A twelve-year-old sits in a library, reading a book found on the shelf three days ago. Coming back every day to read a few more pages. Can’t check it out because someone at home might find it. Someone at home might ask questions. Someone at home might be the reason this book is needed in the first place.

This is the part. The part where the character tells someone what happened. The part where the character says the word. The word that names the thing that’s been happening to them. The word that they didn’t have before now.

Something breaks open in their chest. Not apart. Open. Like a door. Like a window. Like a throat that’s been holding a scream for years and for which it has finally found sound.

Not alone. Not crazy. Not making it up. There’s a word for what happened. There’s a name for what’s felt. There’s a book that knows. There’s a character who lived. There’s a page that says what’s been trying to be said.

The page is turned, trembling, desperate to find out what happens next…

The librarian’s hands coming from behind. Reaching past a shoulder. Pulling the book from small grasp.

The part was right there. The word was right there. The moment the character was going to tell how to survive this. And the hands took it.

The librarian doesn’t look. The librarian has a list. The list has titles. This title is on the list. The librarian is following orders. The orders came from a vote. The vote happened in a room this kid wasn’t invited to. The vote was cast by people who’ve never needed a book to tell them they exist.

The librarian is crying. The tears are there. The librarian took an oath. The librarian believes in the right to read. The librarian is being forced to violate everything they believe in. The librarian isn’t the villain. The librarian is another victim of the system that sent that order.

But the tears don’t stop the hands. The hands put the book in a box. The box goes in a closet. The closet goes to a shredder. The word goes back in the throat. The door closes. The window shuts. The scream stays inside.

The character’s survival is never learned. The ending is never reached. The word that named the thing is taken away. Because someone decided this survival was too dangerous to read about.

I was that kid.

Lost… abused…

I would’ve burned the world down had I not been able to find representation in books. The words that named what happened. The story that said I wasn’t alone. The character who survived and showed me it was possible to survive too.

And there are thousands of kids like me. And they are still coming for all of us.

Books gave me the language for what was being done. Books gave me the ability to say “this happened.” Books gave me the ability to say “I’m not alone.” Books gave me the ability to name the abuse, the identity, the difference, the pain.

When a book about a child who was abused is banned, the word that names the abuse is taken away. The language that lets a child tell someone is erased. The story that says “this isn’t your fault” disappears. The page that says “you can survive this” is shredded. The character who made it through is gone.

When a book about a trans kid is banned, trans kids are told they’re a lie. When a book about a Black kid is banned, Black kids are told their history is a threat. When a book about a gay kid is banned, gay kids are told they’re too dangerous to exist in a library. When a book about abuse is banned, abused kids are told their experience is too shameful to name.

The ban isn’t about protection. The ban is about erasure. The ban is about deciding which children are allowed to have language. Which children are allowed to name what happened to them. Which children are allowed to survive.

Over 4,000 book bans in the 2023-2024 school year. Over 1,500 individual titles. Targeted. Specific. Deliberate. PEN America documented 3,362 cases of book bans affecting 1,557 unique titles during the 2022-2023 school year. The numbers keep climbing. The targeting keeps sharpening.

90% of banned books feature LGBTQ+ characters or characters of color. The American Library Association reports that the majority of challenged books are by or about Black, Indigenous, and people of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, and other marginalized groups. The targeting isn’t random. The targeting is the point.

The books being banned aren’t dangerous. The books being banned are the ones that give “dangerous” children language. Dangerous to them meaning different. Dangerous meaning marginalized. Dangerous meaning the kind of child who might learn to name what is happening to them. The kind of child who might learn to call the cops. The kind of child who might learn to fight back.

The bans aren’t about sex. They aren’t about age-appropriateness. They’re about power. They’re about who gets to have words. Who gets to have stories. Who gets to have a voice.

School boards. Parents. Politicians. People who’ve never needed a book to tell them they exist. People who’ve never needed a story to name their abuse. People who’ve never had to search a library for a word that describes what happened to them.

They’re safe. They’re comfortable. They’re protected. They don’t need the book. They don’t need the word. They don’t need the story. They’re secure enough in their existence to decide who else gets to exist on the page.

They call it protection. They call it parental rights. They call it age-appropriateness. They call it whatever lets them sleep at night.

But the kid who was reading that book wasn’t protected. The kid who was reading that book was silenced. The kid who was reading that book was told that their experience is too dangerous to name. The kid who was reading that book was told that their survival is too controversial to share.

“Parents should decide what their kids read.” Parents are deciding what other people’s kids read. Parents are deciding that no child gets the word. Parents are deciding that the library isn’t for the kid who needs it.

Parents are deciding that their comfort is more important than another child’s survival.

“Think of the children.” The children are being thought of. That’s the problem. The children are being thought of and then their stories are being taken away. The children are being thought of and then their language is being erased. The children are being thought of and then their survival is being banned.

The violence isn’t always a bomb. Sometimes it’s a list. Sometimes it’s a vote. Sometimes it’s a hand pulling a book from a child who needed the word that would let them name what is happening to them.

The erasure isn’t always a bullet. Sometimes it’s a shredder. Sometimes it’s a closed door. Sometimes it’s a room full of people who decided that a child’s survival was too dangerous to read about.

The mouth that screams for the ban and the hand that signs the order come from the same place. The same certainty. The same comfort. The same power that decides who gets to exist and who gets to disappear. The same system that decides which children are worth protecting and which children are too dangerous to name.

The book is gone. The shelf is empty. The kid is still waiting for the word that would let them speak. The librarian is still crying. The list is still growing. The vote is still happening in rooms to which kids aren’t invited.

And the kids keep dying.

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