Books Are Powerful and for Some, That's a Problem

But for many more of us, it's a reason for hope.

Mar 30, 2024

A collage image of the interior of a library with bookshelves crossed by caution tape on one side and a woman sitting on a set of stairs surrounded by trash cans filled with books on the other. A small girl peers up at the woman through the stair's bannister.

According to my mother, I taught myself to read when I was five.

I have a distinct memory of sitting on the end of my bed, flipping through a Hooked on Phonics book and listening to the accompanying cassette, painstakingly sounding out vowels and consonants along with the cheery-voiced instructor on the tape.

The moment I figured out how to string those letters into words and sentences, I was indeed hooked.

I’ve been obsessed with books ever since. As my official author bio says, when all the other kindergartners wanted to be astronauts and zookeepers, I wanted to be a writer.

I was what James Dobson would likely have described as a “strong willed child,” and what my mother referred to as “stubborn” and occasionally “smart-mouthed.” (More things that I suppose haven’t changed much.) She once broke a plastic ruler into multiple pieces across my butt during an infamous spanking (I don’t remember what the infraction was that prompted my punishment), after which I clenched my little fists, turned around and informed her that “that didn’t hurt.” (I guess I started resisting Dobson’s ploys sooner than I realized). After this my mother gave up on corporal punishment and began using a different tactic — taking away my books.

Once the price of my sass and disobedience was a week with nothing to read but the Bible, I became a very good girl.

As a kid, I read voraciously, particularly anything that involved a mystery to be solved by a scrappy young heroine. Stories provided adventure, escape, a vehicle for my extensive imagination. With a book in my hands, I was happy and content…and blissfully unaware that what I read differed greatly from most of my peers.

Before the age of 9 or 10, I only recall going to a public library once.1 It was small; I think it had recently opened, close enough to our farmhouse in rural Pennsylvania be considered our local branch. I remember a row of Nancy Drew novels and a feeling of euphoria at being surrounded by shelves and shelves of books — so many more than the small children’s and young adult section at my church library.

The church library — and the local Christian bookstore — were where my books came from almost exclusively through my elementary years. (Since I was homeschooled, I didn’t have access to a school library.) So while my peers were reading Goosebumps and Animorphs, The Baby-Sitters Club and Sweet Valley High, Judy Blume, Bridge to Terabithia, and Harry Potter, I was reading The Mandie Books, American Girls, Little House on the Prairie, The Christy Miller series, Cedar River Daydreams, and that one creepy, spiritual-warfare driven, the-ghosts-are-actually-demons Frank Peretti kids’ series that gave me nightmares.

In short, most of what I read fit into two categories: classics or Christian knockoffs of “secular” counterparts, all with storylines and morals that reinforced the religious rules of my house (and general smile-and-be-a-meek-obedient-girl stuff).

By the time I was old enough to be let loose in the library and pick whatever I wanted, I’d learned the rules (spoken and unspoken) regarding what was “appropriate” reading. So I stuck to what was safe: books by Christian authors. And that’s pretty much how it went, even after I got married at 18 and moved out of my parents’ house.2

Then, the Christmas just after my 25th birthday, my father-in-law, aghast at the fact that I’d never read The Chronicles of Narnia, gifted me the all-in-one-volume movie edition.

Cracking it open to read the first chapter, I felt almost nervous. I’d wanted to read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe when I was 10, but my mom had insisted on reading it first. (Despite having a Christian author, the “witch” part was enough to make her suspicious.) After she finished it, she declared it off limits, giving a list of bizarre reasons, like the inclusion of “mythological creatures” such as satyrs (goat man = Satanic Panic).3 In a tiny act of rebellion, I got my hands on the book one day while my mom was out of the house, before she’d had a chance to return it to wherever she’d gotten it from, and read the first chapter. But overcome by guilt and fear, I quickly returned it to the spot where she’d left it and vowed never to give into literary temptation again.

Fifteen years later, as I finished the book, I had to laugh at the absurdity of my mother’s review.

Now, I look back and realize this was the first crack in the fear I’d been shellacked in as a kid.4

Fast forward to 2015, and I’d just gotten into PitchWars, an online writing contest for aspiring novelists. Suddenly, I found myself in a small digital community of fellow writers. Those of us who wrote middle-grade fiction quickly bonded, chatting in our Facebook group and on Twitter. When everyone started talking about their favorite authors and the stories that inspired them as kids — books I’d never read — I was transported back to my awkward pre-teen self. I was once again the odd one out, the weird sheltered kid who didn’t understand the lingo, who couldn’t connect with this communal experience I hadn’t gotten to be a part of. The biggest being, of course, Harry Potter.

At this point, I realized that if I was serious about becoming a children’s author, I should probably catch up on one of the most famous children’s series of all time. Having survived my travels through Narnia spiritually unscathed, I set my sights on Hogwarts.

By the time I finished reading the series of horrible, evil, anti-Christian books and discovered they concluded with (spoiler alert) Harry being resurrected from death to defeat evil and save the world5…I was officially done holding on to the Satanic Panic paranoia that had lingered since my youth.

At the same time I was coming to terms with all the bookish fun I’d missed out on as a kid, I was also coming to terms with many of the other fears and biases I’d been raised with.

PitchWars had introduced me to a community far more diverse than I’d ever been involved with before. And as all of us aspiring authors banded together to support one another on our publishing journeys, I was forced to grapple with the question of how I could support the queer authors I’d gotten to know — and their queer books — when my chosen faith labeled them both sinful. (A “fact” I was beginning to question more and more.)

I’d been feeling anxiety over this quandary for weeks when the answer came to me, a quiet whisper of a thought that felt so right tears stung my eyes.

You support them because kids need these books. If one of these stories helps a struggling, closeted kid feel seen and gives them the strength to make it to adulthood, what else matters?

My world opened up a little bit more in that moment. The cracks were spreading and would continue to — thanks in huge part to children’s books.

I read Dana Alison Levy’s The Misadventures of the Family Fletcher because I wanted to get familiar with some of the authors represented by the literary agent I was hoping to sign with. This story about a rambunctious group of five adopted siblings — and their two dads — was a continued unraveling of the homophobia I’d been taught as I realized that loving families came in all different types and same-sex parents wanted the same happy, secure life for their kids that I wanted for my own.

Ellie Terry’s Forget Me Not schooled me on the facts of living with Tourette’s syndrome, uprooting harmful nonsense I’d absorbed as a kid through afternoon talk shows that made a spectacle of people living with mental health struggles and a religious upbringing that insisted such struggles had spiritual origins.

Ghost Boys and From the Desk of Zoe Washington laid bare the horrible consequences of the racism that permeates the American justice system and how it disproportionately affects the Black community.

Front Desk shone a light on xenophobia and how those seeking the American Dream are abused and taken advantage of for cheap labor. Efrén Divided gave me a glimpse into the life of an undocumented family, ripped apart in the blink of an eye. Other Words for Home put me in the shoes of Syrian refugees seeking safety amidst anti-Muslim prejudice.

Christine Day’s I Can Make This Promise taught me history I never learned in school, about Native American children stolen from their parents by government agencies so they could be adopted out to white families.

Cindy Baldwin’s No Matter the Distance (and our personal friendship) showed me what it’s like to live with disability and chronic illness in a world made for able bodies, where disabled lives are dismissed and devalued unless their stories are being used as “inspiration.”

Schuyler Bailar’s Obie is Man Enough shared with me a tiny piece of the trans experience and what young trans athletes really want — to simply play the sports they love as their true selves.

Of course, amidst all of this, I’ve read a multitude of books written for adult audiences, both fiction and nonfiction, that also deeply affected me.6 But the beautiful thing about children’s books is their ability to explore hard topics with both truth and hope.

Yes, this is the world we live in. No, it doesn’t have to stay this way. Yes, we have the power to change it.

I’ve been thinking about this journey of my life in books a lot lately, because it feels like both a prime example of why the conservative right is working so hard to remove books from schools and libraries and why it’s so important that books remain accessible.

Having completed the 180° shift from conservative Christian to liberal heathen, I am the evangelical horror story — someone who left the faith and ended up queer and was aided in both those things by my local library.7

I am proof that books can change people. That they can help you face the racism and homophobia and myriad of other biases culture and religion have taught you, admit your complicity, and then begin the hard work to unlearn it all and do better.

I am a different person today than I was 5, 10, 15 years ago…because of books.

Books gave me access to information, taught me how to think more critically, allowed me to explore topics I might not have otherwise been exposed to, helped me better understand other people’s lived experiences.

Books gave me empathy. And empathy is exactly what the far right, conservative evangelical movement cannot afford. They need people to separate themselves from the “other,” to fear what they do not know or understand, because that fear is easily manipulated.

Banning books isn’t new and neither is the reason behind such bans. It’s never been about morality or protecting anyone, much less children. It’s always been about power and control.

In chapter six of Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle, Amelia and Emily Nagoski talk about the importance of connection and explain the concept of “connected knowing” as codified by Blythe McVicker Clinchy.

While “separate knowing” takes an idea and assesses it in terms of externally imposed rules, “connected knowing” requires exploring an idea within the proper context. The Nagoski’s describe it this way:

“You put yourself in the shoes of the other person, to try on their point of view. You suspend (temporarily) your doubts, judgments, criticisms, and personal needs, in favor of exploring their perspective…Then you bring in elements of your own life experience or personality, holding these up to the other point of view, testing it and turning it and testing it again, exploring what it would be like to have this person's perspective, within your own point of view... In the process, you feel how comfortable (or uncomfortable) it would be for you to have the same perspective.”

If that doesn’t highlight the power of books and the motivation behind book bans enough, they go on to say:

“But the most energy-cresting characteristic of connected knowing is that it isn't just a way to connect with and understand others; it's a way to connect with and understand our own internal experience and develop our own identities, through connection with others.”

Reading stories can not only challenge the ways we’ve been conditioned to view others, it can also challenge how we’ve been taught to view ourselves. And that’s dangerous for groups that rely on their followers’ blind obedience, who can’t have people questioning the company rhetoric or the roles they’ve been assigned to. Questions, curiosity, empathy, and individuality are all threats, especially to groups like Moms for Liberty whose mission is to raise mini-me, copycat kids. Kids who can be frightened and shamed into continuing a legacy of hate.

This is why, along with so many other rights in America, the freedom to read is increasingly at risk. And it’s also why it’s so important that we push back against censorship and advocate for diverse stories.

Of the 10 books I talked about above, 5 can be found on Pen America’s banned book indexes. In 2021, an eighth-grade teacher resigned after being placed on administrative leave for reading a short story written by Schuylar Bailar to her class, about Bailar’s experience as a trans athlete swimming for the Harvard men’s team.

In 2023, a record 4,240 unique book titles were challenged — twice as many challenges as the last two years combined.

But even as book ban attempts reach historic highs, I continue to hold on to hope.

Hope in the form of states banning book bans.

Hope in the form of organizations and initiatives like the American Library Association’s Unite Against Book Bans, leading the charge and providing resources to fight book bans.

Hope in the form of diverse authors who continue to write diverse stories.

Hope in the form of librarians and booksellers working tirelessly to create safe spaces and make sure books get into the hands of the young people who need them.8

And hope in the form of the children’s and young adult books that line this 38-year-old’s bookshelves. Because they’re proof that even when people do manage to restrict kids’ access to books, the power of books isn’t so easily stopped.

I have hope that, like me, those kids will grow up into adults who read everything they were told they couldn’t and love everyone they were told they shouldn’t.

The stuff bringing me healing, joy, and sunny li’l boosts to my li’l mental health.

📚 I’ve created a little bookshop.org affiliate storefront, Good Girl Reads, where you can purchase all the books I mention in my Substack posts (along with some of my other favorites), if you feel so inclined!

📼 One word: Nimona. Stories told through film can be powerful, too.

🍵 Peppermint vanilla tea lattes are my new obsession. (Steep mint tea in 4-6 oz. boiling water, add 4-6 oz. steamed milk or milk alternative and 1-1.5 tablespoons vanilla syrup.)

⚽️ The NWSL season has officially begun. Sapphics and soccer fans, rejoice. (Go, Thorns! 🌹)

A Good Girl's Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse

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