Book Bans Are Almost Never Just About Books

I WAS WHAT library advocate Mychal Threets calls a “library kid.” My mother, a high-school dropout who loved to read, took me almost every Saturday. One of my earliest memories is playing in the stacks while she picked out romance novels and murder mysteries. This 1903 Carnegie library, one of almost 1,700 U.S. libraries funded by industrialist Andrew Carnegie between 1886 and 1919, seemed elegant and grand to a Midwestern country kid. When I was a little older, the children’s annex became my spot — modern and sunlit, with kid-sized bookshelves and chairs.

I could check out as many books as I wanted, on any topic, with my very own library card. It was like a candy store without threat of cavities.

Public school and the library were my first experience with the commons — cultural or civic resources accessible to all. Libraries offer books, but also other media and things like board games for borrowing; meeting space; and access to computers, quiet, and air conditioning. They often house local history collections.

What’s not to love about spaces and books open to all? But attempts to ban books have also been part of the fabric of library life. A parent or a local group might challenge a book they deem risqué, biased, or ideologically dangerous. Historically these book challenges have come from both the Left and the Right.

But attempts to remove books from public schools and libraries are at the highest level in decades. In March, the American Library Association reported that in 2023, there were efforts to censor at least 4,240 unique book titles in schools and libraries. This includes a 92 percent increase, compared to 2022, in the number of titles targeted for censorship specifically in public libraries.

Why this surge? National conservative pressure groups, such as Moms for Liberty, have stoked aggressive targeting of books that mention LGBTQ rights, racism, sexuality, or perceived criticism of religion. Often couched as “protecting children” and defending “parents’ rights,” these campaigns regularly paint school or library personnel who resist book bans as “endangering” children.

The Associated Press reported in early April that some state lawmakers are “considering new punishments — crippling lawsuits, hefty fines, and even imprisonment — for distributing books some regard as inappropriate.” In the first three months of 2024, lawmakers introduced bills targeting libraries or librarians in more than 15 states. This legislation aims to dismantle longstanding legal protections for institutions such as libraries, schools, and museums, and their employees, when content (books, class curricula, art) is targeted as offensive.

Librarians are trained to include diverse viewpoints in collections, and defend freedom of information; for most, resisting a book ban is first a question of professional ethics, not their individual political beliefs. In July 2022, The New York Times reported on librarians quitting due to online harassment and threats or being fired because they refused to remove a book from circulation.

Caregivers have the right to vet the books their children read. But are children protected by well-funded efforts to threaten the jobs of public servants and saddle libraries with expensive lawsuits?

The ultimate targets, I suspect, are the commons themselves, and the belief that diverse ideas and diverse people can coexist with mutual respect and cooperation. How do you make civic spaces seem dangerous, or a misuse of public funds, instead of a common treasure? Book bans are almost never just about books.