I lived it! I was quote-tweeted by Joyce Carol Oates
...and no one in the comments responded to my claim.
Joyce Carol Oates is one of the greatest American short story writers ever.
She also probably thinks I’m a spineless apologist for book banning.
She recently responded to a man who said, “Morrison’s books should be banned.” I replied, saying that Americans are divided over what English teachers should be able to discuss in schools. Oates then quote-tweeted me, saying teenagers should be allowed to read literally (her word) whatever they want.
First off, I was honored to be quote-tweeted by a living literary legend.
Second, we’re talking past each other. Let’s get into it.
On Oates’s point, I’m unsure how I feel about its force. The implied argument seems to be something like this:
“If teenagers are already exposed to morally suspect content on the internet, then they should be allowed to read whatever they want. They are exposed to morally suspect content. Therefore, they should be allowed to read whatever they want.”
Modus ponens.
But the first premise is, as we say in the biz, a big if true. It was certainly true for me that my mind was warped by weird internet content. But I’m not sure how I’d feel if a teacher or principal said, “Because your kid has probably already seen something extreme online, we can teach whatever we want in school.” That feels... off. I’d rather appeal to a separate principle, something like: students should have access to literature because intellectual freedom is a good in itself.
Still, I take her point that there’s hypocrisy in our national tendency to censor the literature that’s worth reading.
The issue of whether teenagers should have unfettered access to literature—and what conversations should be approved in ELA classrooms—is culturally about as fraught as it gets in public education. Notably, nearly all the controversy centers on sexual content: graphic novels with explicit scenes, YA fiction that references sex, and, of course, Toni Morrison’s Beloved.
Americans don’t care if students read about genocide, decapitation, or maiming. But sex? That’s the line.
The issue of what books students should read—both in standard and AP-level classes—follows directly from the question of what kinds of conversations we consider appropriate in the classroom. Teachers’ and students’ nerves, the ever-watchful eyes of parents, and the public framing of ELA all converge here. I think the trust parents once had in what teachers talk about with their kids is largely gone.
There are new anxieties over teacher power and how teachers shape children’s views of identity, sexuality, and power. The temperature is high.
We can argue about what proportion of classroom time should include conversations about sex and sexuality. But let’s be honest: even the most liberal among you would probably raise an eyebrow if the four books assigned over a semester were Tropic of Cancer (Henry Miller), Lady Chatterley’s Lover (D.H. Lawrence), Venus in Furs (Leopold von Sacher-Masoch), and Dangerous Liaisons (Choderlos de Laclos).
Still, setting aside the proportional argument, let’s focus on the deeper question: should teachers and students talk openly about sex in literature at all?
Morrison’s books are beautiful and brutal. They’re also divisive. In Texas, where I was certified to teach, we taught Beloved, but you could feel the tension in the room during any discussion that touched on sex. And that tension wasn’t unwarranted.
Teachers in states like Texas know what it means to stand out.
The popularity of Morrison’s novels is constantly under threat from Republican lawmakers. Online liberals may be eager to push for more progressive curricula, but they’re not the ones who risk social isolation, job loss, or professional consequences. Teachers are. And many are caught in the middle, sacrificial lambs for a culture war they didn’t sign up to fight.
Forget state standards for a second; they vary so widely across the country that they’re impossible to appeal to nationally. What about the AP Literature course framework? Does it give teachers cover to explore themes of sex and sexuality?
From the College Board’s sample syllabus for AP English Literature, here’s how many times the words “sex” or “sexuality” appear:
0.
That’s a zero.
How about “romantic”?
0.
“Love”?
0.
Wait—what? The AP syllabus doesn’t even mention love?
That’s correct.
So, who carries the risk for bringing those themes into the room?
Technically? The assistant principal.
Actually? The teacher.
I haven’t conducted a comprehensive review of how each state’s standards support or fail to support teachers who want to explore these themes. But let’s be honest: depending on whether you’re teaching in a red or blue state, you could be inviting a witch hunt into your life, and one that’s just not professionally worth it.
So, where do I stand?
I’ll tell you.
First, it’s not a teacher’s job to risk their livelihood because you think they ought to champion open conversations about sex in literature. Sorry. Call us cowards, call us cautious. However, this job is more than just a paycheck, and the social backlash teachers face is often the fault of communities and parents, not the educators. If a teacher chooses to lead a conversation about abortion ethics or a graphic sex scene in a novel, that’s supererogatory, above and beyond. Not mandatory.
Second, I’ve said it elsewhere, and I’ll repeat it: my libertarian view of literature is that students (and adults) should read upsetting, challenging, and even offensive works. I don’t believe reading “bad” material morally corrupts people. I do think a lack of good conversation and strong role models can. So: let kids read. Let libraries stock widely. Let controversy be part of what we read through, not around.
Third, as for the books I’d assign in a high school class, if I had only four novels per year, I’d rotate them. And yes, sometimes I’d include a book with explicit sexual content. “Literary merit” is an elusive thing. Beloved has it. It deserves to be taught. It depicts a vital period of American history with a kind of raw moral clarity that few novels achieve. Dangerous Liaisons is also a good book, but if I had to teach it every year for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t be a good fit.
As much as I loved teaching Beloved, I wouldn’t teach a censored version.
So here’s my ask to parents: be visible. Be vocal. If you see Beloved on your child’s book list, applaud your child’s teacher for assigning it. Whatever that means to you, say it out loud. Tell them they’re doing a good job. That kind of support means the world to me.