I hadn’t planned to write a post today. Other people will have much more considered and important things to say to mark this solemn occasion, and I believe in using the day as a way to preserve the stories of survivors. Those stories matter, particularly as denialists gain so much traction and the people who can tell these stories dwindle in number. But then, yesterday, the Board of Education in McMinn County, Tennessee voted to ban the book Maus from classrooms, and because I both live in Tennessee and frequently teach excerpts from Maus in my classes, I felt like I should say something.
We are increasingly seeing coordinated attempts to remove from classrooms anything that troubles notions of American exceptionalism or the dangers of White Supremacy, and in many cases the arguments made—like the one in this case—wrap themselves in the idea of “decency” as a way to erase history. The formal objections to the book are that it includes the phrase “God damn” and that it has drawn depictions of naked mice. Of course, there are other books still on the curriculum that are both racier and include more “foul language” (though I’m not willing to concede there is any such thing; there is just language, and sometimes a well-placed “God damn” is just what a piece needs). When asked about these other books, Board chairman Sharon Brown said, “That under another topic for another day.” Make no mistake, then. This was about finding a way to get Maus out of classrooms, not about clearing the curriculum of all books that use challenging language. (We can assume, though, that it’s probably the only book that has drawings of naked mice in it… but that, too, is on its face clearly not something so offensive that it would be a reason to pull a book.)
My family’s story is not a story of surviving or escaping the Holocaust. It’s a story of escaping—not once, but many times—other forms of antisemitic violence and oppression. These stories matter not just as a way to declare antisemitism as a wrong, but also because, well, we Jews need to know when it’s time think about escaping… again. By silencing these stories, opponents of books like Maus in the classroom deaden our ability to name and recognize recurring dangers by both ourselves and our allies. And it’s heartbreaking.
On this Holocaust Remembrance Day, I encourage you to seek out the stories of survivors, and to find ways to preserve them and make them available. The classroom isn’t the only place that people learn, and school libraries aren’t the only place people encounter important books. If, as we promise every year, we are never going to forget, we need to preserve the artifacts that allow us to remember.
I have so much to say on this subject (I'm a librarian) but I'm trying to spend my efforts and time here thinking about how these issues can apply to the project I've conceived, which is writing the family stories of a farmer(s) here in the Shenandoah Valley. The farmers I know, and have interviewed, have a common tale about ways they are misunderstood (e.g. the mistaken belief that they routinely practice animal cruelty), marginalized ( e.g. individually they are called rednecks, murderers) and unfairly controlled (agricultural policy is supremely authoritarian.) My questions are the ones that arise as I consider the possibilities for bridging the urban-rural divide, for promoting understanding with truth, and for challenging prejudice through story-telling. Is it helpful to me to conceive of the stories I plan to write as possibilities for the banned book list? How might farmers' stories cause offense? To whom? How would Charlotte's Web read if it were written from the farmer's point of view? For context: most of the farmers in my region are cattle or sheep ranchers, and dairy (goat and cow) producers. There's also a fair amount of fiber (alpaca, llama, sheep) production. For additional context: I was a vegetarian for 15 years, and I didn't eat mammals for nearly 30 years. How do I use my own experiences and beliefs to help tell the stories of beef and dairy producers? As a parent, what would a graphic work about dairy farming include that might cause me to consider keeping my child from reading it? I know a six-year-old who helped to raise, and slaughter a pig. When I asked him how he felt about it, he replied with a smile, "Yum! Bacon!" When I related this story to a friend (liberal, and well-educated) she immediately asserted the child was a psychopath. Is this the same way book banners pass judgment? How should we write the stories of fattening and slaughter? I am convinced we should never aim to avoid the censor, but should we aim to invite her scrutiny? Does truth necessarily always invite scrutiny? How do we do we preserve the difficult truths that exist in such different contexts for different people? Are there "community standards" for writing about family history? Who is the community?
I agree with everything you've written here. Nothing good ever comes from banning books, revising history, and so-called sheltering young people from truth and understanding their history and the belief systems of their ancestors. To go forward, we also need to understand where we came from.