The number of books being challenged and pulled from school and public libraries in the United States continues to grow: the American Library Association says the number of challenged titles expanded 40 percent in 2022, to a staggering 2,571 titles which were challenged or banned last year. In one example of how such a figure was reached, in 2021 then-Texas state representative Matt Krause demanded the Texas Education Agency investigate whether any of the 850 books on a sixteen-page spreadsheet could be found in any Texas school, as well as the exact amount of money spent on the book(s). Similarly, the list of challenged and banned books sparking the current lawsuit in Florida is a small-only-by-comparison 100+ books.
These vast numbers are interesting in comparison to the average number of books read by Americans. A study last year by WordsRated found that almost 52 percent of Americans did not read a book in the previous year, 22 percent had not read one in over three years and almost 11 percent hadn’t read a book in the last decade. A late 2021 survey by Gallup found Americans claim to read an average of 12.6 books per year (down from 15.6 in 2016), while an earlier survey by Pew said the average number of books read is a mere four per year.
These statistics raise an obvious question: how many of the publications on their lists of books to be banned have the book challengers and banners actually read? The answer to be drawn from the libraries they are attacking: few if any.
This can clearly be seen in another case from Texas where state representative Jared Patterson, advocating passage of his READER Act implementing even-stricter controls on books in public school libraries, was asked if he would permit Lonesome Dove, a historical novel beloved by Texans (and others, including myself) containing sex scenes, prostitutes and sexual assault. He hadn’t read it, he answered, but nonetheless “they might need to ban Lonesome Dove.” A State Republican Executive Committee member, attempting to defend him during the resulting public uproar, quickly purchased the Kindle edition and searched for a handful of common sexual and biological terms in the book and, not finding them, tweeted that the original questioner “should be relieved to know that this book is not sexually explicit”;” she was too unfamiliar with the text to search for such colorful euphemisms as “poke” and “carrot,” which are liberally sprinkled throughout the text.
A more frightening example comes from Bonners Ferry, Idaho, where residents demanded a list of 400 books be removed from the public library—and even showed up with guns to reinforce their demand. There was one problem with their demand: none of the books are in the library’s collection. While it is theoretically possible the protestors had read privately-owned copies of some of these books, it is implausible they had read all 400 and, most significantly, they had not borrowed any of them from the library in which they paraded their weapons. “They don’t know what comes next,” said now-former library director Kimber Glidden. “They just want to burn it down, and they’re doing a good job.”
Ironically, and in direct contrast to the ignorance of the adult book banners, the efforts to remove diverse and inclusive books from libraries are inspiring teens to start “Banned Book Clubs,” where they gather to read and discuss the very books the adult challengers are refusing to read. The ACLU interviewed one of the teens behind this movement for her suggestions on starting a banned book club.
