During my senior year in AP Literature, we were assigned A Streetcar Named Desire, but before we even opened the book, we had to get a permission slip signed by our parents. The reason? One page that referenced an LGBTQ+ character. Meanwhile, the entire play is saturated with sexuality, obsession, and unwanted desire.
That single page was suddenly the line. That was the moment it clicked for me that censorship isn’t always about “protecting” students. Sometimes, it’s about choosing which realities we’re allowed to see, and which stories are deemed too uncomfortable to sit with.
That moment stuck with me, especially as I started noticing how the books most frequently challenged or removed from schools weren’t really random at all. They were the ones asking inconvenient questions. The ones confronting race, gender, power, surveillance, and autonomy.
For a generation that already doesn’t read as much as it used to, the stakes feel even higher. Most people’s main reading exposure happens in K-12 classrooms. After that, unless someone genuinely loves literature or studies literature in higher education, the habit quietly fades. So, when those few formative books are filtered, softened, or erased entirely, what gets lost isn’t just a story. It’s a pathway to critical thought.
We talk about censorship as if it’s just about removing pages or banning titles, but in reality, it’s more subtle. It shapes what becomes familiar, what feels normal, and what feels discussable. When certain books never make it onto shelves, it narrows the intellectual and emotional range students are encouraged to explore, and that, in its own way, becomes a quiet form of censoring free thought.
In the 2023-2024 academic year alone, over 700 books were removed from Florida public school libraries following challenges by parents or residents, according to a list released by the state’s Department of Education.
What some see on paper as “protection” to guidelines around age-appropriate content can, in practice, mean that books with significant value are treated as liabilities. The irony is that many of those same works are precisely the ones that challenge readers to think beyond comfort, to sit with complexity, and to see lives unlike their own.
Why Banned Books Hit Different
There’s something inherently powerful about choosing to read a book that someone, somewhere, decided you shouldn’t. Not because of shock value, but because it forces you to ask why. Why this story? Why this voice? Why now?
Banned books tend to reveal the anxieties of the time they’re challenged in. They become cultural mirrors, reflecting upon societies what they’re afraid to confront head-on. In a moment where attention spans are shrinking and media is increasingly curated, choosing to intentionally read these works feels almost radical.
The Books That Stay with You
The following books are ones that I believe should still be read. Not just because they’re “controversial,” but because they challenge, educate, and resonate:
1984, George Orwell: Orwell’s vision of a society made up of surveillance, conformity, and “truth control” is constantly challenged for its political content but still remains relevant. In a time when data and privacy are constantly under threat, it reminds us about what happens when we let control go unquestioned.
The Color Purple, Alice Walker: As a portrayal of black womanhood, survival, trauma, and healing, this novel has been targeted for language and sexuality. But its honesty offers one of the most powerful explorations of trauma, resistance, and resilience out there.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou: Angelou’s memoir has been criticized for its unnerving discussions of trauma, but that vulnerability is exactly why it matters. It teaches resilience without romanticizing pain, something not enough texts are brave enough to do.
These books do more than tell us stories. They push, unsettle, and remind us that literature forces reflection.
Censorship… Less Obviously
What’s often overlooked is that censorship today isn’t about formal bans; it’s about omission. It’s about what never gets assigned, what isn’t recommended, and what quietly disappears from curricula in favor of something safer, easier, and less likely to stir debate.
Combine this with the reality that many students stop reading for pleasure after high school, and it becomes clear how powerful those early literary exposures are. Think about when your most formative reading years are shaped by what someone else deems appropriate, your worldview is inevitably narrowed.
The people who intentionally seek out classic or challenging literature will find these books anyway. But the average high school graduate? Probably not. This raises the uncomfortable question: who decides what knowledge feels accessible?
Reading as Resistance (Without Making It Dramatic)
This isn’t about romanticizing rebellion or making reading feel like a revolutionary act. It’s quieter than that. It’s about recognizing that literature has always been one of the most effective tools for shaping how we understand society, morality, and ourselves. When certain narratives are removed, the conversation becomes intentionally limited.
Reading banned or challenged books isn’t about being edgy. It’s about reclaiming agency. It’s about deciding that your curiosity deserves room to exist. Maybe it’s about trusting that discomfort is sometimes a sign you’re learning something worth knowing.
Reading Between the Lines
The most telling part about banned books isn’t the controversy itself. It’s what their removal reveals about power, fear, and control. When a story is labeled dangerous, it usually means it holds truth in a form that can’t be easily managed.
Maybe that’s exactly why they’re worth picking up.
There’s also something uniquely human about the act of reading itself that makes these conversations feel worth having. In a time where so much of what we witness is filtered through quick clips and scrolling, books slow us down. They ask for attention. They invite us to sit inside someone else’s world for longer than a headline or a repost ever could.
That process quietly builds empathy, not through shock or spectacle, but through understanding. You begin to see how context shapes people, how systems can affect lives, and how experiences that feel distant can suddenly feel personal. That’s where banned literature becomes especially complicated.
Limiting access isn’t just about content; it changes which perspectives people are encountering at all, particularly when many students only meaningfully engage with books during their K-12 years.
Rather than framing this as a battle between sides, it feels more honest to view it as a question of exposure. What stories are we trusting students to handle, and which ones are we removing before they even have the chance to decide for themselves? Because at some point, protecting students turns into deciding what they’re allowed to understand.
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