In addition to being appalled by the growing trend to ban a wide range of books from schools and libraries, Banned Books Week got me thinking about earlier efforts to ban books.  Book banning efforts are growing at a frightening pace, however the issues remain the same as they did when Detour for Emmy made the American Library Association's top ten list of most challenged books for 1996: At that time I wrote:
When my teen pregnancy novel, Detour for Emmy, turned up on the Top Ten Banned Books List for 2005, I whooped for joy. There it was, sandwiched between Chris Crutcher’s Whale Talk, and Sonya Sones’ What My Mother Doesn’t Know, on a list that also included books by J. D. Salinger, Judy Blume and Robert Cormier. What great company

I keep!I rushed upstairs to share the news with my husband, Mike, then sent the equivalent of a cackling email to friends and family. Mike opened a better bottle of wine than our usual Two Buck Chuck, and we toasted my newfound fame.
 I envisioned my book featured prominently in displays in libraries and bookstores across the nation during “Banned Books Week” in September. If every bookstore in all fifty states buys one copy for display, will I finally be able to upgrade my aged Volvo?
Visiting the American Library Association’s Banned Books website, I saw that the 2004 banned books bracelet featured the covers of the top six books for that year. Cool! If ALA keeps the bracelet idea, I can walk around with Emmy on my wrist and show off to cashiers at the supermarket, and to
manicurists at the mall.
    In spite of my advanced years, wisdom is not always the controlling factor
in my first response to whatever comes along, so it was not until I awakened
with my customary three A.M. ruminations that my better self pushed to the
surface, dog paddling frantically through waves of pride, and greed, straining for
a glimpse of the broader picture.
    In the early morning darkness, curled close against Mike, lulled by the
soft, steady snore of the Schnauzer on the chaise, I think about the total list.
What’s the deal with the morality police, anyway? At a time when we’re
bombarded daily with reports of violence in the schools and on the streets,
they’ve only attacked one book for violence, and that book is Captain
Underpants?? The other nine books, Emmy included, made the list because of
sexual content and/or offensive language. American children are sixteen times
more likely than children in other industrialized nations to be murdered with a
gun, and the book banners’ greatest fears are for sex and bad words?
And back to Captain Underpants, which, in addition to violence, made the
list for anti-family content and being unsuited to the age group. Excuse me?
Bathroom humor not appropriate for five to twelve-year olds? All I need say to
get my five-year old granddaughter laughing uncontrollably is “poopie.” For the
eleven year old, “flatulence” works wonderfully.
    Then there’s Chris Crutcher’s Whale Talk, which, besides being dinged for
offensive language, was cited for racism. Really, although Whale Talk does
confront issues of racism, the book itself is about as racist as the writings of
Nelson Mandella.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Where do these limited, small minded,
ignorant, people get off, trying to keep books out of the hands of
interested readers?
    Afraid that the intensity of my anger might somehow be transmitted,
body to body, I move away from my peacefully sleeping husband. Then my
ruminations take a turn. Why am I the one awakened every morning around
three by the spirit of the Grand Goddess of the Harmonic Universe always
demanding that I consider carefully all disharmony in my life and in the world?
Why can’t I be like Mike, or the dog, and sleep soundly through the whole night?
    A glance at the clock tells me it’s 3:43. In the past twelve hours or so I’ve
committed four of the seven deadly sins: pride, greed, anger and envy. I wonder
if I can get to the remaining three before daylight?
    With a bit more prodding from my better self, I realize that I’ve fallen into
the same trap as the would-be censors. In questioning how they can ban so
much sex and so little violence, I’m putting my values above theirs. I could write
a lengthy treatise on why my values are better for the world and everyone in it,
but that’s not the point. Noam Chomsky said it best when he said, “If we don’t
believe in freedom of expression for people we despise, we don’t believe in it at
all.” It turns out, I do believe in freedom of expression, and that includes the
expression of those who would ban books in general, and mine in particular.
Sin or not, I am proud of Detour for Emmy. I think about the letters I
receive from readers, letters indicating that Emmy’s story offers insight and
perspective on their own lives.
“ . . . I just wanted to let you know that your books have led me into the world
of reading. I started with Detour for Emmy, and now I’ve read all of your
 books . . . “
“ . . . This book encourages me to not get pregnant at a young age because
when I pretend I’m Emmy I realize . . .she had to change her plan and goals of
life. I wouldn’t want that to happen to me . . .”
“ . . . your book has inspired me to keep my legs closed.”
“ . . . I’m a sixteen-year old mother and Emmy’s story helped me realize I can
make a good life for me and my baby. Thank you.”
    My heartfelt wish is that every censorship attempt would backfire in the
same way a Texas grandmother’s push to ban Detour for Emmy from her local
schools did. Several months after that unsuccessful book challenge, the librarian
wrote:
    “You would not believe how many of my girls at school have requested the
opportunity to read your book. I have several paperback copies from the
challenge, and I just hand them to the girls and ask them to return them as
soon as they are finished. They always bring them back and tell me how much
they enjoyed the book and how much they learned. That challenge may be one
of the best things that happened to the girls at my school!"
    Now, as the first rays of light sneak in through cracks in the blinds, I
contemplate a day of lust, and gluttony, and sloth. My daytime hope, before the
three A.M. Grand Goddess can get to me, is that the morality cops will launch a
nationwide campaign to ban Love Rules. It’s a wonderful story, with sex
between two girls and a smattering of offensive language, and deserves
attention.

The Writer's Almanac email post this morning reminded me of what a life saver Bel Kaufman's humor and insights were to me as a new teacher at a California Continuation High School. I learned more about teaching from this one book than from all of my education classes put together:
Today is the birthday of Bel Kaufman (1911) (books by this author). She was born in Berlin and grew up in Odesa and Kyiv. Granddaughter of the writer Sholem Aleichem, who wrote the stories that became Fiddler on the Roof.
Kaufman taught in the New York public school system for 20 years. She had a terrible time passing the oral exam to get her teaching certificate because of her Russian accent, but she finally did and eventually turned the frustrations of her teaching career into a novel. It was called Up the Down Staircase (1965), and the story was told through a collection of letters, notes, and school memos.
Kaufman died July 25, 2014, at the age of 103.

Demonstrations against the killing of black men by police, reactions to Black Lives Matter marches from white supremacists, a seventeen-year-old arrested for shooting and killing two protesters, plus a pandemic. What a complicated, difficult time for teens to be coming of age in our country! I'm aware this is just one small step, not a cure-all, but my hope is that connecting with Eddie and others in Eddie’s Choice may provide readers a safe, non-threatening space in which to reflect more deeply on their own personal responses to racism and social injustices. Learning the details of Jason’s experience with a white supremacist group may also prove thought provoking.

Lately I’ve been thinking about Conan, the Black teen who is such an important character in Love Rules. I wonder if he’s out there demonstrating with Black Lives Matter, or if he’s worn down because so little seems to have changed in the decades since his friend’s “murder by cop” went unpunished. He would be thirty-six now, still living in a world where “murder by cop” is all too prevalent for Black men. I wonder if Lynn, who is white, is on the streets with Black Lives Matter, having gained a deeper understanding of racial injustice through her long ago loving connection with Conan.
Maybe this is all worthy of online class discussions? 


From Love Rules, a few days after a troubling incident with the local sheriff in which Conan is treated as a criminal while Lynn helplessly looks on. Now during lunch, Conan, who has been withdrawn since the experience, asks:


“What did your folks tell you about cops when you were a little kid?” he says.
“You know. If I was lost or in trouble, I should go to a policeman. Policemen were my friends. The usual.”
“See that wasn’t the usual in my family. They told me if I was lost, find an older black woman and she’d help me. Stay away from policemen. Stay away from whitey. If for any reason a policeman approached me, be polite, give my name and address, but no more.”
Like in the old war movies, I think, where prisoners gave only name, rank and serial number.
“When I got my driver’s license, my grampa made me go through this whole routine. First he showed me tapes of that guy, Rodney King, being beaten practically to death by L.A. cops. ‘That’s what happens to niggas who never learned what I’m about to teach you,’ he told me. Then he made me practice what I’d do in all kinds of circumstances.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
“You know. Circumstances like when we were stopped the other night . . . My grampa made me sit in the car, at the end of our driveway. He drove up behind me and flashed his lights. ‘I’m a honky cop,’ he yelled. ‘What’re you gonna do?’ I opened the door to get out and he yelled ‘You’re dead! Assaulting an officer with intent to do bodily harm!”’
“That’s sick,” I say.
“He wanted to keep me safe. He made me practice sitting still in the car, with my hands resting open fingered on the steering wheel—not moving until he gave me instructions, and then I was to follow those instructions to the absolute letter.”
“It sounds like that training stuff they did during Vietnam—what to do when captured by the enemy.”
“Absolutely. We practiced for two weeks, every day, before I was allowed to drive on the streets.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
“Maybe. But I’m still alive. Not like my friend,” he says, once again turning his attention toward the tree. The warning bell rings. I want to stay right at this table, next to Conan, and hear the rest of his story. I want to know about his friend who’s no longer alive. But he’s already standing and has his backpack slipped over a shoulder.


    Conan retreats to his shell, leaving Lynn puzzled and hurt, worrying that he no longer loves her. Finally, because it is so difficult for Conan to talk about the earlier loss of his friend, he writes of that time in a letter to Lynn. They meet at a local coffee shop where Conan hands Lynn the letter and asks that she read it. He sits with a book at another table, while she reads his account.


Dear Lynnie, I’m writing this because it’s so hard for me to talk about what happened, but I want you to know. I don’t want us ever to hide anything from each other. Getting stopped by the cops the other night, and having them rip apart the stuffed dog my sister loved so much, made me think about some things I’ve been trying to forget. Things I’ve not had to think about too much since we moved to Hamilton Heights. Where I lived before was in what’s considered a bad part of L.A. Drive-by shootings, drugs, gang stuff, poverty, you know. I pretty much stayed out of trouble--it helps to be big. I went to a magnet school in another part of town, played football, avoided that gang shit. My best friend Mark, from when I was five, did the same. My grampa met us at the bus every day, walked us home, made sure we did our homework. Mark’s mom worked until late, so he usually had dinner with us. When I went to a magnet school, Mark did too. When he signed up for football, I did too. That’s how it was. No drugs, no alcohol, no gangs, just clean-cut American boys, living a clean-cut American life.
Mark’s dad was almost never around, but now and then he’d show up and try to make up for lost time, be the big man--he’d bring video games, or take Mark to a Lakers game or a Rams game. They usually invited me to go, too, but my grampa always said no. When I appealed to my mom and dad, they said no, too. When I asked why it was “because I said so, that’s why.” So one day Mark’s dad showed up in this black Lincoln Continental, straight off the showroom it looked like. And he tossed Mark the keys. Told him to be back by midnight. Mark came straight to my house. It was one of those rare times when no one was home to tell me no. I climbed into the passenger side and we took off. We drove to the beach, and up in the Hollywood Hills, then around the observatory. It was like riding on air. Mark wasn’t a reckless driver. We didn’t speed, we just took it easy and drove all over, feeling good. We were on our way back to my place about eleven or so, allowing plenty of time for Mark to get the car back. Cops pulled us over on a side street off Vermont--a dark, industrial area. As soon as the red lights hit, I put my hands on the dashboard, fingers spread apart. We didn’t do nothin’! What kinda shit is this? Mark said. I told him to calm down, put his hands on the steering wheel, but he opened the door and got out.
This is my dad’s car! he yelled. I’ve got a license! I saw him reach into his jacket pocket, to show I.D. Don’t! I hollered--but my voice was lost in gunfire. I saw him fall and I knew he’d never be up again. I sat there, frozen, my hands still on the dash, my fingers still wide open, like my grampa taught me. They handcuffed me. Made me sit on the curb, like the other night. Only that night I watched the cops take their time calling an ambulance. I watched them step over Mark’s body like it was nothing more than a dog turd in the street. I watched the ambulance attendants look for a pulse, then pull a blanket over him. It took hours for the coroner to arrive, before Mark could be moved. It turned out the car’d been stolen. They said the cop thought Mark was reaching for a gun when he reached into his jacket. All I know is Mark’s dead, and he didn’t deserve it. That’s what I couldn’t tell you. No one else here knows, and I don’t want them to. But it’s different with you.


I doubt that Conan and Lynn are still together, but wherever they are, they carry with them all that they learned from each other nearly two decades ago—they carry expanded empathy and understanding which, if it can spread throughout the nation, will put an end to the horrors that go with unpunished “murder by cop” practices. Maybe this is all worth Zoom classroom discussion?

It's been thirteen weeks since my last mani/pedi, eleven weeks since my last haircut, ten weeks since I've been inside a market, four weeks since the mostly mini-poodle mutt, Lily, has been groomed, and two weeks since the first of a series of bedbug bites appeared on .my arms, neck, and torso. I've since stripped my bed, vacuumed every inch of both the mattress and box springs, damp mopped the floor, wiped every nook and cranny of my bedroom and generally outdone myself in the cleaning department. This morning I had all of the bedding, (mattress cover, sheets, pillow cases, blanket, bedspread) packed in the trunk of my car ready to go to the local wash and fold laundry. I'd made an appointment for Lily to be tubbed and scrubbed and was happily anticipating a return to a bug-free life. Last night, because the bed was bare, I slept on the chaise in my office, and area which had also undergone a more thorough cleaning than it gets with my usual slovenly practices. The first indication that things might not go as planned was that I woke up with, you guessed it--more bed bug bites. Next the groomer called to say they wouldn't groom her because she'd been exposed to bed bugs. When I took my bundled bedding to the Wash and Fold laundry with the big open side in front, it was closed. A phone call clarified that they would remain closed through the duration of the pandemic. I'd turned the Prius engine off   in the Wash and Fold parking lot and when I turned it back on, all of the warning lights, red, yellow, exclamation marks, flashed on. I called my trusted auto repair shop. No answer. Although the menacing lights demanded otherwise, I drove the half mile home and parked safely in my driveway. I know not to ever ask the universe "what else could go wrong today?" Nevertheless, the sunshiny mood of early morning had turned cloudy and dark. I took a few deep breaths, went inside, and headed to the gratitude jar that sits on my desk. I pulled a few of the still blank strips of paper from the jar and wrote: Health! Family!  Friends! Food! Shelter! Laughter! Washer! Dryer! Cleaning supplies! Hot water! The day ahead! I dropped the papers back into the jar and screwed the lid on tight Best to thwart any possible escape of gratitudes.