On a Monday night, just after six, Alicia Williams waits for the last stragglers to take their seats in her cramped classroom at the Washington corrections center. Her students braved western Washington’s fall weather to get here and they enter the room still ruffled from the wind, their khaki uniforms flecked with rain.
There is no rush. Instead of the lesson she planned to teach, Williams will be relying on hastily adjusted notes and on-the-spot explanations. She’d just heard she wasn’t allowed to teach the book her class was scheduled to discuss that night.
The course is English 233, children’s literature. The offending text? All Boys Aren’t Blue, a book recommended for adolescents ages 16 and up.
For many Americans, the concept of book banning until recently brought up images from earlier, more oppressive societies – grainy black-and-white film of Nazi book burning rallies, photos of McCarthy-era crowds exuberantly hurling books and political pamphlets now considered laughably tame on to bonfires.
But in recent years, books have again become a flashpoint in civic discourse, and book banning and censorship in the education system have made a comeback. Nearly every state has seen conflict over school curricula and public library catalogues.
Groups such as the pressure organization Moms for Liberty have scrutinized school libraries, hunting books that examine race or LGBTQ+ issues and demanding their removal. Conservative commentators have dedicated lengthy segments to the purported dangers of certain books, and have persuaded large swaths of Americans that critical race theory, a graduate-level college course, is being widely taught in US grade schools. Video of fistfights breaking out at PTA meetings and tirades during town halls have racked up millions of internet views. Book banning has entered the talking points of political campaigns, infusing the dynamics of everything from city council elections to gubernatorial and presidential debates. School book bans ballooned 33% between 2022 and 2023, according to the Freedom to Read Foundation, a first amendment defense organization. Authors whose books have been targeted include Margaret Atwood, Toni Morrison, William Faulkner and James Joyce.
Few people are aware, however, that book banning is a widespread and longstanding practice in US prisons. Carceral facilities scrutinize what books and magazines can be offered in their libraries, can be taught in their classes or can be mailed to people on the inside.
In many states, the list of banned publications is long. The Florida department of corrections alone has 22,825 books banned from its libraries, according to an October 2023 report by the non-profit PEN America. The Texas department of corrections is second to Florida with 10,265 bans. The Kansas DOC has banned 7,669 books. Virginia DOC, 7,204. By comparison, in the first eight months of 2023, the American Library Association’s Office for Intellectual Freedom received reports of 1,915 attempts to remove books from public, school and academic libraries.
“Even if you accept the premise that there are dangerous books out there, it strains credulity to suggest there are 10 times as many books that are dangerous for adults than there are books that are dangerous for children,” says Anthony Blankenship, an expert on prison policy at the Washington non-profit Civil Survival. “Florida is the worst when it comes to book banning, but every department of corrections is engaged in it. It’s something educators and incarcerated students have to deal with in every state,” he says.
Particularly troubling, according to PEN America, is the arbitrary way book bans are decided upon by some prison authorities, and the lack of clarity about the qualifications of the people imposing these bans. In a statement, the organization noted that employment at correctional facilities requires only a GED or high school diploma, “which means staff empowered to censor books may have only basic literacy themselves”.
A Washington department of corrections spokesperson said that the agency maintained a publication review committee that approves or restricts books. The spokesperson said that the department created a public list of its banned books, and provided reasons for each ban.
All Boys Aren’t Blue is not on this list.
Additionally, the spokesperson said that restricting All Boys Aren’t Blue from use in classrooms was “a joint decision” made by the department of corrections and Centralia College – the college contracted to teach English 233 – “due to the sexually explicit content in this book”. Williams, the Centralia College instructor, disputes this. She also disputes DOC’s claim that the ban could have been appealed.
“In corrections educations,” she says, “there is no appeal process. I don’t even know who is rejecting content or why.”
Williams says she was told by a department administrator that the book had been banned because the department considers any material relating to homosexuality to be problematic.
Curiously, the reason the administrator cites, Williams says, was that some students may be gay themselves, and that the book could create conflict between straight and gay students. She rejects that rationale.
“If we can’t trust that incarcerated students won’t beat each other up over the identity of book characters, what hope is there for rehabilitation and re-entry into society?”
Williams’s English 233 class guides students in a literary analysis of children’s books across a span of several centuries. The course ordinarily opens with a review of the original Grimm fairytales and works its way through contemporary children’s fiction, including a segment on children’s books that some school districts have recently banned.
“One of the biggest topics in children’s literacy is censorship and book-banning,” says Williams. “Part of the class curriculum is developing a sense of one’s own approach to content selection and censorship.”
Williams, an instructor since 2015, says many students “have never seen or read content that has been banned”, and before taking her class assume books are banned only when they contain extraordinarily explicit sexual content or promote racial conflict. After exposure to banned material, students often come to view the bans as absurd.
“The real growth happens when students have to confront material that is likely to cause discomfort and material from voices that significantly differ from the reader’s,” says Williams.
“Talking about censorship without viewing what has been censored is like going to culinary school without ever tasting the food.”
Education opportunities in prison are a key tool in reducing recidivism, says Blankenship, the prison policy expert. “The more [schooling] you have, the more your recidivism drops. By the time you get to a bachelor’s degree the chances of you going back to prison are basically zero. The department of corrections should be bending over backwards to make education accessible and to avoid interfering with it,” he said.
Not only are books critical to prisoners’ education, they can help many incarcerated people heal from the intense childhood trauma that put them on the path toward prison. Introducing prisoners with histories of adverse childhood experiences to trauma-related literature “helps them look within themselves, and gives them a baseline for how to deal with their trauma”, says Rion Tisino, an ethnic minority mental health specialist at the Washington department of social and health services. “It’s almost like a recipe for dealing with trauma.”
Devonte Crawford, a student in Williams’s children’s literature course, spent much of his life in need of such a recipe. At the age of 10, he was sexually assaulted by an older family member, he says, and the abuse went on for several years. It engendered in him what he describes as “a consuming darkness”. “I started to become a very troubled kid,” says Crawford. As a teen he was drinking and taking drugs “to cover the pain and hatred”. He recalls moving to the west coast for a fresh start, only for his destructive behavior to escalate once he arrived. He was soon serving a 30-year sentence for armed robbery.
It wasn’t until he was 26 and in prison that Crawford discovered a trauma-centered program – created and facilitated by other prisoners – and came to see that his trauma was the primary force driving his self-loathing and aggressiveness. Slowly, he began to heal. He wishes he had encountered a class like that sooner.
“I truly believe that had I been able to see or read about someone going through very similar situations then things would be much different today. It would have been incredible to know that I was not alone.”
For people like Crawford, banning books from prison education “stunts the rehabilitative process”, Tisino says. Trauma-centered literature and programs “help you see the root causes of your negative behaviors and … understand how they perpetuate harm. This is the beginning stage of accountability. But when DOC bans literature that contains traumatic experiences, accountability can be difficult for a person to arrive at.”
Alicia Williams wants prison administrators to weigh education outcomes and the potential for emotional growth when determining which books to permit incarcerated students to study. The point of education, she says, isn’t just to increase knowledge. It also builds a student’s ability to see things from the perspectives of others – a skill that books like All Boys Aren’t Blue are designed to develop.
“What’s likely to happen if someone is exposed to this material? I would say the most likely answer is empathy.”
Sam Levin contributed reporting
