A former Conservative councilor tried to ban my novel Pigeon English. Why do students suffer because of it? | books

forLast September, in a measure aimed at “preventing immorality,” the Taliban closed the Internet in Afghanistan. This was the final step – after barring all girls over the age of twelve from receiving an education, and removing all books written by women from universities – to restrict citizens’ ability to access information that the regime might consider dangerous or difficult, or that challenged its ideological monopoly. The effect could have been to ensure that an entire generation of Afghans failed to realize their potential; Communication was partially restored 48 hours later, after widespread condemnation.

It was against this background that I read about the school in Weymouth, Dorset, which had removed American writer Angie Thomas’s hugely popular young adult novel The Hate You Give from its Year 10 reading list, apparently in response to the objection of a parent, former Conservative councilor James Farquharson. Although copies of the book would remain available in the school library, its removal from classrooms sent a troubling message: that the comfort of one man could be considered more important than the rights of an entire group of students to access literature that might speak directly to them, no matter how dangerous or difficult it might contain ideas.

I spoke to Vicky McNab, whose four mixed-heritage children attend the school, and who has launched a campaign to bring the book back (following an internal review, the school confirmed the book would return to the Year 10 reading list). Farquharson’s original letter to the school has been shared with me; He seems to misunderstand or not appreciate the importance of teaching that racial injustice exists in America, as demonstrated in the novel by the killing of a black teenager at the hands of a white police officer.

To avoid such difficult ideas gaining traction in the UK, he suggested that it was the school’s duty to “choose books that will teach pupils about their cultural heritage”. By implying that all students share a single cultural heritage, he seems to live under the belief that we belong or should belong to a monoculture, and that the primary mission of our schools must be to promote some kind of national hegemony to which everyone, regardless of background, must pledge unwavering loyalty. Here the question arises: Who was he seeking to protect?

The use of my novel Pigeon English is also under review at the school, thanks again to Farquharson’s intervention. His objections to my book — which he shared on Facebook after reading the first thirteen pages and googling some reviews — center on its use of foul language and depictions of violence and sexual behavior. Pigeon English explores some of the same themes as The Hate U Give, one of the most important of which is social injustice. It is based on my experiences growing up in a diverse, deprived area of ​​Luton in the 1980s and 1990s, and on the murder of Damilola Taylor, the Nigerian schoolboy who was stabbed to death in Peckham, London, in 2000.

The novel was aimed largely at adult readers, who I felt could parse some of its more troubling content and recognize the pressing social questions it poses. I did not expect it to end up in the hands of schoolchildren or be dissected in classrooms; I was not consulted when the decision was taken in 2015 – with the spontaneous approval of the Conservative Education Minister – to include it in the GCSE curriculum. But its continued use as a defining text indicates that teachers see it as an opportunity, not a threat. An opportunity to discuss, in the controlled and collaborative space of the classroom, topics and topics relevant to their students’ lives.

This has been borne out by the feedback I have received over a decade of visiting schools across the country where Pigeon English is used either as a GCSE text or as a class reader for younger age groups. Teachers report that the book engages their students on a deeper level than other texts available to them, while students routinely tell me that this is the first book they have studied that represents a world they know and includes characters they can relate to. This makes them feel seen as individuals, as well as part of a community connected not only to their factual knowledge of events similar to some of those described in the book, but also to the collective experience of reading and studying them together. They may also initiate contact with the wider world of literature and arts which can be a constant source of inspiration in their lives.

To deprive students of this type of opportunity simply because they may have to traverse some difficult terrain along the way would be to hinder their progress toward fulfilling their potential. In my conversations with them, I don’t see young people who were traumatized by the experience of reading my book. I see in their smiles the joy of emotional connection, and in their eyes the fire of intellectual challenge. Like it or not, kids relate to difficult content, in ways that their parents and the adult world may not fully understand or approve of. By providing them with opportunities to discuss this content—to find the social and political context, analyze cause and effect, and deconstruct the psychology that drives good people to do bad things—we teach them empathy, resilience, and critical thinking, and train them to enter a world where controlling these abilities is more important than ever.

There are many things that those who ban books could be said to lack – reason, perspective, humility – but I would suggest that it is their lack of courage that sets them apart; Or, in other words, their fear of discomfort. Perhaps it is the same fear that dictates that the heroes of our novels must be empathetic and engaging, and that art must depict humanity at its best and least offensive. But what can we really learn about ourselves by avoiding messy and imperfect reality?

When the painting “Madonna di Loreto” by Caravaggio was unveiled in 1606, it caused a shock in Rome. Not because he dared to put a face to the newborn Christ, but because he showed the dirty feet of the peasants who knelt to honor him. Centuries later, do the same wise sensibilities still prevail? I learned more about the human condition by looking at those filthy feet than I did from the halo surrounding the Holy Child’s head.

When I think about my own formative reading experiences, there is a useful discomfort about them all. The discomfort of learning that Jim has been enslaved in Huckleberry Finn; Discovering that Paddy Clarke’s parents were unhappy in their marriage, just like mine; It is observed, in Slaughterhouse Five, that the human capacity for cruelty, if left unchecked, can reduce entire cities to ashes. The discomfort of trying to figure out, as a 17-year-old, what Ulysses was about was exhilarating and life-changing. From those harassments, my personality was shaped; It has led to my intellectual curiosity and emotional curiosity, to my sensitivity to injustice, and to my deep empathy for humanity in all its flawed and wonderful diversity. They connected me to the world. If you feel like you are a part of something, rather than an outsider, you are more likely to want to work for its benefit.

The modern trend toward avoiding discomfort—the antidote to it with performative intolerance, labobos, science-worshippers, and chatbot therapists—steals our vigilance and opens the door to tyranny. To see this, we only have to look at the success enjoyed by Nigel Farage and the UK Reform Party in fomenting distrust and division to achieve their own political goals. People have been deprived of the practice of sitting with their discomfort, and have inevitably become insensitive to the discomfort of others. This leads to a lack of empathy.

Discomfort and disruption are powerful forces in the world, and books remain one of the best tools we have at our disposal to prepare young people to deal with them. A good teacher—and schools across the country are full of teachers, national assets who are often underappreciated and taken for granted—will guide the student through his discomfort, and help him find clarity of thought within himself. In this way, school becomes a fertile ground for empathy. If we are to survive the culture wars, these fertile grounds will be essential.