The State of Libraries and Books in America

Jan 25

Libraries as Places of Belonging

Libraries mean so much to communities across our country. For some, they are quiet sanctuaries away from the noise of everyday life; for others, they are places of refuge. Libraries are spaces built for intellectual freedom—places to learn about faraway worlds, to imagine possibilities, to develop dreams, and to discover the paths toward them. Within their walls live fictional worlds that connect us, and a wealth of knowledge open to anyone and everyone. No matter your age, background, or socioeconomic status, the library is a space where all are truly and genuinely welcome.

The library in my town had wide concrete steps I used to race up, my book bag bouncing as I scanned my library card and disappeared into the stacks. That’s where I fell in love with reading.

I was drawn to the biggest books—the ones that felt heavy in your arms, the ones everyone seemed to be reading. In the 2000s and 2010s, that meant shelves filled with wildly popular stories: Maximum Ride, Harry Potter, Hunger Games and other dystopian and fantasy novels that defined a generation of young readers. These were the books passed hand to hand, read on buses, under desks, and late into the night.

When I found Maximum Ride, I was hooked. It was thrilling, funny, and impossible to put down—a story that made reading feel like freedom.

And yet, many of these same stories—once celebrated for getting young people to read—would later be challenged, restricted, or banned. The very books that opened doors to imagination, curiosity, and empathy would come to be labeled as dangerous.

When Stories Become “Dangerous”

What I didn’t understand then was how easily a story, one that sparked imagination, courage, and empathy, could later be labeled as dangerous. But history makes this pattern unmistakably clear: when governments or movements seek greater control, stories are often among the first things they try to contain.

Throughout history, authoritarian and fascist regimes have treated books not as harmless entertainment but as threats. Stories encourage people to imagine alternatives—to question power, to empathize with lives different from their own, to recognize injustice when they see it. That is precisely why books have been burned, banned, and erased under systems built on obedience and fear.

In Nazi Germany, books that challenged state ideology or centered Jewish authors, queer identities, or political dissent were publicly burned to signal which ideas were no longer allowed to exist. In the Soviet Union, literature was tightly controlled to ensure alignment with state-approved narratives. In authoritarian governments across history, censorship has followed a familiar logic: silence the stories first, and critical thought becomes easier to manage.

What makes this pattern especially chilling is how often censorship is framed as protection. Books are labeled immoral, inappropriate, dangerous to youth, or incompatible with national or religious values. The language changes, but the goal remains the same—to limit access to ideas that might encourage people to question the world as it is.

Seeing beloved books removed from library shelves today forces an uncomfortable reckoning. In 2023, Maximum Ride was banned from libraries in Martin County, Florida, alongside 91 other titles. The justification echoed historical precedents: claims of harm, fear, and moral danger—sometimes from individuals who had not even read the books they sought to remove. Authors like James Patterson, Jason Reynolds, and John Green were labeled too controversial, too depressing, or incompatible with particular belief systems.

This was not an isolated incident, nor was it the first time a story I loved had been deemed unacceptable. It was a reminder that censorship rarely announces itself as authoritarianism. More often, it arrives quietly—wrapped in concern, cloaked in protection, and justified as being “for the good of children.” History shows us where that path leads.

When stories become dangerous, it is rarely because they harm young readers. It is because they challenge the systems that benefit from silence.

The Escalation of Book Bans

By 2026, public and school libraries have become a central battleground in a broader cultural war unfolding across the United States. While book banning has existed for decades, the past few years have marked a sharp and deliberate escalation. What was once sporadic and localized has transformed into a coordinated effort to restrict access to literature, reflecting a fundamental shift in how power, ideology, and censorship now intersect in public institutions.

According to PEN America, the United States is experiencing an unprecedented wave of book removals from schools and public libraries, with thousands of titles targeted in recent years.

What is alarming is the shift in who is driving these efforts. In the past, book challenges typically came from individual parents or community groups raising concerns about specific titles. Today, the movement has evolved into a coordinated, top-down campaign that extends into political leadership and federal policy.

Since returning to office in 2025, President Donald Trump has issued executive actions intended to reshape educational content nationwide. One such policy, Executive Order 14190 — titled “Ending Radical Indoctrination in K-12 Schooling” — explicitly directed federal agencies to identify and limit “anti-American or subversive” material, including concepts labeled as “gender ideology” or “discriminatory equity ideology.”

Under these directives, the Department of Defense removed nearly 600 books from Department of Defense Education Activity (DoDEA) schools, including curriculum materials addressing race, psychology, gender, and identity. Books that had previously been part of standard learning resources. Similar removals have occurred at federal institutions like the U.S. Naval Academy, where nearly 400 books on civil rights, the Holocaust, and LGBTQ+ history were taken off shelves as part of a broader shift away from diversity, equity, and inclusion content.

The Trump administration’s Department of Education also made clear its stance by dismissing federal complaints about book bans, characterizing earlier efforts to investigate local removals as a “book ban hoax” — even as advocacy groups documented tens of thousands of challenges and bans nationwide.

These efforts go beyond isolated objections. Librarians and educators are increasingly subjected to political pressure, including threats of funding cuts, legal action, and expanded oversight from non-educational bodies. This marks a dangerous departure from community-based dialogue and places censorship squarely in the hands of political authority rather than librarians trained to curate inclusive collections.

What Is a Book Ban—and Why It Matters

PEN America defines a book ban as any action taken against a book based on its content that results in removal or restricted access due to parent or community challenges, administrative decisions, or threatened or direct government action.

While I stand firmly against censorship, I understand the concern some parents have—the fear that a child might encounter a book written for an older audience. It is true that books are written for different developmental stages, and not every story is appropriate for every age. Acknowledging that does not make someone anti-literature.

Where this argument falters is in ignoring how libraries already function. These spaces are intentionally organized—by age level, genre, and reading ability—so families can make informed choices together. Widespread removals do not protect individual children; they remove access for entire communities.

Why Books Are the Target

When people argue for censorship, the justification almost always sounds the same: we’re protecting children from violence, injustice, or difficult truths. But that argument collapses under even minimal scrutiny.

As James Patterson famously said, “If Florida bans my books, no kids under 12 should go to Marvel movies.” If concern about content were truly consistent, we would see the same outrage directed at blockbuster franchises filled with violence, loss, war, and moral complexity, such as Guardians of the Galaxy, Star Wars, Wicked, and countless others. We don’t. Because this isn’t about content.

So what are they fighting? Why are books treated as more dangerous than movies, television, or video games?

The answer is simple: books ask readers to slow down, reflect, and think critically. They invite empathy. And they cannot be passively consumed.

In January, I attended the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Winter Conference in New York City, where I listened to a panel titled Banned but Not Silenced. Authors Tiffany D. Jackson, A.S. King, Meg Medina, and Jason Reynolds spoke candidly about their experiences with book bans.

Again and again, they described the same reality: children eager to learn about lives different from their own—kids who want to be challenged, to ask questions, and to understand the world more deeply. And just as consistently, they described adults who are afraid—not of the books themselves, but of losing control over what young people might learn.

That fear has consequences.

Monday’s Not Coming is challenged for confronting abuse and neglect—realities some adults would rather avoid. This isn’t protection; it’s avoidance.
Attack of the Black Rectangles is challenged for questioning who gets to decide what information is allowed—an act that exposes censorship itself.
Mango, Abuela, and Me is challenged under the false label of “Critical Race Theory” simply for centering a joyful Latinx family and allowing those characters to exist without white validation.
All American Boys is challenged for addressing racism and police brutality, repeatedly labeled “too political” or “too divisive”—a pattern that reveals discomfort with whose stories are being told.

Time and again, these authors have said the same thing: banning books doesn’t feel like banning stories. It feels like banning people. It sends a message that certain lives, histories, and questions should exist only in the shadows.

This is where book banning stops being about parental choice and starts being about government overreach.

The First Amendment does not exist to protect only comfortable speech. It exists to protect access to ideas, stories, and perspectives that challenge power. When government entities remove books from libraries, intimidate librarians, or restrict what young people are allowed to read, they are not safeguarding children. They are deciding which ideas are allowed to exist.

That is not conservative. It is not protective. And it is not American.

Books are dangerous to authoritarianism precisely because they teach people how to think. And history has shown us, again and again, that when a government fears books, it is not the books that are the problem.

When Discomfort Becomes Censorship

The sheer number of books being challenged or removed from public access is astonishing. What is even more alarming is which books are being targeted—and why.

I’ve come to believe that many of these bans have less to do with protecting children and far more to do with protecting adult comfort. When books are removed because they make adults uneasy, something fundamental breaks. Curiosity is pushed into secrecy. The professional expertise of librarians and educators is dismissed. And a quiet but dangerous message is sent: there is only one acceptable version of life.

I understand that parents want to be involved in what their children read. They should be. Conversations at home matter. But there is a profound difference between guiding your own child and demanding that a book be erased from a library entirely—insisting that no other child should have access to a story because it challenges a particular worldview.

The pattern of what is being removed matters. Books by Meg Medina, for example, are not being challenged as inappropriate for children. They are being challenged because they center joyful Latinx family experiences, push back against stereotypes, and allow Latina characters to exist as protagonists without white validation. The issue is not obscenity or age level—it is visibility.

This is no longer hypothetical. In recent years, books have disappeared not only from classrooms but from entire school and public library systems. Advanced Placement psychology texts. Books about puberty. Books about racism, diversity, and civic engagement. Shelves are being quietly emptied of ideas that encourage young people to think, question, and empathize.

History is clear: when societies erase uncomfortable truths, injustice becomes easier to repeat. Books illuminate what some would rather keep hidden—systemic racism, state violence, gender inequality, and the cost of silence. When stories centered on non-Eurocentric histories are removed, entire communities are sent the same message: you do not belong here.

Books about Martin Luther King Jr., Ruby Bridges, the Holocaust, women’s bodies and leadership, and the act of asking questions are not disappearing by accident. They are being removed to make discomfort easier and power less visible.

When we raise a generation without access to these conversations, we raise young people less equipped to recognize injustice and less likely to challenge it when they encounter it.

Look at the banned book lists, and use your critical thinking skills.

The goal is not nuanced.
It is silent.

And silence has never protected anyone.

American Library Association - Frequently Challenged Children’s Books

Jane Addams Peace Association: Banned or Challenged Picture Books

Books the Department of War Banned from Military Libraries

Why This Matters

Removing books because they make adults uncomfortable does more than erode trust between young people and the adults meant to guide them. It undermines librarians' and educators' professional judgment. It reinforces the dangerous idea that there is only one acceptable version of life and that anything outside of it should be hidden.

Historically, this is not a neutral act.

Authoritarian and fascist movements have always understood that controlling access to information is one of the most effective ways to control thought. You do not need to burn books if you can quietly remove them. You do not need to outlaw ideas if you can make them inaccessible.

Across the United States, many families already live in book deserts—often rural or underfunded communities with no local bookstores, shrinking school library budgets, and limited access to affordable reading material. For children in these areas, libraries are not a convenience; they are the only point of access to books, ideas, and perspectives beyond their immediate environment.

When books are banned or priced out of reach through rising costs and reduced funding, the impact is not evenly distributed. Families with financial means can still purchase books privately. Families in book deserts cannot. The result is not protection; it is intellectual isolation. And isolation has always been a tool of authoritarian control.

This is why libraries matter so deeply. Libraries are not just community spaces—they are a living expression of the First Amendment. Free speech is not only the right to speak; it is the right to read, to learn, and to encounter ideas freely. When access to books is restricted through bans, intimidation, or economic barriers, free expression is diminished without ever being officially outlawed.

Libraries exist to level the playing field. They ensure that access to stories, information, and imagination is not determined by zip code, income, or ideology. In an era when books are becoming more expensive and more easily challenged, libraries remain one of the last truly democratic institutions. A place where intellectual freedom is not symbolic, but tangible.

History shows us what happens when access to ideas is narrowed. Control over books becomes control over thought. And once that control is normalized, reclaiming it is far more difficult than defending it in the first place.

We are an industry of words.
Words shape empathy.
Words expand possibilities.
Words teach young people how to think, not what to think.

And that is exactly why libraries—and the stories within them—are worth defending.