I was drawn to choosing this topic because of the current ban on banned books. I was also curious about how it affects education and literature when you ban books. On a smaller scale, on social media, I’ve seen how certain posts or outlets are censored or shadow banned in order to pursue the agenda of a specific group. Even in this, I could see the detriment in how it affects people’s knowledge and critical thought. So I wanted to get answers to the actual consequences and reasons for or against book banning.

With this research essay, I’m hoping to reach organizations or institutions considering banning books. I want to alert them to the dangers of doing this. And for those who are victims of this or are actively experiencing banned books, I want them to seek out these banned books to gain a broader perspective and critically analyze why that book or piece of literature would have been banned.

I hope to demonstrate the actual consequences that we’ve seen in our society in history when literature of certain genres, rhetoric, etc. were banned.

I hope to get a better understanding of this issue of the censorship of literature. Despite my own views, I would still like to get a better understanding of the argument for banning books and try to see where they would be coming from. Ultimately, though, as stated before, my view is that banning books only seeks to control the minds of a society as well as hinder the mind in critical review of texts and thinking. Knowledge is very powerful, and censoring people’s ability to gain new knowledge or a different perspective on knowledge is only harmful.

Leila McBride

Jason Lobell

English 110

4 October 2023

Language and Literacy Written Narrative

1.) I think that in this essay I am most proud that I wrote about a personal moment in my life. I generally don’t always or often write about personal memories or feelings so I’m glad I was able to do so without making it too academic and leaving the ‘me’ aspect present.

2.) I believe that there are two audiences to my essay. For one, I would like teachers of all agegroups, but especially of younger children, to read my narrative. I think my story, along with many others like mine, illustrates the critical part that teachers play in how kids define their intelligence and exceed in learning. Without encouragement, kindness and sincerity, it is almost inevitable that it will crush a young child’s spirit and passion for learning and, like in my case, writing. I think my second audience would be children who have had similar experiences or feel they are sharing one right now, whether it be a teacher or another aspect of their life hindering their passion and drive for academics; I would like them to know that despite that, they can be great and seek their own approval. 

3.) In my literary essay, I used quite a bit of imagery to set the scene and create the same vision I see when I think back to these moments. I also used humor in my piece, to allow my writing to gain traction with the reader and allow them to feel greater relatablity to it; while still allowing them to appreciate the seriousness of the matter. 

4.) This essay made me realize how language politics has affected me in my own life. Even in situations where I wasn’t aware of it. Having to think back to specific moments, renewed moments in my life where I noticed specific choices and distinctions I would make with my accent and way of speaking. Additionally hearing everyone else’s stories allowed me to rethink the appearance that language politics takes on for everyone else, and how language politics affects people’s conformity in such a wide array of ways.

Final Written Narrative

Anyone who knows me knows I’m as stubborn as they come. Especially in my writing and work. I like the particular way I phrase things, I like the way my writing sounds to my ear. They’d probably protest but I know I get it from both my parents. Looking back now it’s become crystal clear how my stubbornness in writing manifested from my experience in third grade. 

From the beginning of the school year, it was clear to me that my teacher was no fan of mine. She didn’t waste any time trying to hide it either. She would pick on me, talk over me when she called on me, make sly comments about my family and my race, and occasionally accuse me of things. I knew the cause. It was something I took great pride in anywhere but in her classroom. It was my dad’s role in the anti apartheid struggle in South Africa,  and his strive and commitment to ensuring equality for everyone. I wore this like a badge of honor, but in her classroom, it gave her a bright red target; and writing prompts were to be her weapon. So I simply decided if this was the way it would be, she wouldn’t get anything out of me. Especially for writing. Even if it was at my expense. During her lessons, she would ask the class to write a paragraph about our weekend, what we did, what we ate, anything. I would look down at my sheet and write a sentence. Then gaze out the window. After a while, she would come past my desk, scrutinize the flowers I’d drawn all over my page, and scoff. After giving a few more prompts she would collect everyone’s work. 

The next day I’d come in, she’d hand back our papers, and to no surprise mine was littered with red ink scribbles. “I can’t grade your work,” “You didn’t even try,” my personal favorite, a large X covering what used to be my flowers. 

This continued for a while until she’d had enough. She sent a letter home and decided I had to be sent for extra language and writing classes during free time and recess time. 

When that bell rang, while others were out playing, and eating lunch, I had to march my way across the school to extra classes. I was not a fan. I even tried to skip a few times, but that only lengthened my sentence. I was too embarrassed to explain to my friends why I was no longer out on the playground. I didn’t want them knowing, that I, needed extra help. I would circumvent questions and hope they wouldn’t catch on. 

I knew I could write. I truly just did not want to write for her. I knew she would not be listening to my words, so why waste my effort? But in the end, it wasn’t my choice. So I sat down with the new teacher; she had scarlet frizzy hair that she kept loose. Her black-framed glasses detailed her face and she wore a colorful sweater over a pastel green shirt. Her room was a small one, pushed to a quiet forgotten corner of the vast campus. She started small. Asked me to describe things I saw outside and such. I’d take a look outside, and the leaves would catch my attention, I’d forget I was even there, until I felt the pencil fall out of my hand, and I’d be transported back to the small little room. 

After I’d written a few words and simple sentences, we moved along and she asked me to describe a vacation I’d had. I loved vacations, my mom always planned elaborate ones, so it wasn’t an obstacle describing one. 

I went into great detail about who went on the vacation, how long we were there, what we did, and why that destination, I went on and on. Until she stopped me. She paused for a second, looking utterly confused. “If you can describe it, why don’t you just write?” I don’t remember the exact answer I gave her but it was along the lines of ‘I don’t feel like it’. She laughed. 

From that moment, the moment she found amusement in my comical stubbornness, I wrote, not for my teacher, but I wrote for her in my extra lessons. I wanted her feedback, I wanted her help. When I did well, she made sure to let me know, she’d give me stickers. I kept one she’d given me on my backpack for the rest of the year, it was a green turtle. 

Sentence by sentence, she’d ask me to describe something, and I’d have to write it down. A lot of the time, my thoughts were so quick, that I lost track of them, so she’d ask me to immediately write them down. Even still today I find myself doing the same thing, every time I feel anything of importance pop into my head, I urge myself to write it down. 

While I always possessed the ability to write, she was able to help me beyond just getting me to write, she helped me voice my thoughts, and my words in written form, without shying away from it. It allowed me to write in a way that my work and I can be taken seriously and treated with respect. 

When I eventually did write for my actual teacher, a couple of paragraphs this time, I imagine she was probably displeased that she had to give me credit, despite my flowers still featuring prominently on the page.