I thought I did the right thing. A parent of one of my 10th grade English students stopped by to see me between classes. Mr. Jones told me that he had looked at one of the novels in the syllabus and found it objectionable. The novel was Daniel Keyes's No Flowers for Algernon. It is the story of Charlie, a mentally challenged protagonist, who is miraculously transformed into a genius by an operation. The effect of the operation is short-lived, however, and Charlie eventually reverts back to his old self.
No Flowers for John
"Okay," I said to Mr. Jones. "We'll find something else for John to read." "Good," Mr. Jones replied, but he didn't want his son present during class discussion. I agreed to send John to the library when the class discussed Flowers. I did this even though, in all the courses in which I had used this book, discussions never bordered on anything offensive. In fact, our conversations tended to take on a high moral tone.
In addition, I knew John well, well enough to know that he would be mortified by the sort of attention from his peers that his departure would evoke. John was one of the leading photographers for the school publications that I sponsored, and we enjoyed a close relationship.
I pushed on through the unit. This class enjoyed the novel. We talked about child abuse, the ethical use of science, the difference between emotional maturity and intellectual maturity, and the plight of the mentally challenged. It was student talk more than teacher talk—and this was the best thing about our conversation. Meanwhile, John and I met at odd times to discuss his reading and we designed a couple of writing assignments to accompany it.
Objection Overruled
Case closed? Hardly. The following year, I distributed copies of the novel to my sophomore classes. Then one day my principal informed me that we had a problem. Mr Jones had photocopied a few of the "racy" sections of the novel and distributed copies at several churches in this small town in central Nebraska. The most damning passages dealt with Charlie's struggle with his sexuality and his ability to form mature romantic relationships. But for the most part, Keyes presents this issue tastefully:Then, with a violent act of will I was back on the couch with [Fay], aware of her body and my own urgency and potency.
Charlie explains that his past personality—the part of himself that sees the world through the lens of a mentally challenged child raised in an abusive home—is watching him. He lashes out:"Go ahead, you poor bastard—watch, I don't give a damn any more." And his eyes went wide as he watched.The principal wanted me to pull the book immediately. I balked. None of the parents of any of these students had confronted me, and I was confident that I could convince most of them that the novel was acceptable. It didn't hurt my case that the principal's son had been my student a year earlier, and neither son nor father had objected to the book.
The superintendent urged me to address a special meeting of the school board and concerned parents. I agreed. The only parent who showed up was Mr. Jones. One board member listened to me talk, chatted with his own children (also former students of mine), and voiced his approval.
In the end, I was given approval to use this novel. No other parent objected. Why there was no more furor than this I don't know. It could be because the community already perceived Mr. Jones as something of a blowhard; or because a few parents actually read the book and found nothing objectionable; or because, having taught and lived in that community for some years, I enjoyed a decent reputation. To my frustration, I was forced to spend considerable time defending my curricular choice, but teachers of literature (or anything else that might touch students' hearts and minds) can expect as much.
Shelving the Issue
So that was the end of it—I thought. Then, toward the end of the year, while I was frantically rushing to meet yearbook deadlines, the principal and superintendent met with me. They advised me to shelve the book for the coming school year. It was the politically wise thing to do, they concluded, and, after all, didn't I have a plentiful choice of other literature? They suggested we just let things calm down. I was looking forward to the summer and was just plain tired of the hassle, so I said, "Fine, we'll put them on the shelf." And I literally did that, in an unmarked cardboard box.
Almost a year later, in early March, when I normally taught Flowers, I went to the shelves to retrieve the books. The box was gone. I rushed to the principal's office: Did he know anything about this mysterious disappearance? No, he did not. It was quite the mystery. Could we order replacements? No, of course not, the money was already spent. Could I replace the books for the following school year? He was noncommittal and was late for a meeting. I got the hint.
The following year, when it was time to file requisitions, I again requested the book. No one officially told me that my request had been denied, but when I returned from summer break, no shipment of Flowers awaited me.
Regrets Only
I would love to share tales of my derring-do—how I confronted the administration, how I overcame the Forces of Fear and Ignorance. But I have no such story to tell. I'd recently started a doctoral program and had more to do than ever, so I meekly returned to my work. I listened to an inservice speaker talk about battling for controversial materials and how the teacher almost always ends up the loser. I believed her; I let the matter drop.
In time the principal and I both left the school district for other positions, but we remained friends of a sort. I called him one day, and in the course of our conversation mentioned the missing copies of Flowers. He laughed. He'd never actually gotten rid of them, he confessed, just stashed them in the boiler room. Right next to some copies of Mr. and Mrs. Bojo Jones that he'd spirited away after the vocational English teacher resigned. He explained that the cover was too racy: "Who needs that stuff?" I laughed, too—stiffly.
The moral of the story? I concede I was a coward. I wasn't going to take my principles too seriously when I had important things to do—tend to my three children, earn my doctorate, publish award-winning yearbooks. I also recognized that administrators instinctively avoid controversy. But we let people like Mr. Jones win too easily.
And it's strange what people choose to target for censorship. When it comes to objecting to materials on sexual grounds, it seems recent authorship is one criterion. After all, I showed Zeffirelli's screen version of Romeo and Juliet with impunity, as long as I fast-forwarded the VCR through the "bare butt" bedroom scene. As with most Shakespeare, this piece has its share of bawdy sexual banter and interplay (including a courtyard scene where Mercutio flips up the Nurse's dress and lets out an exaggerated snort of disgust).
Wait 'Til Next Time
In retrospect, when Mr. Jones confronted me on my choice of literature, I should have addressed his concern in a very public way. After all, I firmly believed this novel was an excellent choice for high school students to read and discuss. I should have exercised my professional judgment. I should have used whatever medium I could—a public hearing at a regular school board meeting, the local paper, the local radio station. I should have taken advantage of the fact that this occurred in a small community where direct communication is relatively easy. I should have made it clear to everyone why school district officials, not just I, had adopted this book as required reading. I should have distributed copies of the page on which the novel is listed in our English Language Arts Curriculum Guide. I should have forced the hand of the administration to fully and publicly own this curricular decision. That's what I should have done! But I didn't.
