Supporting Gay Teen Literature

When we talk about the books in a library, we call them a collection. But to a young reader—especially a teen reader—it's really more of a representation. Teens read books to find themselves within the pages, and they visit libraries to find themselves on the shelves—a Dewey-decimal recognition of who they are and what they might be going through. It is not only a librarian's job to make this representation as welcoming and as accurate as possible. It is a librarian's obligation to do so.

I am going to talk here about gay teen literature, because that is what I know best as an author and as an editor, although the obligation certainly holds true for many other literatures. You see, right now we are at a pivotal point for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) literature for teens. After many, many years of fear, threat, hesitation, self-loathing, and (in the face of all these) defiance, a crucial time has been entered where courage has the potential to win the day. Not only are writers putting LGBT voices into words, but publishers are putting them into print in unprecedented numbers. The challenge is getting these books out into the world and introducing them to the readers of all ages who want and need them.

The presence of these books in libraries is a statement, and it is a statement that we must make. Touring for Boy Meets Boy (Knopf, 2003), I've had librarians say to me, "People in my school don't agree with homosexuality, so it's difficult to have your book on the shelves." Here's the thing: being gay is not an issue, it is an identity. It is not something that you can agree or disagree with. It is a fact, and must be defended and represented as a fact.

To use another part of my identity as an example: if someone said to me, "I'm sorry, but we can't carry that book because it's so Jewish and some people in my school don't agree with Jewish culture," I would protest until I reached my last gasp. Prohibiting gay books is just as abhorrent. Period. Or to put it in other terms: How would you react if you were asked to avoid buying African-American books for your library, or told you could only buy one a year, because surely that would be representative of the whole African-American experience. Or if someone walked into your library, pointed to C. S. Lewis's books, and told you that it is wrong to promote "the Christian lifestyle." Or if you were informed that it was OK to have female authors in your collection, as long as they weren't openly female. You would say no. You would say that's not right. Which is exactly what you need to say when LGBT books are challenged.

Discrimination is not a legitimate point of view. Silencing books silences the readers who need them most. And silencing these readers can have dire, tragic consequences.

Never forget who these readers are. They are just as curious and anxious about life as any other teenager. I am lucky as an author, because I have a Web site and an e-mail address to which my readers can write. I know, at least partly, who they are. The gay teenager who implores me five times in a single-paragraph e-mail not to reply to the e-mail address, since he's sneaked on to his parents' computer and they would disown him if they knew he'd read my book. The 13-year-old straight girl from Texas who writes to say that she'd never realized that gay people were really people, too, and that reading the book helped her figure that out. The 70-year-old gay man who wishes he'd had a gay teen book when he was growing up, because it would have saved him decades of pain and denial. The 13-year-old boy who has already contemplated suicide, but draws away from it the more he sees that there are places in the outside world that are unlike his insular town. Hundreds of people have written to me to say that just seeing the book in their library or in their local bookstore made them feel like they belonged a little more in the world. They've seen themselves on the shelves.

It isn't just me who's getting these e-mails. It's Julie Anne Peters and Brent Hartinger and Alex Sanchez and Tea Benduhn and Billy Merrell and James Howe and Nancy Garden and Francesca Lia Block and M. E. Kerr and all the other authors who are constantly changing the face of LGBT teen lit, reaching hundreds of thousands of readers a year. And let me tell you—hearing these stories gives us more strength to write our stories. I want to pass as much of that strength as I can on to you, the librarians. We are in a golden age of teen literature right now, and a part of that is due to the fact that authors both gay and straight have found the voices to speak about the LGBT experience in honest and at times extraordinary ways. We've reached the point where you don't have to read a gay or lesbian book just because it's a gay or lesbian book. You have to read it because it's a good book in its own right, about something important. The bar has been raised higher, and we're all better for it.

I have met so many amazing librarians in the past few years, staunch and strong defenders of expression and representation. I can say without a single doubt that many young readers' lives have been helped and saved by their librarians' open-mindedness and courage. (I have the e-mails to prove it.) Many people consider librarians to be gatekeepers, usually in terms of keeping things out. I also think of librarians as gatekeepers in terms of the people they help through the gates—the librarians who don't put the magnetic strips in LGBT books so questioning or hesitant teens won't have to sign them out; the librarians who display these titles prominently in their libraries, knowing that even if not everybody will have the courage to sign them out, teens will at least know that their literature is accepted; the librarians who set up safe zones where kids can borrow books about important topics on the honor system; the openly LGBT librarians who give students strength through something as affirming as their everyday lives; and, of course, the amazing number of librarians who support and encourage their openly gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and questioning students as they strive to live their lives the way they want to live them.

I will never forget the moment I first heard about David Leavitt's books. I was working in my high school library, as I did each year in high school. A new box of books had come in, and one of the librarians, Mrs. Goldsmith, showed me Equal Affections (Grove, 1989) and said that Leavitt was a very good writer. I was intrigued by his books' titles, by his name (so similar to mine), and by the fact that his books were in our suburban New Jersey library. Thirteen years later, when I revisited my high school library to read from my own book, I would be sure to return to the shelves to see all of David Leavitt's spines in a row—to thank the books, to thank the library, to thank the librarians. I recognize now what I didn't have the ability to see then, at least, not fully: a gate opened. I made my way through.

Of all the passages in Boy Meets Boy that have been quoted back to me, the one that I've heard the most by far is the following, which happens after one of the characters (Tony) confronts his parents about being gay. The narrator (Paul) observes:

"I find my greatest strength in wanting to be strong. I find my greatest bravery in deciding to be brave. I don't know if I've ever realized this before, and I don't know if Tony's ever realized it before, but I think we both realize it now. If there's no feeling of fear, then there's no need for courage. I think Tony has been living with his fear for all his life. I think now he's converting it to courage."

With books, courage comes on many levels. We authors have to find the courage to offer the words that will release the truth, in ways both small and large. We put our names on the cover of the book, offering those words out in the world with our lives attached. The publisher, too, offers its own reputation when it puts its name on the spine. Readers must take great courage in taking a book from a shelf, or being seen carrying it around. Librarians can—and often do—and always must find the courage to stand up to the fear that surrounds us. You are the gatekeepers of the representation. It's not just literature at stake; it's lives.