“I don’t think students your age should be reading these books with gay characters,” my elementary school librarian quipped after I returned the graphic novel Drama by Raina Telgemeier.
After my encounter with my librarian, my mouth fizzled out an awkward chuckle. Usually, our book returns sparked conversations on my latest reads; this time, her tone felt distant, alluding to disdain. However, I left with so many questions: What’s so wrong with the book? There was nothing inappropriate; it was simply a graphic novel about a middle school production.
While I’m fortunate to live in New York, one of the few states with very rare book bans, what remains uncovered are the implicit “book bans” lurking in school libraries and classrooms. My elementary school librarian discouraged me from reading a book with LGBTQ+ themes, even though this book was readily available in the library. What especially struck me the most was that the graphic novel wasn’t inherently trying to promote a LGBTQ lifestyle, but simply telling a story of pre-teenagers navigating through identity. The twin brothers Jesse and Justin are the only LGBTQ representation present in the novel, yet my librarian emphasized it to the point where it became the driving plot of the novel.
The Evolving Landscape of Censorship in the U.S.
Book bans aren’t a shocking topic in the United States. Synonymous with any other form of speech, the banning of literature has been an extension of the historical suppression of marginalized communities. Dating back to anti-slavery literature, Uncle Tom’s Cabin and numerous other books have been challenged for their content since.
During the 2024-2025 school year, 6,870 instances of book bans have been recorded, according to PEN America. Of the top fifteen books listed, eleven include stories of children, teens, and young adults, and around seven include clear themes of racial and gender identity.
Specifically in NYC, book banning hasn’t been a prevalent issue. Besides the 1976 Island Trees school district Supreme Court case, there have been numerous initiatives to prevent book bans from persevering in the city. The New York Public Library also has an initiative called Banned Book Week, which ranges from online exhibitions to advocacy.
However, there is a silver lining with regulating “implicit” bans; lack of encouragement or access to reading books with diverse themes. In a June 2025 ruling of the Supreme Court case Mahmoud v. Tyler, schools must allow parents to opt their children out of reading LGBTQ+ books. Justice Sotomayor wrote a strong dissent, arguing that requiring the opt-out of every book or lesson “threatens the very essence of public education,” limiting children’s exposure to concepts and lessons to the scope of their parents’ religious beliefs.
Authors Don’t Intend to Write Political Content — They Write to Tell Stories
This is the reality for a lot of banned books across the country, especially those that represent LGBTQ topics. Peter Mercurio knows this well. He’s the author of a 2020 picture book, Our Subway Baby, based on the true story of how he and his husband, Danny Stewart, adopted their son, Kevin, after Danny found Kevin in the NYC subway in 2000. Since its publication, Our Subway Baby was the 12th most-banned picture book during the 2023-2024 school year, according to PEN America.
His journey with Our Subway Baby has never been intentional. With a background in writing plays, he started drafting Our Subway Baby after being approached by a publisher from Penguin Random House, who read his personal essay on this exact story in the New York Times in 2013.
The book was not intended to push a political agenda, yet it has been caught in a political storm of book bans.
“Yes, the characters in the story are based on real people who happen to be LGBTQ… but that’s not what the story is about. The story is about the magic, fate, and the miracle that happened that created this family.”
Mercurio specifies that nowhere in Our Subway Baby are the words “gay,” “sex,” or “same-sex” used. The only things and themes that are mentioned are the challenges of two men adopting a baby in 2000.
Through my conversation with Peter Mercurio, I realized that the most meaningful result for the author of Our Subway Baby is the interactions that he’s had with readers. His face lit up as we looked through emails, parents sending him photos and videos of their children reading Our Subway Baby. When he visited elementary schools, students came with questions, even checking up on his son, Kevin.
“They get it. They get what the story’s about…This was just a family story to them. And they were curious about how the baby in the story was doing today,” recalled Mercurio when he did an in-person reading to elementary students shortly after the COVID-19 pandemic.
So when asked about his opinion on book bans, he doesn’t view bans from Our Subway Baby as a threat.
“I think when books are banned or challenged, they just bring more attention to them.”
“I have no agenda, just sharing my family story. That’s it. You have an agenda in trying to ban it.”
Children Need Access to Every Story
Libraries were the first—and only—space where I got access to media and was able to think and interpret the world beyond others’ opinions. Therefore, I still believe my elementary school librarian and I share a fundamental belief: books offer children sanctuary, moments of solitude where their minds take on a life of their own. She might’ve wanted to say that, rather than providing comfort, the books available attach an emotional responsibility that children aren’t ready to bear.
Even so, when children aren’t encouraged to face discomfort reading “controversial” books, protection shouldn’t excuse a lack of representation in literature.
While the city has achieved a feat in limiting book bans written on paper, there needs to be greater pressure on implementing these challenged books. More diverse literature needs to be taught in schools and read in libraries. Most importantly, these books shouldn’t be treated as “political” books—they should be normalized into everyday society.
