Here’s a joint statement released today regarding the situation in Tucson (sent to me via my publisher, Random House):

JOINT STATEMENT IN OPPOSITION TO BOOK CENSORSHIP

IN THE TUCSON UNIFIED SCHOOL DISTRICT

January 30, 2012

The undersigned organizations are committed to protecting free speech and intellectual freedom. We write to express our deep concern about the removal of books used in the Mexican-American Studies Program in the Tucson Unified School District. This occurred in response to a determination by Arizona Superintendent of Public Instruction John Huppenthal that the program “contained content promoting resentment toward a race or class of people” Read the rest of this entry »

And when light fills the room, the child is filled with darkness. He knows that every time this happens he’s moved just a little closer to the darkness outside. The darkness outside is what the old folks have been talking about. It’s what they’ve come from it’s what they endure. The child knows that they won’ talk any more because if he knows too much about what’s happening to them, he’ll know too much too soon, about what’s going to happen to him.

A truly scary situation. Tucson schools have just “shut down” all courses related to Mexican American Studies (in essence, banning Chicano authors and threatening teachers who include Chicano books in the curriculum). If you’re familiar with Tucson’s racial makeup, you know this means that literally thousands of Chicano students will no longer be allowed to see a reflection of themselves in literature. The teachers literally had to “box up” the books (in front of students) and remove them from their classrooms.

Mexican WhiteBoy, my second novel, which follows a biracial high school student (half Mexican-half white) who’s trying to make sense of his heritage, was part of the curriculum in this now-defunct class. Take a look at the other banned authors:

Course: English/Latino Literature 7, 8

Ten Little Indians (2004), by S. Alexie
The Fire Next Time (1990), by J. Baldwin
Loverboys (2008), by A. Castillo
Women Hollering Creek (1992), by S. Cisneros
Mexican WhiteBoy (2008), by M. de la Pena
Drown (1997), by J. Diaz
Woodcuts of Women (2000), by D. Gilb
At the Afro-Asian Conference in Algeria (1965), by E. Guevara
Color Lines: “Does Anti-War Have to Be Anti-Racist Too?” (2003), by E. Martinez
Culture Clash: Life, Death and Revolutionary Comedy (1998), by R. Montoya et al.
Let Their Spirits Dance (2003) by S. Pope Duarte
Two Badges: The Lives of Mona Ruiz (1997), by M. Ruiz
The Tempest (1994), by W. Shakespeare
A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America (1993), by R. Takaki
The Devil’s Highway (2004), by L. A. Urrea
Puro Teatro: A Latino Anthology (1999), by A. Sandoval-Sanchez & N. Saporta Sternbach
Twelve Impossible Things before Breakfast: Stories (1997), by J. Yolen
Voices of a People’s History of the United States (2004), by H. Zinn

Coincidentally, I’m scheduled to speak at Tucson High School on March 13. A young Mexican-American student there spearheaded the whole event. She went to the administration on her own accord and helped raise funds. She’s a self-admitted reluctant reader, but she was introduced to my books in a class much like the one above, and something clicked. Because of her effort and passion, this has been the visit I’m most looking forward to this year. I can’t wait to meet her.

But in the future, this kind of connection will not be possible in Tucson-area schools. It breaks my heart.

Here’s a clip of one of the teachers who lost her classes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8zAo6UPGI_8

The matchmaker appeared one night out of the dark fourth-floor hallway of the graystone rooming house where Finkel lived, grasping a black, strapped portfolio that had been worn thin with use. Salzman, who had been long in the business, was of slight but dignified build, wearing an old hat, and an overcoat too short and tight for him. He smelled frankly of fish, which he loved to eat, and although he was missing a few teeth, his presence was not displeasing, because of an amiable manner curiously contrasted with mournful eyes.

I was already in America, and I felt good and safe. I did not understand why. The gamblers, prostitutes and Chinese opium smokers did not excite me, but they aroused in me a feeling of flight. I knew that I must run away from them, but it was not that I was afraid of contamination. I wanted to see other aspects of American life, for surely these destitute and vicious people were merely a small part of it. Where would I begin this pilgrimage, this search for a door into America?

For forty-seven years they had been married. How deep back the stubborn, gnarled roots of the quarrel reached, no one could say–but only now, when tending to the needs of others no longer shackled them together, the roots swelled up visible, split the earth between them, and the tearing shook even to the children, long since grown.

March whistled stinging snow against the brick walls and up the gaunt girders.

She stood with her black face some six inches from the moist windowpane and wondered when on earth would it ever stop raining.

Across the valley there are heavy mountains holding up the night sky, and beyond the mountains there is home. Home, and peace, and the beat of drums, and blue winds dancing over snow fields. The Indian lodge will fill with my people, and our gods will come and sit among them. I should be there then. I should be at home.
But home is beyond the mountains, and I am here. Here where fall hides in the valleys, and winter never comes down from the mountains. Here where all the trees grow in rows; the palms stand stiffly by the roadsides, and in groves the orange trees line in military rows, and endlessly bear fruit. Beautiful, yes; there is always beauty in order, in rows of growing things! But it is the beauty of captivity. A pine fighting for existence on a windy knoll is much more beautiful.

It used to be the custom for story-tellers to go from village to village and relate chip-chap-tiqulk to the children. How gladly we’re those tribal historians welcomed by busy mothers, and how glad we’re the boys and girls when one came to visit!