We state these propositions neither lightly nor as easy generalizations. We here stake out a lofty claim for the value of the written word. We do so because we believe that it is possessed of enormous variety and usefulness, worthy of cherishing and keeping free. We realize that the application of these propositions may mean the dissemination of ideas and manners of expression that are repugnant to many persons. We do not state these propositions in the comfortable belief that what people read is unimportant. We believe rather that what people read is deeply important; that ideas can be dangerous; but that the suppression of ideas is fatal to a democratic society. Freedom itself is a dangerous way of life, but it is ours. (From the ALA Freedom to Read Declaration, 1953)

My email and Facebook have been busier than normal this week.  Perhaps because my close friends, colleagues, and former students know my fierce attachment to the art of reading, they’ve reached out to ask my opinion regarding recent issues of book “suspensions” in the local news during this of all weeks, The American Library Association’s Banned Books Week.  

In fact, several years ago I found myself in a similar position as some teachers, administrators, parents, students, and districts are in today.  As a K-12 English Language Arts Curriculum Coordinator for a school district here in Texas, I was to oversee the thoughtful selection process of instructional materials to best meet curricular objectives for various courses.  And, because we live in a democratic society of varied people possessing varied voices, beliefs, and points of view, I found myself amid controversy regarding a text selected for classroom use.

What emerged from this controversy was not conflict, but rather, constructive conversation--one that should take place in any community partnering with educators in support of student learning.  In 2000, I started the first community-teacher book club, where in partnership, grown adults would read, study, debate, and share ideas stemming from potentially controversial literature.  We read authors Toni Morrison and William Faulkner, as well as up and coming writers not yet considered canonical.  We underlined passages and talked of their significance; we, members of the same community who possessed hearts and minds, wicked smarts and independent beliefs, explored topics of racism, of rape, of infanticide, of feminism, of oppression, of murder.  

And while we shared, we listened.  We questioned.  We explored.  We trusted that there was no one source of “wisdom” present in that room, and we knew we could continue the conversation when we returned to our homes.  We knew we could call upon one another, other friends, our parents, and a variety of religious leaders to unpack ideas further.  But few knew that they could go home and ask their own children to explain how to read complex texts.  

You see, that’s where the beauty of discovery resides--in the most important intersection of classroom and home.

As an English teacher, my job consists of imparting to students information they may or may not use over the course of their lives:  how to use the colon; when—and where—to use the dash; why, for special occasions, using the semi-colon in a series with a simple comma won’t suffice.  

I spend most of my days trying to convince 16, 17, and 18-year-olds that word choice really does matter; that Thoreau and Twain were ahead of their times; that Dickinson and Dante paved the way for others regarding style and thought; that Shakespeare still hovers above and within us in his own separate sphere; that just because we can find an answer in 1.5 seconds on the Internet doesn’t mean we have learned something new.

Each day with my students, I have a task that I hold to be sacred:  I am entrusted with minds, hearts, and souls of children who are navigating their way in this world.  This task is not one I take lightly, nor is it one mine alone to do.  In partnership with a community at large, combined with the mission of my school, various curricular objectives, and research-based practices, I dive in, head first, to rediscover the joy of discovery, the exhilaration that exists when one lives in the question, and the beauty in not knowing.  What unites us--students, teachers, and parents--is that we all belong to the same community that wants the same end:  to graduate competent, capable, empathetic young men and women who possess the ability to stand up for what is right in this world.  

We can argue all day and night about which text is the “best” or the “worst” to teach in high school English classrooms.  But good literature (and the stuff it’s made from—the colons, the dashes, and the semi-colons), including the written words encapsulating the ideas, is the stuff of life.  Finding information in 1.5 seconds does nothing for the intellect and even less for the soul.  Being told information over 1.5 years—over 15 years, even—does not always yield a student or a graduate who possesses the ability to think, to feel, to act.  Taking the time to hone skills of critical analysis, to explore schools of critical thoughts, to read authors yet to be discovered—this is where the realm of true transformation reigns.  

Books possess the power to transform us into people we have imagined – and yet have never dreamed – we’d actually become. For any child to be denied this pleasure, this basic need, is to rob her of the greatest joy. And this joy isn’t simply that of reading or the pleasure of the printed page; this joy is the fundamental self-awareness necessary to negotiate a world that sometimes asks for something, for someone else.  This joy is found when reading in a community of trusted companions, teachers, and guides who help craft character in connection with the written word.

When we read, when we as a community share stories with one another, we are actually sowing the seeds for a bountiful harvest, food for the future so that we will never feel hunger.  Books are places we can visit in all stages of our lives, and they will feed that curiosity and wonder very much alive within all of us. Books also help us discover who we are and what we value--today as well as tomorrow.  At times when the world is too much with us, books and a supportive community assist in such transformation.

About 15 years ago, I had just finished teaching Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye to my group of sophomore pre-AP TaG students.  As I was packing up for the day, one young student ran into my classroom just after the last bell rang.

“Ms. Patterson!” he yelled.  “Did you notice that I’m wearing colors?”

This, from a young man who wore the same grey shirt paired with the same faded blue jeans, sometimes topped with the grey flannel shirt he wore to cover his too-thin arms.  Aside from the occasional flannel, there was no variation to his attire.  One student even wrote an ode about our friend in grey, a thoughtful tribute to a young man struggling in his determined efforts to march to the beat of his own drummer.

I won’t betray my former student’s trust by divulging his name or even our conversation, but know this much:  that book saved his life, literally.

Say what you will about Holden Caulfield—and in my classroom, students should speak up to voice their opinions and share their ideas—but the power of one text, of one character to affect positively the life of a fifteen year old boy, changed me that day.  That was the day we didn’t lose a student.  That was the day this young man chose to live, wearing colors for the first time in seven months, deciding that he could face his fears and grow up, just as Holden decides to do in Salinger’s novel.  That was the day this young sophomore decided that suicide wasn’t an option.

As an educator, I have a responsibility to present information, to select materials, and to design lessons that best bring about learning, inquiry, and intellectual discovery.  The decisions I and my colleagues make on a regular basis are not made lightly, nor are they made with haphazard guesswork or from random selection.  If we are lucky, we get to make these decisions in partnership with a school that has a student-centered mission, one that embodies an ethical responsibility to educate not just the head, but also the heart of each child, regardless of race, gender, creed, or belief.  

As a teacher, I have the responsibility to read any text on my own and evaluate curricular objectives and materials selected to ensure student mastery of particular skills. I have the responsibility to ensure my students’ Constitutional right to interact with ideas in a safe place where trust, mutual respect, and high regard for standards reigns.  But I do not have the right to tell them what to think.

And as a parent, I believe I have the right to monitor my children’s exposure to ideas I do not feel they are ready for.  I have the right--the responsibility, even--to discuss with my children aspects of right and wrong, of love and hate, of empathy and ignorance.  But I do not have the right to tell them what to think.  

I have read almost all of the texts that have been challenged in the state of Texas, as well as books on the ALA Banned Book List.  I have taught some of these authors to freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors in high school.  My own children have read some of these texts as well.  And it is precisely because of my own experience as a student, as a teacher, and as a parent that I have faith in the process of education, as well as in the hearts, minds, and spirits of students who are trying desperately to navigate the sometimes murky waters they find themselves in.  These students need trusted adults, teachers and parents, to help them chart their own course.

Yes, I do believe we should teach critical thinking skills and empathy with award-winning literature that has redeeming and lasting value. We should prepare our children for the path that lies ahead of them--with trust, tolerance, love, and respect that comes from hard work, fierce love, and reciprocal respect.  We should join hands with parents, teachers, administrators, students, and community members; we should openly discuss ideas, civilly and respectfully, for that’s what members of a thriving democracy should do.

When love and respect and trust and tolerance no longer govern a community's interactions with one another, …. well, there’s a book or two out there about that.  Perhaps we could read it together.

I’d like to close with the comments of one of my former students--an amazing thinker and reader and human being--who recently posted the following, which says far more than I ever could:

I didn't learn to be a murderer by reading Crime and Punishment, and I didn't grow up to be a bully because I read Lord of the Flies. I didn't learn how to do drugs or that child molestation is acceptable from the Perks of Being a Wallflower. I learned that actions have consequences, and that sometimes there's more to the quiet kid who's sitting alone than you think. I learned that everyone has a story worth hearing, and that being accepting is the first step to being accepted. The books we read as young adults become a part of us in a way that nothing else ever will. We learn empathy, and about how our actions can affect other people. We learn to study the world around us with a critical eye. We are pushed to make choices about what kind of people we want to be.

 Such growth, such character, is possible from the conversation books allow us to have--in the classroom and in the home. And it is this growth, and this character, that we should never seek to suspend.

Tolly Patterson Salz

Tolly Patterson Salz taught Regular, AP, and AP TaG English at Highland Park High School for 10 years.  During that time, she also served as the HPISD K-12 English Language Arts Curriculum Coordinator.  Currently, Tolly teaches at the Episcopal School of Dallas, where she has been teaching in the English Department for the past 12 years.  She is a graduate of HPHS, the Plan II Honors Program at the University of Texas at Austin, and SMU’s MLA program.  Her husband, Marc Salz, was the recipient of the Park Cities YMCA Father of the Year Award in 2012.  She is the proud mother of three boys--an 11th grader, a 5th grader, and a 1st grader.  If she’s not in the classroom, with students, or with her family, you can find her curled up somewhere with a really good (possibly banned) book.  

For additional information, please visit the following websites or review the following documents:

The First Amendment to the US Constitution (1791);

the Library Bill of Rights, adopted by the American Library Association in 1939 and amended in 1944, 1948, 1961, 1967, and 1980;

the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948);

the ALA's Freedom to Read Declaration (1953).

http://www.alastore.ala.org/SearchResult.aspx?CategoryID=269

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No does not mean Maybe, Possibly, In a Minute, or even Yes.  No means No.

Tolly P. Salz

The novel’s been sitting on my bedside table for almost a month now, recommended from a list of suggested summer readings.   After some months of reading things that were a bit heavy, interspersed with some silly mysteries, I longed to sneak in one of my guilty pleasures, young adult fiction.  Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel Speak fit the bill.

So last night, I picked the novel up off of the bedside table.  For the hour that followed, I did nothing else but read—and remember. 

Anderson’s novel introduces us to Melinda, a young woman who narrates her story of survival in a school of bullies, bitches, and bff’s who want nothing to do with her.  From the outset, we catch a glimmer of her angst as she states, “It is my first morning of high school.  I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.” Yet at this point, there is no way for us to know the back story, or a pivotal moment for Melinda during the summer prior to her freshman year. 

As Melinda narrates her everyday encounters with those who detest her, we discover only half of the story.  Later, she reveals all—to us as readers, as confidants, the truth of what really happened that August evening.  It’s a truth that desperately needs to be spoken, and by the end of the novel, Melinda finds the courage to speak, and not just with words:  she speaks with her silence, with her own artwork, and eventually, with her own actions.

I’m surprised that as parents, we don’t have more conversations with each other about the long-term effects of underage drinking, of binge drinking, of casual sex, of unwanted and untoward sexual advances, and of bullying.  I’m even more surprised that so many parents refuse to have this conversation with their own children.  If we don’t talk with them, then who will?  Their peers?  The media?  The role models of Hollywood?

Don’t get me wrong:  I’m not a total prude.  I am simply a woman who demands more for the children of this and future generations.  And while Speak is a must-read for all parents who are raising young women, I would argue that it’s also a must-read for all parents who are raising young men. 

Speak shows us what we need to tell our daughters—as well as our sons—about kindness, friendship, loyalty, decency.  About drinking and arrogance and sex.  About how no means just that—No.  Not maybe, or possibly, or even yes.  Speak shows us that true strength is in doing what is right, even—and especially—when it’s hard.

This is a novel I want my sons to read.  In this world that at times reeks of excuses such as “boys will be boys,” I want my sons to understand what true manhood is as well as what it looks like.  Teenage boys who act like jerks are just that, jerks, and we shouldn’t applaud them for their lack of character or human decency or excuse their actions that take no one but themselves into consideration.  Yet teenage boys who reach out to befriend and to be kind—even if these young men aren’t considered the “most popular”—are, in fact, the very ones we need to be honoring instead. 

I read Melinda’s story—and I remembered my own.  When my sons are a little older, I will share it with them.  I will admit that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.  I will admit that I did not know how to speak—or how to speak in order to be heard.  And I will admit that while I did not possess Melinda’s strength and courage until years later, I have spent the rest of my years trying to use both to guide my actions. 

And perhaps, then, my sons will understand why I have tried so hard over these years to instill this strength and this courage in them, as well.  It’s simple:  being men of character is just too important for us not to speak about.

Tolly P. Salz

Literature provides worlds of wonder and escape:  slipping into a microcosmic existence for a while, we are able to wonder who we are, to wonder of what we can become.  Such an escape can bring us face to face with those we admire as well as with those we want to avoid, and, with the turning of a page, we are relieved to find respite of sorts from antagonistic villains and boogeymen.  By our very nature, we find ourselves rooting for the archetypal hero, recognizing him even in the most untraditional, unexpected places.

We recognize him in Maycomb County, Alabama as a single father raising his children to be men and women of character and purpose.  As an attorney possessing the courage and integrity to champion justice at any cost, he teaches his children what it is to climb inside the skin of another human being and walk around in it.  By his example, he teaches them what it is to do the right thing regardless of what those in the community might say otherwise.  Even when it hurts, Atticus Finch teaches the lessons so that his children will know “right” from “wrong.”  He serves as not only their father, but also their mentor, their guide, their advocate. 

We also recognize the father figure floating down the Mississippi River with a young boy in the 1850’s.  While not related by blood, the runaway slave and young renegade share more love than the young boy has  previously known from his own father, an abusive drunk more interested in money than in the joys and pains of raising his own child.  Night after night, day after day, it is Jim—and not Pap Finn—who provides the guidance and nurturing that all children need.  Arguably, it is because of Jim’s presence in his life that Huck Finn begins to understand better the conflict between his heart’s conviction and society’s values, and as a result, he makes the difficult (yet obvious) choice to do right and sets the course for freedom for all.

It’s fathers like these who guide our paths, who prepare our futures.  Parenting isn’t easy, but when we stop to ask what kind of fathers we want our own children to become, the answer can be found in these texts, and, if we are lucky enough, in our own lives as well.

I was that lucky, and so are my children, to have a father and grandfathers who love them beyond belief.  Today, may each child stop not only to say thank you to all fathers—fictitious or not—who have helped shape lives, but also to recognize the character of greatness that has allowed for such growth to take root.  For these are the seeds we should be planting for future generations of fathers.

Not just Maycomb County and the small towns lining the banks of the Mississippi River need a good father figure; so, too, do we.  Look around.  They are here, on our playgrounds, in our athletic arenas, and inside our homes.  These fathers shape our character so that one day, with conviction, we can be the authors of our own beautiful story.

Happy Father’s Day to all who play a special role in the life of a child.

By Tolly P. Salz

To all parents out there who have ever tried their best, I just want to say that you are not alone. There are more of us than we'd like to admit—parents who, at the end of the day, have gone above and beyond to ensure as much "normalcy" as possible, even if it means holding one's tongue while enforcing rules and reinforcing positive behavior.

Today, I had to hold my tongue.

Trying to follow through with my "parenting Brad McCoy-style" (Click for Brad McCoy Article), I was being intentional about my son's sucking it up and following through with a previous commitment. He complained of a sore throat; I thought he was trying to weasel his way out.

It wasn't a pretty discussion.

Yet that didn't mean that a bystander—another mother—could sit there and frown disapprovingly at me and my child.

Yes, lady, I get it that I'm not perfect. I get it that you think my child is not perfect either, that he appears to be more like Eddie Haskell than Wally Cleaver. I get it that I'm not spouting off memorized mantras of "Love and Logic" at him. And I get it that it might not appear that I'm using my inside voice, despite the fact that we are outside. But here's what you don't get: this is what tough love looks like. And while there's nothing tougher than parenting—and while there's nothing more worth loving than a child—if you've never tried parenting and loving a child with special needs, please don't even bother to begin judging me.

I remember the first time I received such a glare. We were on a family vacation when my son, who was two at the time, had a full-out meltdown. As nothing could console him, I picked him up, tossed him on my shoulder, and took him—screaming and kicking and flailing about—back to the hotel room. A mother with a newborn looked shamefully at us; surely, her son seemed perfect in comparison to mine.

This wasn't the first time he was banished to his room, and I'm certain it won't be the last. But just because he has special needs doesn't mean he gets a special pass when it comes to behavior and following the rules—it just means we both have to work harder. And that's part of what makes it so tough: most days, it feels like we move two leaps forward, and then fall five steps back.

So when we're both judged unfairly for doing our best, it hurts. It's moments like these—when people stare, glare, and judge—that I just want to say, Stop.

I want to ask these other mothers if they have ever peered into the depths of their son's heart to behold the beauty, the kindness, the intense love that resides within. I want to ask these mothers if they have ever listened in wonder for hours to the incredible world that his brain can spin so effortlessly. I want to ask these mothers if they have ever had to spend more than their monthly salary on various therapies just in hopes that something might ease the pain that their child feels. I want to ask these mothers if they know how beautiful, and how painful, loving a child can be.

You see, when you judge my child based upon some preconception of how children should always behave, you fail to see who he really is—a child with a huge heart; an amazing mind; and a tender, tenacious spirit. I refuse to define him based upon his disability; rather, I choose to love him enough to set boundaries so that one day, he might flourish—with his whole self—no matter how tired we both become. For all this loving is hard work.

But that's not going to stop either one of us. I will hold my tongue today, but I cannot promise that I will be as silent tomorrow. We're not the Cleavers, but we're not the Haskells either. We're just like any other family trying to do its best, loving toughly, logically, intentionally, and intensely. And I know nothing as beautiful that exists in this world.

For the love of a child, the mind of a child, and the spirit of a child all deserve to dance with happy feet. And even if we don't always hear or understand the music that drives our children's inner worlds, that doesn't mean we withhold the love and discipline that are essential for their growth.

And that also doesn't mean that we judge those who choose to provide both—no matter how tired they appear to be. For it takes work to love this hard. And it's work that every child, that every parent, deserves, no matter what anybody else has to say.

I want to tell this mother that actually, we're doing okay today. I don't judge her because she might not have experience raising a child on the spectrum, but I might feel sad for her, thinking that just possibly she might miss out on some of the most beautiful moments that life brings to us. I'll bet she's never waited for her son to write his letters and words or to express his love, only to one day receive his original poem that reads: "I love you the silverest, the silver of the moon at night and the silver of the sound of bells."

I know this child was meant for me, for I understand this silver love. It doesn't wear pearls or high heels and greet you at the door at five o'clock with supper waiting on the table, June Cleaver-style. This silver love is messier: it's soft and hard simultaneously, and in turn, it can both hurt and heal. Yet when you take the time to shine it, oh, how it sparkles.

It's the kind of hard love that lasts a lifetime—for those of us who are lucky enough to experience it.

Additional Resources:

• American Academy of Pediatrics -- www.medicalhomeinfo.org/health/autism.html

• Association for Science in Autism Treatment -- www.asatonline.org

• Autism Society of America - www.autism-society.org

• Autism Speaks - www.autismspeaks.org

• CDC's Autism Information Center - www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/autism

• National Institute of Mental Health - www.nimh.nih.gov

Tolly P. Salz

Imagine having graduated from both Princeton University and Harvard Business School: you face a beautiful future that most certainly awaits, with myriad job opportunities that surely abound. But rather than enter the world of business, rather than accept job offers that will place you on the fast track to the top, you decide instead to serve the very country that provided you with so many opportunities to thrive.

You join the Marines.

Not something most of us would do, but yet a conscious decision that was without question the right choice for Mr. Donovan Campbell, a man who just so happened to finish at the top of his Marine's Basic Officer Course and who later would serve his country twice in Iraq and once in Afghanistan. In time, Campbell would command his own platoon—"Joker One," so named for its radio call sign—through bloody combat in Iraq. Campbell, a survivor and much-decorated soldier, would then write a meaningful memoir documenting the bravery of his men.

And just the other day, I had the opportunity to hear him speak. My life wasn't the only one changed that day as he addressed a group of high school students and their teachers, sharing with us the lessons he has learned by serving our country.

• Lesson One: Each day is a gift from God.

• Lesson Two: You are stronger than you realize.

• Lesson Three: Pursue virtue. Don't ask yourself, "What do I want to do?" Rather, ask yourself, "Who do I want to be? What kind of person do I want to be? And what do I need to do to get there?" Strive to better yourself as a person.

• Lesson Four: The best way to say thank you to our troops is to make sure that they are coming back home to a country worth fighting for. Ask yourself, "What am I doing to make this country a better place?" What is each one of us fighting for right here at home so that when the troops come back, they find a place that is markedly better than it was when they left?

• Lesson Five: Faith is important. It's the only thing you can take with you when you die, and it's all you have to use to deal with and understand life.

Today is Memorial Day, a day set aside in this country to honor those who have gone before us, those who have so selflessly given their lives so that we could have the freedom to live ours so comfortably. While first observed in May of 1868 and made official by Congress in 1971, Memorial Day must now, in 2011, be a day that still matters.

As we reflect on our lives, as well as on the lives of others, let us celebrate the gift of these young women and men who have served us; let us honor their strength; let us admire their virtue. Let us give to our country selflessly in the ways that we can to serve, helping to make this place better. And let us never lose faith in the country that was established and created by rebels, renegades, visionaries, and scholars; by lovers and fighters; by those who never knew the meaning of the word "quit."

Ours is a country worth fighting for, and fight we must, no matter where we are: sitting in a classroom while you are away at college; working in an office so that you can make ends meet for your family; or fighting on the front lines so that you can ensure a better world for all.

To all of those who fight the good fight, I say, Thank You.