Tampa poet Yuki Jackson wonders what a banned book would say if it could talk

I wrote this poem from the perspective of a banned book. If books could talk—and they do in our modern age with Audible and YouTube videos of live author readings—what would they say? Not the writer but the book themselves as if they were alive. I remember what a friend once said about books being a metaphor for slaves. How the slave trade that shipped people in chains from Africa packed their bodies tightly on wooden planks like books on shelves. Spines out, backs curled around the knowledge contained within their skin that goes unappreciated or unnoticed. What is it about DNA and the transmission of knowledge that causes such a conflict for humans? This hierarchy that attempts to subdue and subjugate those who we deem inferior before we have engaged in a true conversation?

I developed my love for books first through my mother. She would read to me everyday, from what I remember as a child, during the time when I didn’t yet have the skills to do it myself. Once I gained the ability, I would eagerly check out books from my school library and my mother would take me to the local bookstore as a treat for good behavior. I would love browsing to see the interesting covers and pick out the books that spoke to me the most. When I brought the books home, I felt an intimate connection with them as I touched their pages and took in their knowledge. The books became a part of me in the same way that each human interaction remains with me as a bridge of understanding.

Understanding isn’t always knowing. Most times, at best, it is an attempt to connect with something outside of ourselves to better know ourselves. The necessary foundation for this understanding or attempt to take place is respect. Respect for what we don’t know and for those who carry experiences we haven’t lived. It is this opportunity to bond with people or books that may be different from what we know that allows us to grow as human beings. It is my hope that we will grow a network so large that enlightenment and progress will not only be accepted, it will be celebrated.

Bans and Bondage

This is personal–
when you say
I don’t have a right to be here,
among the hallowed halls
holding up minds
with backbone–
ready to be touched,
and brought home
to be consumed
for all I’m worth–

Don’t I deserve to live
out my purpose, too,
among the halls
of blood that carry oxygen
where it’s needed?
Don’t I deserve this kind of love, too,
where my body rises
as the intersection
of what’s known
and what has yet to be–

I am not the body you recognize
but that doesn’t mean
I don’t belong here–
cast out like garbage
although I bring with me
a part of you–

You just don’t understand
what to do with admitting
you don’t know everything

This article appears in Oct 6-12, 2022.