Voices: Not all books are created equal. Utah schools should curate what they endorse.

I am, in general, morally opposed to book banning. History gives us good reason to be suspicious of any effort to restrict access to ideas, especially when those efforts are driven by fear, moral panic or political signaling. Societies that ban books often do so not because stories are harmful, but because they are disruptive — because they challenge power, expose hypocrisy or force uncomfortable reflection.

At the same time, I do not believe all books are created equal. And pretending otherwise does children no favors.

Public debates about book bans often collapse two distinct questions into one: Should ideas be suppressed? and Should schools curate what they endorse?

The answer to the first should almost always be no. The answer to the second must be yes. Education without judgment is not education at all.

Children and teenagers are not miniature adults. They are developing readers, thinkers and moral agents. One of the core responsibilities of adults — parents, teachers, librarians — is not merely to grant access, but to guide attention. Quality matters. Sequencing matters. Context matters. And so does the difference between a book that stretches a young reader’s mind and one that simply occupies it.

Opposing book bans does not require us to pretend that every popular novel belongs on a school shelf. School libraries are not neutral warehouses of content; they are curated spaces with finite room and an educational mission. Every book included implicitly displaces another. Selection is unavoidable, which means judgment is unavoidable.

The mistake comes when we deny that judgment is happening at all.

Some books are removed because they address difficult topics — violence, sexuality, trauma, injustice — in ways that invite reflection and moral reasoning. These removals deserve scrutiny and often resistance. Stories that help students understand the world they already inhabit, that give language to suffering or complexity, serve an educational purpose even when they are uncomfortable.

Other books are challenged not because they are challenging, but because they are thin: repetitive narratives, sensationalism without insight or content that relies on shock rather than substance. It is not censorship to ask whether these books meaningfully contribute to literacy, critical thinking or ethical development.

The real issue is not whether students should encounter hard material — they already do. The issue is whether schools help them encounter it well.

Quantity without quality does not build readers; it builds consumers. In an era when attention is fractured and reading stamina is fragile, schools should be cultivating depth rather than abundance. That means elevating books with lasting literary value, historical importance or genuine moral inquiry — and being honest about why some books are chosen and others are not.

There are ways to honor both access and discernment without resorting to blunt bans. Clear content descriptions, opt-out policies, guided discussion and transparency in selection criteria respect family differences while preserving intellectual freedom. Most importantly, they keep the focus where it belongs: on helping young people learn how to read thoughtfully, not just what to read.

What worries me most about the current debate is not that some books are removed, but that we have lost the language to talk about why books matter at all. When every book is treated as equally valuable — or equally dangerous — we abandon the harder work of evaluation.

A healthy education system should be confident enough to say two things at once: that banning ideas is wrong, and that discernment is necessary; that stories can change lives, and that not every story deserves institutional endorsement; that freedom of thought flourishes best not in the absence of guidance, but in the presence of thoughtful, principled care.

Children deserve access to books. They also deserve adults willing to take responsibility for helping them find the good ones.

Miriam Packard is a freelance writer from Kaysville, Utah. She writes on her Substack about language, power and beliefs — and how they shape policy and health.

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