Stories have always been at the heart of humanity. From the moment we could paint on cave walls or gather around fires, we’ve told stories to explain our world, pass down knowledge, and connect with one another. They are how we understand the past, dream about the future, and navigate the present. As a Black woman, I feel deeply connected to this tradition—not just because of my own love for storytelling, but because of the legacy of my ancestors, who clung to stories as a lifeline in the face of unimaginable loss and erasure.
My grandmother was my first storyteller. She would sit on the verandah, spinning tales while the Caribbean sky glowed with stars. She told biblical stories, local legends, and stories from her life—each one vibrant, full of wisdom and wonder. I still hear her voice in my mind, rich with cadence and humor, wrapping me in the comfort of knowing that our stories mattered. Those evenings were sacred, a time when the weight of the world melted away and I felt anchored in something far larger than myself.
That early immersion in storytelling shaped me into who I am today—a writer who believes in the transformative power of words. But as I’ve grown, I’ve learned that not all stories are welcomed or celebrated. Many have been banned, censored, or labelled as dangerous. They’ve been silenced because they speak inconvenient truths, challenge systems of power, or shine a light on what some would prefer to remain hidden.
This year, I’ve committed to reading banned books. Some of them I’ve read before; others I’ll encounter for the first time. I’m calling this journey Unbound: The Stories They Tried to Silence. It feels fitting, not only because these books were deemed too controversial or subversive to remain freely available, but also because reading them is a small act of defiance—an affirmation that stories will always find a way to be told.
When I read a banned book, I think about the people who fought to tell those stories, the courage it took to put pen to paper despite the risk of backlash. I think about the readers who first encountered these books, perhaps seeing their own struggles and truths reflected for the very first time. And I think about the forces that seek to suppress these voices—forces that have always been with us, in one form or another. Throughout history, the suppression of stories has often been a tool of control, a way to silence marginalized communities and maintain existing power structures.
For me, this hits close to home. My ancestors’ stories were often erased or twisted, their voices dismissed as unworthy of record. Yet, they found ways to resist. They wove their truths into music, oral histories, and the rhythms of everyday life. They passed down their experiences in ways that couldn’t be captured or destroyed, ensuring that even when they couldn’t write their stories down, those stories would live on.
Banned books (and challenged books), in a way, feel like part of that same resistance. They are stories that refuse to disappear, even when they’re pushed to the margins. They challenge us to think critically, to empathize with others, to confront uncomfortable truths. They are mirrors, showing us both the beauty and the flaws of our humanity.
As I take on this challenge, I’m reminded of why stories matter so deeply. They’re not just entertainment or information; they are bridges that connect us to one another. They show us that our pain, joy, fear, and love are not isolated experiences. When we read about someone else’s life—whether it’s an experience similar to ours or completely foreign—we’re reminded that we share this world together. Stories make us human, and they help us see the humanity in others.
I also think about the young readers who might stumble across these books for the first time. For them, banned books might be more than just a good story—they might be a lifeline, a guide, or even a friend. They might be the first place where a young queer person sees themselves reflected, or where a young girl of color reads about someone who looks like her, or where a child struggling with big questions about the world finds reassurance that they’re not alone. These books have the power to shape lives, and that’s precisely why they’ve been targeted.
But here’s the thing about stories: they are resilient. You can ban them, burn them, try to silence them—but you can’t erase them completely. They live on in whispers, in memories, in the hearts of those who read them. And they have a way of finding their way back, again and again.
As I revisit some of these banned books and discover others for the first time, I’ll be sharing my thoughts and reflections. I want to do more than just review the books; I want to explore why they were banned, what they teach us, and how they connect to the world we live in today. I’ll approach them with the same sense of curiosity and reverence that my grandmother taught me, listening not just to the words on the page but to the echoes of the voices that wrote them.
I invite you to join me on this journey. Pick up a banned book, read it, and let it move you. Share it with someone else. Talk about it, write about it, celebrate it. Let’s ensure that these stories are never truly silenced. Together, we can honor the storytellers of the past, the courage of those who speak truths today, and the generations yet to come who will carry on this tradition.
Stories are our inheritance, our gift to one another, and our promise to the future. Let’s keep them alive. Let’s remain unbound.
