It was on the bus that I first encountered censorship. No, the bus driver didn’t care what I read, but the Ann did. She was a senior and eldest daughter of a prominent local English teacher. Ann’s father had strict ideas about good and proper English for his family, and these romances were not among the choices. In fact, they were banned, prohibited.

But there I was, day after day – two whole hours every day -- knees up against the back of the seat in front of me, weeping for Ashley or accepting violets from Bonaparte. One day she asked if she could borrow the book when I finished. Of course. But, she said, I would have to take it home with me in the afternoon, and return it to her in the morning.

This we did for a whole year. She would mark her page and slip the book into a plastic bag; I’d put it away with my homework. Now, both of us were slouched against the windows reading.

But, what I want to talk about is the difference between her experience and mine. The difference being that my mother had also read these books and we could talk about them. We did talk about them. Sure, Ann and I perhaps chatted about the stories together, but that could hardly compare with the insights and direction of a parent. Ann’s father, by censoring his daughter, did not stop her from seeking out and finding the literature she desired, but he did quash the opportunity to teach. While censorship may always be a futile exercise, conversation can never be called a waste.