One of my courses includes a list of eight novels about adolescence. Four or five students will read each novel and will work together to present it to the class. I speak to them briefly about each book at the beginning of the semester. They browse the books (I provide them with front and back covers and first chapters), and give me a list of their top three choices; I do my best to accommodate their preferences.
Each year, when ordering books for the coming semester, I look at the list from last time and adapt it, based on how the novels from the previous year went over. This year, I’m jettisoning three novels from last time and replacing them with new ones.
As I carry out this process, I have a foolish habit. In the scramble to put together a list of eight books (or, in a recent scenario, forty-five books) on a particular subject or of a particular genre, I sometimes throw in something that I haven’t actually read. And for “sometimes,” read “often.” Every time, I regret this decision. And the next time, I do it again. This semester I HAD to get my book orders in at a moment when I had NO TIME to do any extra reading. And so I decided to once again throw caution to the winds, and ordered Scott Spencer’s Endless Love for my course on novels about adolescence.
I’d been meaning for years to read Endless Love, based on recommendations from a number of book critics I respect. I’d even downloaded and read an excerpt on my e-reader, and was blown away by it, and had been intending to buy and read the whole thing ever since. I hadn’t gotten around to it, but I figured that my impulse to keep reading, and the general critical acclaim the book has received, and its focus on adolescent love, made it suitable. So I placed my order, and got myself a copy, and started reading.
Thirty-five pages in, I was greeted with a graphic, dripping, pulsating depiction of teenage, heterosexual anal sex.
The scene is not gratuitous. It’s fundamental to the fabric of the novel. It is beautifully, if shockingly (at least to me) rendered. It is absolutely appropriate to the book.
The questions is, is it appropriate for a college classroom?
Some of my students will be under eighteen; some will be deeply and narrowly religious; some will be really immature. Others will be able to handle explicit sex scenes and appreciate them for what they are: an integral part of the story. When I briefly present the book to the class and mention that some of them may wish to avoid it if they’re uncomfortable with graphic sex, many of them will be titillated and will choose the book for that reason. (This is what happens with Alice Sebold’s Lucky in my memoir course, when I tell them they should avoid it if they are worried about the opening rape scene; the vast majority of students choose it as one of their readings.) Others will be absent that day, will be assigned the book or choose it themselves, and will be outraged.
Is it worth the hassle? I’m three-quarters of the way through now; for the last 250 pages, there has been no sex, although I can see some on its way. (Yes, another concern is that this novel is LONG.) It’s a really good book, and some of them are going to love it. If I want to pull it from the course, I need to let the bookstore know, like, now.
What’s a teacher to do? Trust that they will choose wisely and handle the consequences? Take the chance that there will be fallout? Find another book? What would you do?
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