On Saturday afternoon, the Plainfield Public Library welcomed perhaps the most banned author in American history, Plainfield native and New York Times Best Seller George M. Johnson – author of All Boys Aren’t Blue and most recently We are not Broken. George had a wide-ranging discussion with County Commissioner Rebecca Williams – the first openly gay Union County Commissioner. I encourage everyone to watch the entire 1 hour and 47 minute event here, on the Plainfield Public Library’s YouTube page.

I decided that the best way to present this rich discussion is through abridged versions of George’s thoughts on a host of different issues that were touched upon during the hour and fifteen minutes of insightful conversation. I made sure to present the essence of Johnson’s thoughts.

On fighting the book bans, which may lead up to the Supreme Court:

For the past two years I have been fighting book bans across the country. I first saw, through Google alerts, that they were banning the book in small counties here and there. When it got to 8 counties, I made a Tweet about it. The next week Jill Woolbright went to the Sheriff’s Office and filed a criminal complaint against me and my book. That pissed me off – and I decided to fight. So for the last two years I have been fighting fascism as they try to remove books from school libraries in the United States. It’s been a tough journey – we’ve won in some places and lost in others. I’m part of a lawsuit that we filed 8 weeks ago in Florida to really fight against the book bans. It’s probably going to get to the Supreme Court at some point. That’s just how this operates, and I’m ready to testify if needed.

On the gender spectrum and gender roles:

It’s interesting how when you are a little boy, and you want an EZ Bake Oven – people say absolutely not. But most of the top chefs in the country are men. So it’s this interesting world that we live in where a boy can’t do these things but then once you become a man all of a sudden you can become a top chef, or if you make cakes and be the Cake Boss. But if you are a boy and want to make cakes, it’s shunned. There was a tribe in Ghana many centuries ago that waited until a child was 6 years old to assign a gender. They would wait and see what this child gravitates to. How is the child moving? What are the child’s mannerisms? And then start to have a conversation around how the child should identify. What happens is, when we assign these things, it just puts us down this pipeline where we go and buy footballs, let’s go buy trucks, let’s go buy guns. I have no idea why we don’t want little boys to have baby dolls. You don’t think men should know how to take care of kids?

On growing up in Plainfield:

I went to Cooke School. We shouldn’t have gone to Cooke School – we lived on Sloane Blvd. But Nanny, my grandmother, lived on Lansdowne Terrace, and she wanted all of us to go to the same school. We used her address, which, nowadays you can go to jail for that (laughs). Back then it just made sense because our parents worked and she had to watch the kids when they got out of school – so they needed to send them all to the same school. That was my upbringing: I went to school with all my cousins. I had a lot of Aunts, and whole bunch of people who surrounded my Plainfield experience. Then I went to Maxson Middle School. And then I became a teenager and starting going to Ms Kim’s house. And Justin, her son, we called Justin my cousin, too. So I had a lot of cousins I was going to school with. My uncle lived on 7^th and Berckman. He had a barber shop right around the corner where he used to sell the paintings outside. On Saturdays, my mom would just drop us off at the barber shop and we would be there all day. And then you get to the Sloane experience, where my mom and my dad were basically the parents to all kids on Sloane. We had a whole community of kids who used to stay over our houses. We would have sleepovers. Then they would get older, my dad would pick them up off the porch drunk (laughs). They would just go to sleep on the porch because they knew it was a safe space. Plainfield was always my home, my safe space. I always knew I had family there, and I always knew I had somewhere to go. Even if society has so many thoughts on your identity and how I was presenting myself, I always knew I could go home.

On his family’s acceptance of his sexuality:

I got to grow up with a transgender cousin, and to us it was just normal. I didn’t grow up knowing it was something other families didn’t have until the outside world start looking at me funny because I had a transgender cousin. Our family always made it a normal thing, and we should all be more like that. When you are blessed with a child, just rock with the child. See what your child does. When people see my book, they think it’s going to be trauma hour. Another black kid traumatized, and we love that. But you get to the book and this is not that story. This is a story of a black kid who was exhibiting queerness and had full family support – a rarity. And through the book, my family got to become a possibility model – on how to love and nurture the child that you have unconditionally. They always knew I was different, that I was queer – but they were just like “that’s Matt. That’s just how Matt rolls.” I never felt judged, and my story fights what the societal norm is. How the Black church sometimes shames us. Sometimes, in the barber shop I have to correct them for using the “f” word. But his book and my family and the things we do – that started to shift all of those norms. That’s why I write the way I write.

High school at Bishop Ahr – a troubling experience:

High school was – ugh. My dad didn’t want me to go to Plainfield High, but I put up a good fight, tooth and nail. Dad was like – “you are going to Catholic School.” So I went to Bishop Ahr, and there’s a lot of trauma there. Bishop Ahr the only reason I go by George, because of their rules and standards. I used to go by Matthew at Cooke and Maxson, and I could use Matt on all my papers. Bishop Ahr was the only place where they said “You cannot go by your middle name. You have to go by George.” When I look back at it, it was kind of traumatizing – because that’s not who I am. I already was struggling with my identity. I have to go by this different name. I had been going to Black schools, and now I’m in the minority. There’s maybe 30 black students at this school. Then you are going to school with kids who are into hip hop – saying “what’s up homie?” And you’re like, “Excuse me, what are you talking about?” And they’re like “where’s your posse at?” One time, my history teacher, a white guy, said “if I lived in the 1800s, I would have owned slaves.” And there were three black students in the classroom like, “Did he just say that out his mouth?” Of course I raised my hand like, “Why wouldn’t you have been an abolitionist?” There were white abolitionists back then too. These experiences started to shape my mindset around race in a way.

On the lasting impact of Bishop Ahr trauma:

High school is when I knew that I was leaving New Jersey. I didn’t want to go to Rutgers with the same kids. I threw myself into a Black HBCU in the South. I went Blackity Black. I went to Virginia. I went to the oldest HBCU in the South and I pledged Alpha Phi Alpha. I was going all the way in to get back into Black. My high school experience made me realize – I don’t ever want to not be Black. I don’t even want to not feel Black and be around my people, surrounded by my people. I can do this good work and associate with other groups, but I want to be around my people. This high school experience defined my college experience.

On his start writing in college:

My writing was shaped by Black women professors. When you go to an HBCU, they basically are like I’m your Aunt now. I’m going to be on you, making sure you’re doing the things you need to do. Professor Patricia Murray, who still texts me regularly – she was the first person who challenged me, who saw something in me. She put me on the Honda Campus All Star team, which is basically a Jeopardy challenge between 64 different HBCUs every year. It helped shape who I was as a debater, a thinker, a thought leader. I went to Virginia Union for undergrad and I went to another HBCU – Bowie State – for my master’s. At Bowie State it was Dr Wendy, Dr P, and Dr J who really saw something in me and were like “you’re special and we need to do something with you”. I did my dissertation on emotional intelligence, and I defended it with no speech or notes. I was so nervous, and Dr J was like “you got this. I see something in you that’s different. You’re supposed to change the world.” But that’s what lead me into writing – these amazing Black women professors who don’t just challenge your mind – they challenge every piece of you to be a productive person in society. But the great thing about the professors that I had at the HBCUs is that they were less concerned about assimilation and more concerned with who you were as a person and what you could do to change the world. I’m grateful for that because I didn’t have to assimilate. I didn’t have to dress a certain way. I didn’t have to talk a certain way. They allowed me to just be myself and they allowed that individuality that I have to shine above everything else.

His fears arising from notoriety:

There are fears, for sure. I almost got into a fight at the airport 3 months ago with a man from Iowa who recognized my face in the bathroom. In Iowa, the governor got on television and read an explicit part of my book before saying she would create a law to put anybody in jail who gave my book to a teenager. So my face was all over the screens of televisions in Iowa. This guy recognized me in Wisconsin at the airport and said, “I would never let my three sons read your book.” I said, “Well let them be dumb.” He said, “don’t you call my kids dumb.” “Well I’m calling them dumb because you’re dumb.” I walked out the bathroom and he followed me. I guess because we are authors, they think we’re docile. I took my bookbag off – “I’m from New Jersey. I could knock you the f out.” (laughs). Of course, now he said that I threatened him even though he followed me out of the bathroom. But my grandmother was a fighter at heart. I came from a family that was always fighting. Not just physically but fighting for each other. Fighting for our own growth. Fighting for our own dreams. Together, separately. We always supported each other and pushed each other. Once I got into the world – it’s not an easy place for me these days. Having a book that’s banned, I have security at events. They are shooting up grocery stores – what’s going to stop them from shooting up my book event? I have to think about those things, but I can’t be living in that type of fear every day.

Mayor Adrian O. Mapp presented Johnson with a proclamation from the City of Plainfield, which declared June 24, 2023 as George M. Johnson Day. You can watch that portion of the forum around the 1 hour, 32 minute mark at this link.