Every reader of this magazine knows that Rudine Sims Bishop’s “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors” framework has become a central part of our vocabulary as we evaluate books for children and teenagers. Indeed it is a kind of organizing metaphor in the industry-wide push for a more representative literature that speaks to our complex moment and multi-hued nation. But, as she made clear in Shadow and Substance: Afro-American Experience in Contemporary Children’s Fiction, the 1982 book in which she first spelled out her research and her thinking, her focus was, as the subtitle states, on fiction. Where does nonfiction fit in that image of reflection and wide vista? In Fire Shut Up in My Bones, a powerful memoir by New York Times columnist Charles M. Blow, he writes about the books that spoke to him as a poor, Black, bisexual child: encyclopedias. He did not want to read about himself, he yearned for a ­pathway to a world beyond himself. He was ­desperate for windows. Everyone needs nonfiction, which is simply curiosity explored and set down in print. The universe beckons. When a writer from any and every background believes that every topic is theirs to explore — any aspect of history, science, math, medicine — we will have a true blossoming of the promise of diversity.

That’s a fine image, but where are we now? The heart of the current critique is the assertion that the experiences and worldviews of those who have been abused, mistreated, and silenced are as important as, or more important than, the lives and points of view of those who have been seen as dominant or normative. And it is true that the view from a marginalized individual or group may serve as an indictment or even rejection of a familiar narrative. Taking down a statue is not just removing an icon meant to intimidate; it is an opening to rethinking the entire narrative history of this nation. As James Baldwin put it during his famous debate with William F. Buckley, “When I was growing up, I was taught in American history books that Africa had no history, and neither did I. That I was a savage, about whom the less said the better, who had been saved by Europe, and brought to America. And of course, I believed it. I didn’t have much choice. These were the only books there were.” Baldwin’s experience of history was the same as what Bishop found in children’s fiction: “When children cannot find themselves reflected in the books they read, or when the images they see are distorted, negative, or laughable, they learn a powerful lesson about how they are devalued in the society of which they are a part.”

How does contemporary nonfiction fit with this attention to overturning old narratives, and making the lives of all people central? I am not using the term nonfiction in the Dewey sense — no folklore, poetry, theater, or memoir. In my view, a nonfiction book is one in which whatever is narrated, claimed, or asserted within the book can be checked outside of that book. The book is saying such-and-such took place, or looks like this, or adds up to that, or has these characteristics. Nonfiction can be vividly narrative — it is not confined to lists of facts and can contain speculation — “I believe this is why that happened,” “I think this was her motivation,” “I suspect that was his secret desire.” But those leaps by the author are clearly identified as such. Nonfiction stands or falls on research. The author is making a claim about the world beyond the pages of the book, based on the author’s best effort to validate that claim. Nonfiction is the essence of the other side of Bishop’s formulation: a “window.” She was writing about windows in fiction, yet her words apply equally to nonfiction: children need books “as windows onto reality, not just on imaginary worlds.”

A window, but how clear is the glass? Any historian knows that what we research, and the sense we make of our findings, is influenced by who we are. Does that mean all nonfiction is “relative”? No. If nonfiction were truly “relative,” then Trump’s warped fantasy that COVID-19 would just disappear would be as valid as scientists’ careful study of its structure and spread. The fact that my perspective is limited only means that others are invited to do their own research and reach their own conclusions. Then we can compare the merits of the different studies. A new view may expose gaps in mine, or enhance mine, or prove to be less satisfying than mine. None of us is God with omniscient vision, but that does not mean all accounts are equally valid. And valid to whom?

Do some topics “belong” to people (or are they best discussed by people) who have a direct link to that subject? There are four issues here. Accuracy — is a person with an inherent link to a topic more likely to “get it right,” to be attuned to nuance in the topic or in how the topic is discussed? Emotion — no matter how good a book may be, if it is written by an outsider, what attention must we pay to the reception, including a sense of violation that may be experienced, by some insiders? Fairness — if a topic may bring financial benefit to an author, can work by an “outsider” author be seen as a form of appropriation, as in Jeanine Cummins’s much-debated adult novel American Dirt? Opportunity — since many established authors have advantages of color, class, and standing in the field, should some topics be reserved for authors from underrepresented groups, in order to bring more authors and a wider range of authors to nonfiction?

There may well be aspects of a nonfiction story that are best understood by insiders — which means that any nonfiction writer should seek out those perspectives, as a matter of diligence. Tanya Lee Stone (who is white) won an NAACP Image Award for Courage Has No Color, the True Story of the Triple ­Nickles: America’s First Black Paratroopers because she recovered a history, largely from primary sources, that no one else had written for young people. Now that the Triple Nickles are better known, their story is there for others to explore. The same was true of Steve Sheinkin (also white) writing the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award–winning The Port Chicago 50: Disaster, Mutiny, and the Fight for Civil Rights. When I, a Jewish man, wrote Unsettled: The Problem of Loving Israel, I, of course, read memoirs written by Palestinians and histories by those sympathetic to a Palestinian point of view. In turn, an “insider” writing history must seek out perspectives from ­outsiders — who may well see trends or patterns that are harder to discern from within.

The question of appropriation came up when I wrote Rising Water: The Story of the Thai Cave Rescue. When the book was announced, some felt I was wrong to do it — that the story belonged to the Thai people. I am glad that another account of the events has been written by Thai American author Christina Soontornvat (All Thirteen: The Incredible Cave Rescue of the Thai Boys’ Soccer Team, a 2021 Newbery and Sibert honoree). But the rescue was always an international story — a story of global cooperation in which Chinese volunteers, the United States military, British and Australian cave divers supported by divers from a myriad of nations, and Japanese irrigation specialists, as well as Thai courage and generosity, were all crucial to the operation. I did need to find Thai readers and academic experts to make sure that I was not hampered by my limited language and lack of cultural knowledge. But that was equally true when I hired Chinese and Japanese readers for the same project. Getting to know the language and perspective of the U.S. military was as much of a learning experience for me as coming to understand Thai Buddhism. From my point of view, Rising Water is about internationalism and immigration as much as it is about a cave in Thailand. Yet I realize the matter of “ownership” is not just a question of accuracy but also of emotion.

Some years ago, I met a young blonde German woman who was a scholar of…Yiddish. I flinched and registered something between possessiveness and repulsion. What are you doing, I felt, studying the language of the murdered? But then I paused — she had devoted herself to a language I grew up hearing but chose not to learn. Her scholarship is what matters, not her heritage. I recognized my feelings (and my assumptions), but I honor her devotion and her achievement.

Opportunity: I desperately want more writers from every perspective and of every background to take up nonfiction. I don’t think it would help anyone for established white authors to steer clear of any nonfiction topics; but I do think authors, editors, and publishers should, at every opportunity, look for ways to bring authors from underrepresented groups to youth nonfiction. Ideas, everyone? For such programs to work, we all need to spread the word about the glories of writing nonfiction.

We Need Diverse Books asked my wife, Marina Budhos, who is of mixed Indo-Caribbean and Russian-Jewish background, to serve as a mentor to nonfiction writers, which Marina was eager to do. But it proved very difficult to find writers who wanted to work in the genre. Why is that? On the one hand, fiction has a certain glamour that nonfiction often does not, and the breakthrough books that have gotten press, film deals, and enthusiastic readers have all been novels, so it is understandable that potential authors might not think of nonfiction. And I have heard from African American authors that editors have discouraged them from exploring topics other than “their own” heritage. As Bishop noted in 1982, “When narrowly circumscribed definitions of Afro-American experience are held by publishers and editors, they can limit opportunities for Black authors to make unique contributions. Such definitions also belie the variety and complexity to be found in Afro-American ­experience.” That limitation is simply wrong. It whitens nonfiction, which darkens windows. We need a great many nonfiction writers from all backgrounds to write, to publish, and to develop the confidence to follow their curiosity wherever it leads.

The most recent CCBC statistics on diversity in youth literature show a bit of welcome growth: in 2018 BIPOC authors accounted for only 3.2% of the nonfiction total, in 2019 that reached 10%, and as of late 2020 the percentage had inched up to 11.5%. But as Melissa Manlove, senior editor at Chronicle Books, reported to me, when she assisted in organizing the SCBWI/Smithsonian Nonfiction Workshop, it was far easier to find BIPOC authors who focused on history or social studies than, for example, science, math, or biology, to participate on panels.

As the diversity movement meets nonfiction, I hope one result is that many more authors from all backgrounds decide to write nonfiction — about any topic. I expect there will be questions, resistance, hesitation about some of the subjects I and others tackle. But I hope we all agree to meet at the shore of research, diligence, and craft. We must all use our skills to encourage every young person to follow wherever their interests lead them, and to know that every possible topic belongs to them. Nonfiction is the ladder to the infinite — you can’t be more diverse than that.

From the March/April 2021 issue of The Horn Book Magazine.