Meet our Contributor
| Mandy Luszeck is an Assistant Professor of English Education at Utah Valley University. She primarily teaches courses in reading methods and Young Adult Literature. She loves that her work requires a current knowledge of the field—essentially giving her the perfect excuse to read as many YA books as she can. Please send suggestions her way: [email protected]. |  |
Confessions of a YA Syllabus by Mandy Luszeck
“Did you know…?”
“Dr. L… did you know…?”
The truth is, I didn’t. Not then.
My first semester teaching Young Adult Literature at Utah Valley University, my students were assigned twenty novels over the course of the term—four of which we read together as a class. Those shared texts anchored our discussions and aligned with course themes: youth voice and identity, belonging and acceptance, realism and “dark matter” in YA, creative nonfiction, multimodal texts, and representation.
That semester, we read Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli, Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds, All Thirteen by Christina Soontornvat, and American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang.
The truth is, I didn’t. Not then.
My first semester teaching Young Adult Literature at Utah Valley University, my students were assigned twenty novels over the course of the term—four of which we read together as a class. Those shared texts anchored our discussions and aligned with course themes: youth voice and identity, belonging and acceptance, realism and “dark matter” in YA, creative nonfiction, multimodal texts, and representation.
That semester, we read Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli, Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds, All Thirteen by Christina Soontornvat, and American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang.
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“Did you know that none of the books we read together have a female protagonist?”
I paused.
No. I hadn’t realized that.
I paused.
No. I hadn’t realized that.
How the Syllabus Happened (and Why It Felt Justified)
My process for selecting those books felt thoughtful—careful, even. I chose texts I enjoyed, ones that moved me, that were accessible in length, and that clearly illustrated the ideas we were unpacking in class. These were books I trusted. Books I had taught, loved, or returned to over time. Books that worked.
They offered a strong youth voice. They sparked discussion. They traveled well across themes. They were critically acclaimed, frequently taught, and familiar enough that I felt confident building a course around them.
What I didn’t do—what I failed to do—was step back and ask what their collective presence was saying.
“But Stargirl…” I began.
“Doesn’t count,” the student said.
And they were right.
Stargirl isn’t the protagonist. She isn’t the narrator. While the story revolves around her, it isn’t about her. It’s about Leo—his identity, his discomfort, his social risk, his growth. Stargirl functions as a catalyst more than a center.
We could argue about technical definitions of protagonist, and perhaps there’s value in that discussion. But the larger point held. When we looked closely at the syllabus—not at individual books, but at the pattern—a gap emerged.
There it was: my confession. The dirty little secret of my YA syllabus.
They offered a strong youth voice. They sparked discussion. They traveled well across themes. They were critically acclaimed, frequently taught, and familiar enough that I felt confident building a course around them.
What I didn’t do—what I failed to do—was step back and ask what their collective presence was saying.
“But Stargirl…” I began.
“Doesn’t count,” the student said.
And they were right.
Stargirl isn’t the protagonist. She isn’t the narrator. While the story revolves around her, it isn’t about her. It’s about Leo—his identity, his discomfort, his social risk, his growth. Stargirl functions as a catalyst more than a center.
We could argue about technical definitions of protagonist, and perhaps there’s value in that discussion. But the larger point held. When we looked closely at the syllabus—not at individual books, but at the pattern—a gap emerged.
There it was: my confession. The dirty little secret of my YA syllabus.
Revisions, Rotations, and the Persistent Gap
| Since that first semester, I’ve changed the core texts we read together. We now read five shared novels instead of four— adding historical fiction (I Must Betray You by Ruta Sepetys). I’ve rotated the opening novel and the graphic novel several times. Currently, students read The Labors of Hercules Beal by Gary D. Schmidt and The Magic Fish by Trung Le Nguyen. And still. I have yet to feature a core class novel with a female protagonist. This isn’t due to a lack of options. My independent reading lists are overflowing with female-centered stories—arguably more than male-centered ones. Nor is this avoidance. I have actively searched. I am searching. What I’m looking for is not just representation, but fit. |    |
The “Safer” Book Myth I Refuse to Carry Forward
I remember, vaguely and uncomfortably, being told in my undergraduate YA literature course that male-protagonist books were “safer” classroom selections. Girls will read “boy books,” the logic went, but boys won’t read “girl books.” This belief—still circulating, still shaping curricula—is often framed as pragmatic rather than ideological (Munson‐Warnken, 2017).
Even then, I questioned it.
Now, I reject it outright.
Boys should read books written by, about, and from the perspectives of girls. They should sit with a new world-view. They should look through the window or walk through the glass door of a different lived experience. Not as an act of charity, but as a matter of literary necessity. Furthermore and fundamentally, stories narrated by and about girls are not “girl” stories—they are human stories.
If YA literature is meant to help young adults understand themselves and others, then avoiding female-centered narratives in shared classroom spaces is not neutral—it is instructional. An unsaid message is being whispered— the message that some stories matter more than others. Some voices are more accepted than others. This isn’t a message I wish to share, nor one I believe.
Even then, I questioned it.
Now, I reject it outright.
Boys should read books written by, about, and from the perspectives of girls. They should sit with a new world-view. They should look through the window or walk through the glass door of a different lived experience. Not as an act of charity, but as a matter of literary necessity. Furthermore and fundamentally, stories narrated by and about girls are not “girl” stories—they are human stories.
If YA literature is meant to help young adults understand themselves and others, then avoiding female-centered narratives in shared classroom spaces is not neutral—it is instructional. An unsaid message is being whispered— the message that some stories matter more than others. Some voices are more accepted than others. This isn’t a message I wish to share, nor one I believe.
The Missing Literature Circle Book
One of the final projects in my course is called The Missing Literature Circle Book. Students are asked to propose the book we should have read—either in addition to or instead of one of our shared class texts. They must identify a gap in our conversations and argue for a book that would have “done it better.”
Over the years, many of these proposals have featured female protagonists.
Now, I am honest about the dirty little secret of my syllabus. I tell students I know there is a gap. I tell them it bothers me. I challenge them to find the book—the one that earns its place on the syllabus not because it is “important,” but because it is excellent and pedagogically necessary.
I keep an open mind. I want to be convinced.
Proposals have included A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle, Divergent by Veronica Roth, Cinder by Marissa Meyer, and others. These are great books. They matter. And yet, so far, none have fully persuaded me that they can do the specific work my current shared texts are doing.
Over the years, many of these proposals have featured female protagonists.
Now, I am honest about the dirty little secret of my syllabus. I tell students I know there is a gap. I tell them it bothers me. I challenge them to find the book—the one that earns its place on the syllabus not because it is “important,” but because it is excellent and pedagogically necessary.
I keep an open mind. I want to be convinced.
Proposals have included A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle, Divergent by Veronica Roth, Cinder by Marissa Meyer, and others. These are great books. They matter. And yet, so far, none have fully persuaded me that they can do the specific work my current shared texts are doing.
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What the Current Core Texts Do (and Why That Matters)
Each book we read together earns its place by carrying distinct instructional goals. Here is what I believe my current novel selection accomplishes:
Book 1: A clear introduction to a youth voice. Beautiful narration. It moves you. Themes of identity and belonging. Clear hallmarks of YA. (The Labors of Hercules Beal by Gary Schmidt)
Book 2: Realistic fiction. An authentic “own voices” story with a unique lens. It invites critique and discomfort. It asks hard questions—especially about what we deem “appropriate” for youth readers. (Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds)
Book 3: Creative nonfiction you can’t put down—it defies the “history book” reputation of nonfiction that lingers from high school.. A compelling narrative of survival and hope. Multiple perspectives. Meticulously researched. (All Thirteen by Christina Soontornvat)
Book 4: A multimodal/ sequential art narrative. Layered storytelling. Elements of speculative fiction or fantasy. Queer representation. Equally beautiful in image and language. (The Magic Fish Trung Le Nguyen)
Book 5: Historical fiction centered on an event rarely taught in Western classrooms. Deeply researched. Structured like a thriller—propulsive, wave-like, impossible to put down. (I Must Betray You by Ruta Sepetys)
This is the bar.
I am not looking for a token replacement. I am looking for a book that can do this work—or disrupt and expand it--with a female protagonist at the center.
Book 1: A clear introduction to a youth voice. Beautiful narration. It moves you. Themes of identity and belonging. Clear hallmarks of YA. (The Labors of Hercules Beal by Gary Schmidt)
Book 2: Realistic fiction. An authentic “own voices” story with a unique lens. It invites critique and discomfort. It asks hard questions—especially about what we deem “appropriate” for youth readers. (Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds)
Book 3: Creative nonfiction you can’t put down—it defies the “history book” reputation of nonfiction that lingers from high school.. A compelling narrative of survival and hope. Multiple perspectives. Meticulously researched. (All Thirteen by Christina Soontornvat)
Book 4: A multimodal/ sequential art narrative. Layered storytelling. Elements of speculative fiction or fantasy. Queer representation. Equally beautiful in image and language. (The Magic Fish Trung Le Nguyen)
Book 5: Historical fiction centered on an event rarely taught in Western classrooms. Deeply researched. Structured like a thriller—propulsive, wave-like, impossible to put down. (I Must Betray You by Ruta Sepetys)
This is the bar.
I am not looking for a token replacement. I am looking for a book that can do this work—or disrupt and expand it--with a female protagonist at the center.
Books I Love (and Why They’re Still on the Long List)
I’ve read incredible books recently centering female protagonists: Firekeeper’s Daughter by Angeline Boulley, Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson, This One Summer by Jillian and Mariko Tamaki.
These books are on my shelf and I talk about them frequently and bring them to class for opening “Book Talks”. They live securely on my long-list for students to choose from for their independent reading.
And still, they don’t feel quite right for our particular shared space and classroom goals.
That tension—the space between loving a book and needing it to do specific curricular work—is where this struggle lives.
These books are on my shelf and I talk about them frequently and bring them to class for opening “Book Talks”. They live securely on my long-list for students to choose from for their independent reading.
And still, they don’t feel quite right for our particular shared space and classroom goals.
That tension—the space between loving a book and needing it to do specific curricular work—is where this struggle lives.
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A Syllabus is a Living Argument
A syllabus is never just a list of books. It is an argument about what matters. About whose stories anchor conversations. About which voices get the weight of collective attention and which are left to independent discovery.
My syllabus is better than it was. It is more intentional. More self-aware.
But it is not finished.
So here is my invitation—really, an earnest request:
What am I missing?
What is the book I need to read?
What is my Missing Literature Circle Book—the one that belongs at the center, not the margins, of a YA classroom?
I am not looking for a perfect replacement for a book I currently center, but for one that can carry the weight of a shared classroom conversation—one that challenges my students, disrupts assumptions, expands their reader identity, and reminds us that YA literature should not only be read, but felt.
Help.
Sincerely,
A YAL professor in constant revision
My syllabus is better than it was. It is more intentional. More self-aware.
But it is not finished.
So here is my invitation—really, an earnest request:
What am I missing?
What is the book I need to read?
What is my Missing Literature Circle Book—the one that belongs at the center, not the margins, of a YA classroom?
I am not looking for a perfect replacement for a book I currently center, but for one that can carry the weight of a shared classroom conversation—one that challenges my students, disrupts assumptions, expands their reader identity, and reminds us that YA literature should not only be read, but felt.
Help.
Sincerely,
A YAL professor in constant revision
References
Munson‐Warnken, M. (2017). The high cost of “girl books” for young adolescent boys. The Reading Teacher, 70(5), 583-593.
Munson‐Warnken, M. (2017). The high cost of “girl books” for young adolescent boys. The Reading Teacher, 70(5), 583-593.
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