Recently overheard at my local bookstore: a woman apologizing for buying The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, saying she knows it’s just YA. This got me thinking about the strange hierarchy we’ve created in the reading world, where somehow reading young adult literature as an adult has become something to be embarrassed about.
Let’s be real – some of the most thought-provoking books of the last decade have been labeled as YA. They tackle complex themes like systemic inequality, moral philosophy, and identity, often with more directness than their “adult” counterparts. Yet there’s this persistent stigma that reading YA somehow makes you less intellectual or sophisticated.
The irony? Many of us proudly display our Harry Potter collections while looking down at adults reading the latest Sarah J. Maas or Leigh Bardugo. We’ll analyze Shakespeare’s plays about teenagers in love but scoff at contemporary young adult romances.
What is it about the YA label that triggers such judgment in the reading community? Is it internalized elitism, or are we just overthinking the whole thing?
