Representation Isn’t a Checklist

By Tia Hinz, M.Ed M.A

A Quick Note About Who’s Writing This

Before I go any further, I think it's important to acknowledge who I am in this conversation.

I'm a white, cis woman-ish, neurodivergent, queer human. I hold identities that have been poorly represented in children's literature, and I also hold identities that have been overwhelmingly centered and privileged in publishing and in society.

I also come from immigrant ancestors. But let's be very clear: they were eventually deemed the “right” kind of immigrants. They were European, white, and able to assimilate into whiteness in a way many immigrant communities have never been afforded. My family's immigration story does not mean I understand the experiences of immigrant and refugee families who face racism, xenophobia, language discrimination, or barriers my family did not.

That distinction matters.

I am not here to tell marginalized communities what good representation of their experiences looks like. I can't.

What I can do—as an educator, reader, and someone who chooses many books for children—is recognize that I have a responsibility to pay attention.

I can research. I can listen. I can seek out authors writing from lived experience. I can notice who is missing from my shelves. I can question why I'm choosing one book over another. I can make sure that when I'm learning about experiences outside my own, I'm not only listening to people who look and live like me.

And most importantly, I can be wrong.

If someone from a community tells me that something I thought was wonderful representation doesn't feel representative of their experience, my first instinct should not be to defend the book—or myself.

It should be to listen.

Because inclusion isn't about proving that I'm inclusive.

It's about making room for people to exist fully, imperfectly, joyfully, and authentically—and making sure more people have the opportunity to tell their own stories.

Representation Isn’t a Checklist

I love inclusive children’s books.

I love walking into a library or bookstore and seeing shelves that look more like the world children actually live in—with different races, cultures, disabilities, religions, family structures, genders, languages, bodies, and ways of experiencing it.

We need those books.

But representation is not a scavenger hunt.

It isn’t:

Black character? Check.
Disabled character? Check.
Two moms? Check.
Neurodivergent character? Check.
Different culture? Check.

And then we pat ourselves on the back because our bookshelf is officially ✨diverse✨.

Representation is more complicated than who appears in an illustration.

It matters who gets to exist, who gets to communicate, who gets to be complicated, who gets to experience joy, who gets to save the day—and who gets to tell the story in the first place.

Seeing Yourself in a Story Matters

Children notice who appears in books.

They notice who looks like them.

They notice families that look like theirs.

They notice wheelchairs, hearing aids, skin colors, hair textures, foods, names, and languages.

And they notice when those things are missing.

One of the reasons I care so deeply about inclusive children’s literature is that books are among the first places children begin learning about a world much bigger than themselves.

A child deserves the experience of opening a book and thinking:

That looks like me.

But children also deserve to open a book and think:

I've never experienced that before.

Both matter.

Books can be mirrors that reflect our own lives, but they can also give us a window into someone else's.

And if we're intentionally building inclusive bookshelves, we need both.

But Existing Isn't the Same as Being Represented

Here's where things get complicated.

You can put a disabled character in a book without telling a meaningful disabled story.

You can include a queer family without giving them any depth.

You can draw children with different skin tones while every important character still shares the same cultural perspective.

You can add a neurodivergent character whose sole purpose is to teach everyone else a lesson about kindness.

Technically?

There's representation.

But I think we should ask for more than just the technical.

What role does that character get to play?

Are they the main character?

Do they have a personality beyond their identity?

Are they funny?

Messy?

Annoying?

Brave?

Wrong sometimes?

Do they get to go on adventures?

Do they get to be loved?

Do they get to be ridiculous?

Do they get to exist without having to explain themselves?

Because marginalized characters shouldn't have to earn their place in children's literature by teaching everyone else something.

Sometimes they should get to fight dragons.

Not Every Inclusive Book Needs to Be About Inclusion

This is one of my favorite kinds of representation.

Give me the book where a kid has two dads and the plot is about the ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE decision they made to bring a dinosaur home.

Give me a wheelchair user solving mysteries.

Give me a Black girl flying through space.

Give me an autistic kid obsessed with bugs who discovers something incredible in their backyard.

Give me a trans kid who gets to be a wizard.

Give me families speaking multiple languages while making pancakes on Saturday morning.

Their identities still matter.

But their identities don't have to be the problem the book is trying to solve.

There's an important place for children's books that directly address racism, ableism, homophobia, discrimination, identity, and injustice.

Children need those stories too.

But marginalized children deserve more than books about what the world does to them.

They deserve joy.

They deserve magic.

They deserve silliness.

They deserve boring Tuesday afternoons.

They deserve stories where nothing terrible happens to them because of who they are.

Who Wrote the Story?

This is something I've become increasingly intentional about when choosing books.

Who is telling this story?

That doesn't mean I believe authors can only write characters exactly like themselves. If that were the rule, storytelling would become pretty boring pretty quickly.

But lived experience matters.

Research matters.

Listening matters.

Whose perspective is centered matters.

And when I'm choosing between books—especially books specifically teaching children about an identity, culture, disability, or historical experience—I want to know who created them.

Is someone telling their own community's story?

Did the author work with people from the community they're writing about?

Are we hearing directly from voices that have historically been denied the same opportunities to publish their stories?

Representation isn't only about the characters inside the book.

It also matters who gets their name printed on the cover.

Inclusive Doesn't Mean Perfect

I also don't think we should approach children's literature terrified of getting everything wrong.

No single book can represent an entire community.

There is no singular autistic experience.

No singular queer experience.

No singular Black experience.

No singular Indigenous experience.

No singular immigrant experience.

No singular disabled experience.

Two people with the same identity can read the same book and feel completely differently about its representation.

That's okay.

That's actually another argument for why we need more stories, not one perfect story.

One book shouldn't have to carry the responsibility of representing millions of people.

Build a bookshelf where children encounter a wide range of characters, authors, families, experiences, cultures, and perspectives.

Let those stories disagree with each other.

Let them be complicated.

That's what people are.

Take a Look at Your Bookshelf

If you're an educator, librarian, parent, caregiver, or just someone who buys books for children, I have a challenge for you.

Look at your bookshelf.

Not to count identities.

Instead, ask:

Who gets to be the main character?

Who gets to have adventures?

Who gets to be funny?

Who gets to fall in love?

Who gets to make mistakes?

Who gets to be powerful?

Who gets to experience joy?

Whose families are treated as completely ordinary?

Whose stories only appear when we're teaching about discrimination or history?

Who wrote these books?

And maybe the biggest question:

Who is missing?

That's a very different exercise from checking boxes.

Representation Isn't the Finish Line

Putting diverse books on our shelves matters.

But representation isn't something we accomplish.

There isn't a moment when we can look at a bookshelf and announce:

Great! Inclusion complete! 🎉

Stories keep changing because people keep telling them.

New authors emerge. Children grow up and write the books they wish they'd had. Communities tell their own stories. Publishers take chances on voices that previously weren't given access.

Our bookshelves should keep changing too.

I don't want children to grow up believing there is only one kind of hero, one kind of family, one way to communicate, one way to love, one way to move through the world, or one kind of person whose story is worth telling.

I want them surrounded by stories that quietly—and sometimes very loudly—tell them:

There are so many ways to be human.

And every one of them deserves more than a checkmark.