Junot Diaz, Pulitzer Prize winning author, opens up to me about his family, his life and struggles. The man behind Drown, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and This is How You Lose Her is not usually an open book. On this day he was. Kind of.
I had reached out to Diaz, after he visited USC a few weeks prior. I wanted to interview him then, but he was on a tight schedule. I couldn’t take no for an answer. I searched for his email incessantly and took a leap of faith, hoping he’d reply. (“He’s Dominican and I’m Dominican, he has to do this for me, he just has to, I thought.”) He did. He replied to an email entitled “Dominican Solidarity,” which was an obvious guilt trip.
He was short in his replies, yet the simple fact that he was giving me this opportunity exposed the kind nature perhaps hidden beneath a rough exterior. I made it my business to consume every single piece of public content available about him. I had read each of his books. I already “knew” him, but now I studied him, read and consumed him to the point that it felt like I actually did know him. I inhaled his thoughts and exhaled his ideas; he became something of an obsession.
Three weeks later in late September, we met at the Samuelson Alumni House on Occidental College Campus. That morning, I heard his voice in the background telling an employee, “I’m supposed to meet with someone here.” It took all of the courage inside of me to say, “Hey, I’m over here.” My heart pounded, my mouth dried. I had mulled over what questions I should ask for weeks and finally ended up with questions that were more about him, the man, than they were about him, the artist. I wanted to get to know the man behind the ink, and I wanted to dig under his skin. I wanted him to open up, and I wanted to understand him. Somewhat arrogantly, I decided I was equipped to do this. I also wanted others to have the opportunity to relate to his human side. I wanted them to know that he hurt and struggled, yet had prevailed. I think secretly, I needed to know that, too.
I fully admit that my questions were loaded with projections. They were driven by my need to find solidarity and agreement. I didn’t want to waste this opportunity, I wanted to have him show me perspectives I had not yet fully considered. I am telling you all of this, because what follows is highly subjective and yet produced an intimate conversation that goes to the marrow.
Before we started, he asked to stand because he was having back problems. I wanted to stand, too. He wanted me to be comfortable and insisted I sit, so I sat. The tone had been set. I warned him that I was going to ask personal questions. Immediately, he put his guard up.
I felt a knot in my throat, but had to continue. I kept asking questions, but I also felt more intimidated as the interview went along.
Diaz can be modest and even occasionally self-deprecating, but there’s also an air of arrogance because he knows how smart he is. He uses his intelligence to deflect and uses societal issues to take the focus away from the internal ones. I asked questions packed with preconceived notions that were more like persuasive statements than anything else. I proselytized. Worse, I walked in there with admiration written all over my face.
I was trying to expose his human side but kept acting like he was superhuman.
For being such a vital figure in our community, you’d think the guy would be more boastful. Diaz is the furthest thing from a come mierda I’ve seen in a long time.
I admire his work, I admire the man, but I also see that he’s in pain. I questioned my desire to want to do this. He made me question everything I thought I knew about him and myself. He shook my universe with preachy responses that had a twist of cynicism and sarcasm. Then he’d pacify my internal restlessness with a joke or an empathetic quip (like most Dominican men do). Sometimes he was irritated, sometimes I was disappointed. I questioned him, but was really questioning myself, looking for answers through him. Odd how the mind works. Projection vs. deflection. That was the name of the game.
We spoke about his family. Diaz’ responses were chilling.
My heart began to ache for him as he attempted to be dismissive and aloof about his family’s indifference. He laughed it off and I laughed, too. Until of course, it stopped being funny.
We spoke about his father, too. This was probably the most difficult conversation of all. I couldn’t even replay it without cringing. “Daddy Issues,” I call the piece. I asked a bunch of loaded questions intending to dig deeper, and he caught me: “If you …if people out there think that I need to have a relationship with a dad, that often says that perhaps you’re nervous about your relationship with your dad.” In that moment, my insides shattered. I don’t know who was right or wrong. What I do know is that daddy issues have plagued both of our lives, and we intersected and connected in a moment of opposition and tension in the most uncomfortable way.
For those of us who follow Junot Diaz, we all know that he is an activist who is extremely involved in the community. But I wanted to know how he perceived himself. I wanted to know why he feels so strongly about societal issues like machismo and problems facing immigrants. I wanted to know his real reasons. How and when did this yearning to help the “other” arise? What is it about his life that makes him so passionate about these things?
Facing culture shock, homesickness and confusion at an early age, Diaz immigrated to the United States at six years old from the Dominican Republic. It’s no surprise that he would later empathize and become an advocate for other immigrants as well. I asked him about racism, how he became conscious of it at such a young age. He’s not a come mierda, but he comes across a tad domineering. Ironically, however, there’s an air of modesty amidst the condescension. It’s almost as if he assumes that everyone should just be cognizant. He doesn’t realize that it’s actually a pretty huge deal to be able to see the fine line of injustice in a society that constantly brainwashes you. Or maybe, like he says, consciousness arises from being an immigrant. But so are my aunt, uncle, and cousins. Believe me, it takes a different type of mind to see through the BS.
A recurrent theme of machismo in our society is often highlighted in Diaz’ works of art, which I must admit made me quite curious about his behavior. I think we can all agree that we still live in a patriarchal society. Dominican men (the ones in America, too) are also guilty of upholding this ideology. It’s almost ingrained in them. If you ever get a chance to speak to a group of Dominican women, they’ll tell you, “Dominican men are the worst.” But Diaz is an activist, he should be different, right? I wondered if he was practicing what he’d been preaching. I challenged him, and he snapped back.
After a few heated personal discussions, I wanted to know about his writing process in an attempt to inspire other aspiring writers. I think at this point, he was over the interview. He was a smart-ass, yet his response was a beautiful articulation about the relationship and similarities between writing and dancing Bachata. I wanted to be annoyed, but I couldn’t.
Monstro was a sci-fi novel Diaz was reportedly working on that never came to fruition. I asked him about that, too. He was irritated. I kept poking and prodding. I wanted answers, he wanted to finish.
Finally, I asked Junot, the acclaimed author about Junot, the MIT Professor. What impact does Diaz want to leave on his students?
His frustration was disappointing, but I guess I get it. Junot Diaz is also just a Dominican man when it’s all said and done. I’m selfish. I wanted to bond with him, because I aspire to be great like him. I wanted to know about his dad, because many of our fathers share the same mindset. I wanted to know why he hated bullies. Was he bullied? I was, and so were many other kids. I wanted to know about his family and their reaction to his achievements, because he’s admitted in the past that (although they love him) they don’t care, and I wanted him to know that many of us do.
Our Dominican commonality made me automatically connect to Diaz. I was trying to find hope in his story, and at the same time I felt comfort in his pain because it is another trait we share in common. Pain is a transient emotion that can easily become a trait if it lingers for long enough. The way Diaz describes having “torn that book (Oscar Wao) out of his heart” is the way I felt when I interviewed him. “You go run a marathon for 11 years and see how you feel at the end the race,” he challenged. I was running, after him, selfishly, for answers. He was running away. He is the voice of a people, my people, and I expected him to be different. Perhaps it was I who should’ve been different. Perhaps it was my approach that should’ve and could’ve laid the groundwork for a harmonious, cordial conversation. See, that’s the thing about art though. The most beautiful kinds arise from messy, oftentimes painful complexities. He made me laugh, he made me angry, empathetic, proud, nervous, and ecstatic in a matter of 60 minutes. Diaz ultimately made me question myself and challenged my way of thinking. In the end, isn’t that what it’s all about?
Junot Diaz is in and of himself a complex work of art. Drown, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and This is How You Lose Her are highly acclaimed works, but they are nothing more than a reflection of who he is. And who he is, is where it all began.
Essay & audio production by Karina Cabreja
Editing by Katie Antonsson & Allison Wolfe
Audio Editing by Jonathan Shifflet & Victor Figueroa