Junot Diaz walks into Ross Hall wearing a dark grey hoodie and an easy smile, wrist casually folded around a mic that would command the room for the next hour or so. I had no idea what to expect, but God, had I been looking forward to it.
The talk begins with a brief introduction, mostly along the lines that this is Junot; he is a Pulitzer Prize-winning author; these are his books; we have waited so long for him to be here. I’ll be honest, I’d only really read his short stories, but one of my best friends was a huge fan, so I guess her passion had always been there, buried in the recess of my mind. And, then he was here, and so I was excited.
There’s a lull over the crowd as he takes the stage, clapping occurring almost on instinct, and he begins to talk.
It gets political almost immediately.
“Build the wall, kill them all” Junot says, quoting a Trump Rally, before launching into a speech about where he is as an artist in this current politically-volatile climate. He takes us from zombies, which according to him are “an important new world figure,” to the omniscience and invisibility of race wars.
Diaz doesn’t just lecture, but rather, he converses. He brings everyone in that audience across from him like we’re sharing something personal like dinner or coffee. Maybe it was because I was front row, but from the evocative responses from all the way back in the balcony, it seemed as if the location was not the case. There is no distance when you see Junot Diaz; he brings you with him to each present syllable.
The Q&A was by far the most interesting part.
“I’d like to open the floor for questions. But, I’d like to hear first from only woman of African American descent.” The silence which follows is expected, alongside the older white woman in the second row’s voice ringing in place of it, which Junot immediately shushes. “No, No, No. every time I ask this question, somebody white is the one to break the silence. But, I wanna hear from my sisters.” The audience laughs, a hesitant sort of sound before a black girl says “Honestly, I don’t think we know what to do with this privilege.” And, isn’t that, I think, the larger problem at hand?
It was a revelation.
I lose track of time sitting there as Junot takes hand after hand of questions and comments about blackness and love and the neoliberalism of college institutions. We get a handful of iconic quotes, such as “If you are at Kenyon you are in a bank” to “Let’s talk about the racialized economy of desire.” I don’t know how he did it, but he brought a wide variety of strangers back together with this topic that essentially divides us. Blackness, whiteness, brownness, Junot reminded us that this identity fixation is a distraction from the bigger topics. Why can’t we love without constraints? Why did the election prove to be such an “astonishing betrayal”? Why are we sitting in this pit of despair and what can we do to get out of it?
I just want to say, Thank You, Junot.
As a person of color, the conversation that occurred over the course of those couple hours wasn’t only necessary but eye-opening. It was like staring into a mirror again, and it especially helped me with reaffirming my brownness in the predominantly white narrative one can encounter here at Kenyon. Here, listening to Junot talk, I felt in the presence of what he described as “brief, vulnerable, instances of utopia” that as people of color, we feel despite the opposing narratives.
Because, above all, despite what hurt I may encounter as a minority, empathy will always be the sweetest solace, and I feel, walking away from Junot Diaz that cool October night, everyone in that room shared a stronger connection with that sort of kindness than they did before.