There Is No Separating An Artist From Their Work
There are books by predators on my shelf. I know this now. They were made by professors who groomed their students, authors that framed sexual harassment as simple off-colour jokes, and big deals who flexed their power over up-and-coming writers. They were written by people who thought that no one would talk about their misdeeds—if someone blew the whistle, readers would ignore the ringing and keep turning pages. I have yet to decide what to do with these books. Selling them for spare change or giving them away to a hole-in-the-wall bookstore feels wrong, because I’d be putting them back into circulation for someone else to pick up. I imagined stuffing them into my backpack for my next camp trip and tossing them one by one onto the crackling fire. My best idea is that I could put them in the recycling bin, so that they will be pulped and pressed and hopefully turned into something better.
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I loved Junot Díaz. Loved him. I excitedly bought his books and pored over his interviews. I remember reading his essay “The Legacy of Childhood Trauma” in The New Yorker and crying in front of my laptop. Soon after that was released, I noticed that there were comments about his suspicious wording in the essay about his emotional problems leading him to hurt women. I read over the portion again and gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though I saw the signs that a shoe was about to drop. Zinzi Clemmons, the writer of What We Lose, soon tweeted that Díaz had cornered her when she invited him to speak at a workshop for issues of representation in literature and forcibly kissed her. She said she was not the only one he has done this to. Carmen Maria Machado, author of Her Body and Other Parties, said that during a Q&A session, Díaz ranted at her for 20 minutes after she had asked about the protagonist’s unhealthy relationship with women in This Is How You Lose Her: “What really struck me was how quickly his veneer of progressivism and geniality fell away; how easily he slid into bullying and misogyny when the endless waves of praise and adoration ceased for a second.” Clemmons, Machado, and other female writers described the behaviour of a man who was bullying, petty, and at times predatory.
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When it comes to the outings of abusers, I’m always disappointed, but rarely shocked. Díaz threw me off. The fact that he had presented himself as such an ally to women and used that to his advantage made it worse. This was a bitter pill to dry-swallow. He didn’t need to be perfect, but I needed him to not be hurtful. I had set the bar so low and watched as someone slid right under it.
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You can’t shake your fists at them while patting them on the back.
When women come out with stories that “tarnish” the sterling reputations of men, they are immediately questioned or dismissed. Knee-jerk defenders will say they are making false accusations, looking for money or looking for attention, even though they have put their careers on the line. When those rebuttals don’t work, then they are simply hysterical, jealous, and vengeful bitches. They will continue to wave off their stories, even when Díaz admitted it himself. He said he hurt women in his own essay. When the bad news started to spread, he said:
I take responsibility for my past. That is the reason I made the decision to tell the truth of my rape and its damaging aftermath. This conversation is important and must continue. I am listening to and learning from women’s stories in this essential and overdue cultural movement. We must continue to teach all men about consent and boundaries.
It's an admission of guilt, without describing the details of his sins. It’s similar to the vague non-apologies sent out by other industry leaders who have been accused of sexual harassment and abuse. They go as far to admit they have caused a problem. They will not say exactly how they did this or how many, but that people ended up hurt. Then, they will say that they are learning and taking this moment as an important life lesson. These passive apologies show that they have forgiven themselves for their misdeeds and you should, too.
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I have heard people cling to the mantra of separating the art from the artist, appreciating their talent while admonishing them for their actions. But the art is never far from the artist when they are still breathing and when they can flourish off of your praise, your money, and your stubborn loyalty. You can’t shake your fists at them while patting them on the back.
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The sad truth about this situation is that Díaz is going to be fine. He is not losing any power or money because of these stories. He is still selling books, teaching students, and sitting on editorial boards. MIT ran an internal investigation and cleared him to teach in the fall semester. The Boston Review released a letter of support for Díaz, saying that they were going to keep him on as a fiction editor because they did not believe the detailed accusations were concerning enough:
… we considered whether, as some have suggested, the complaints point to a larger pattern of abusing power—the kind of star power that has attached to Junot as a successful writer, editor, and public intellectual. On the basis of a careful review of the public complaints, we think not. The events they characterize—including several episodes of aggressiveness in public discussion—are dispersed over a long stretch of time, and do not, as we see it, show the characteristics, repetition, and severity required to establish such a pattern.
... because damage only counts when it’s colossal.
The Boston Review also defended their choice because Díaz chose to support emerging writers who were women of colour: “During his tenure as fiction editor, we have published more than 100 emerging writers, more than two-thirds women, and many of them women of colour and queer writers.” This felt like a strange defense, since his public accusations primarily came from female writers of colour. The Boston Review seemed to be saying it is okay to hurt and belittle women in the community, as long as you get them published, too. Díaz will continue to sell books. He will have fans and loyal defenders. His actions will be brushed off as misunderstandings, small misbehaviours, or as the uncontrollable urges of an artiste. Some might say he’s just an asshole, that he only forcibly kissed one woman and that there are many who have done worse—because damage only counts when it’s colossal. Some might say he’s too much of a genius to give up on.
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It’s okay to mourn your idols. There will be other stories to put on your bookshelf and other writers to admire. Believing victims of abuse is important and talent is not a finite resource.
