Views expressed in opinion columns are the author’s own.
For anyone who may have thought the #MeToo movement was stagnating, the last few weeks have proven otherwise. On April 26, Bill Cosby was found guilty on three counts of aggravated indecent assault. On May 4, the Swedish Academy — the organization in charge of awarding the Nobel Prize in Literature — announced there would be no prize given this year, amid investigations of sexual assault within the academy. The next day, revered Latinx author Junot Díaz pulled out of the Sydney Writers’ Festival due to accusations of sexual misconduct.
Last month, I read Díaz’s long New Yorker essay in which he chronicles having been sexually abused as a child. Most notably, he describes the ways he has come face-to-face with what happened to him, and how he is no longer beholden to its effect.
Díaz writes that he is “not who I once was. I’m neither the brother who can’t touch a girl nor the asshole who sleeps around. I’m in therapy twice a week. … I don’t hurt people with my lies or my choices, and wherever I can I make amends; I take responsibility.”
[Read more: After #MeToo, Lefty Driesell’s legacy deserves greater scrutiny]
The aim of the essay, in many ways, seems to be about creating some semblance of closure. In doing so, however, Díaz failed to acknowledge the full scope of his actions.
Last Friday, three women came forward with stories about Díaz abusing and assaulting them. American writer Zinzi Clemmons came forward saying Díaz forcibly kissed her when she was 26; playwright Monica Byrne detailed a meeting with Díaz in which he shouted the word “rape” in her face due to disagreement; writer Carmen Maria Machado has spoken at length about Díaz being aggressive and defensive in public discussions of his work.
These allegations have created cognitive dissonance for many readers of Díaz’s work, leaving us to question to what degree the value of his work remains intact. Undoubtedly, there will continue to be discussions about Díaz’s talent and brilliance as a writer — and how heartbreaking it is for his fans to find out he’s been abusive to women.
Frankly, though, I am tired of the hand-wringing and agonizing that comes with discussions of what to do with “the art of monstrous men” each time allegations come out against an artist I like. The point here isn’t his art. The point is, Díaz has been violent to women. He’s made them feel violated and unsafe.
The merit or cultural importance of his writing doesn’t hold any weight in the discussion of how to deal with the seemingly omnipotent presence of misogyny in the literary world. What matters now is that multiple women have had the courage to come forward — an act of bravery demanding our utmost attention and respect.
The day Díaz withdrew from the Sydney Writers’ Festival, a piece in Jezebel chronicled poet Mary Karr’s continual proclamations of abuse against revered American author David Foster Wallace. What I found to be most interesting about the narratives surrounding both Díaz and Wallace is that their abuse of women is seen as a necessary medium through which to achieve their art; the brilliance of their work justifies their misogyny and abuse. The fact that the abusive artist has become an accepted norm — even an archetype of sorts — within and beyond the literary world is even more alarming.
Bad Feminist author Roxane Gay wrote on Twitter about the claims leveled against Díaz, saying, “I don’t know how fans of this work proceed from here. I do know we need to have a more vigorous conversation [than] simply saying, ‘Junot Díaz is cancelled,’ because that does not cancel misogyny or how the literary community protects powerful men at the expense of women.” Gay’s mentality calls for a re-examination of writers like Díaz and Wallace, one that does not separate the art from the artist in the name of the “brilliance” of their work.
[Read more: Thanks to the #MeToo movement, Maryland is set to mandate consent education]
As for me, I reject the parts of myself and my education that dismiss the pain and trauma of others in the name of “artistic genius” and talent. I reject any pause or questioning I felt when I first read of the allegations against Díaz — and the pause I have when I read about any such behaviors from artists I love or respect.
Now, the only anguish I really feel is for women like Zinzi Clemmons, Monica Byrne and Carmen Maria Machado, who have endured pain and humiliation, and who have lost valuable time in the name of being a voice for all of those who could not speak up. To me, that’s what should have always mattered most.
Sarah Riback is a sophomore English and sociology major. She can be reached at riback.sarah@gmail.com.
