“Flaca” isn’t the real name of the woman in this story. It’s the nickname given to her by her boyfriend. It’s an interesting claim of possession, to rename the person you are in a relationship with. Especially interesting in the case of the Diaz story, where there are hints enough that our hero doesn’t want to be in possession of what he has tried to take over. As if being possessive is a reflex and the object of the reflex doesn’t matter as much.
Here’s the most shocking sentence in the story: “You were whitetrash from outside of Patterson and it showed in your no-fashion-sense and you’d dated niggers a lot.”
I liked the touch that they met in their Joyce class. And the ethnic bit that Veronica (her real name), who is a teacher, has a new student whose mother says she has “the touch”. How many worlds is Diaz, who teaches at MIT, living in, I wonder? How many worlds are his stories living in? “You were the white girl who danced bachata…” I had to look up “bachata” Here’s the link: bachata . I would probably love this music.
When Veronica wants to talk to Yunior in Spanish, Yunior insists that she stop. He wants to get together with others. She has to fight to win alone time with him. as if some one-to-one is a rare prize.
Not wanting to let go but not wanting to get hurt either. That impossible emotional space. “What can I tell you?” is the guy’s sublime reply. Diaz writes that if nothing is thrown and nothing is said that’s remembered for years, that’s the most that can be hoped for. Wow. I’ve heard of brush-offs but that is smooth. The knife may be ice-cold but it’s sharp.
Spruce Run: Recollection of a couple of trips to this New Jersey recreational area finish off the story. The outstanding finesse that I’ve come to expect from Diaz is shown by these trips. “Flaca” remembers every childhood trip that she has made to the place and in which months.
Yunior can barely remember that he went. It’s like two old friends have a conversation years ago, and one person remembers every word that was said and the other barely remembers that the encounter took place.
It’s like what happened to me in the White Horse Tavern. I was with Steven, my closest friend at the time. That summer, Steve dies on a Los Angeles freeway and I’m the only one of my friends in the bar who remembered that he was present or even who he was. What you remember, what you forget, there can be a clash between people which shows how emotional distance can be defined. Diaz uses that cognitive dissonance to separate Yunior and Flaca emotionally before they are divided physically.
I’ve been arbitrarily reviewing the odd-numbered stories in This Is How You Lose Her. But I’ve been reading them all. Some of the even-numbered stories are my favorites. I especially liked “Otravida, Otravez” where Diaz gives us a break from the male ego and tells the story from the point of view of the woman.
In that connection a line of dialogue from the 1978 TV series Dallas comes to mind. Perhaps my favorite line in the show. Long-suffering wife Sue Ellen says to her rival for her husband JR’s affection: “If you’re so smart, how come you’re the mistress”. It’s not strictly relevant but that’s what I thought of when I read “Otravida, Otravez”.
