The Three Times I Met Héctor Tobar
Lessons from a Badass
Life seems to offer itself in cycles. And sometimes, it offers checkpoints in those cycles. Héctor Tobar is one for me. When I first met Héctor, there was no way I could have known that his moments in my life would be bookends to chapters in my life, a momentary touchstone for understanding where I am and where I’m headed.
Fullerton Community College, 2014
One of the many gifts I received from community college was a book, The Barbarian Nurseries. The school had a program called One Book, One Campus, an initiative to unify the school around one book and theme with events and discussions across disciplines. This year, the author of the chosen book visited the campus.
I was a supplemental instructor for a reading course while his novel was the book of the year. I had seen this book all around the place in classrooms, instructor offices, and its cover posted all around campus, and it so happened that my class overlapped with his campus visit. Thankfully, that night the instructor decided to change plans and take the class to the session.
He spoke to us in the old theater across the street from the main campus. He read from parts of his book, The Barbarian Nurseries, explained how his work as a journalist connected to writing a novel, and he gave a sense of what a writer is. In this encounter, I took two things from him.
He shared one of his rules for writing a good book: “At least once per page, you need to be a badass.” His sense about this was that it would compel a reader forward in the book but also help you know when to really turn it on.
Secondly, I took a disagreement from him. He shared that writing is a selfish act because it is so isolated and ostensibly without much impact on the world compared to volunteer work. My young heart disagreed with him immediately. I would journal about it for years after. I refused that writing is a selfish thing with near-zero “real” use. I think he would say differently now, but encountering him at this stage of my life left me with two things: be a badass when you write, and all writing must be done so that it isn’t selfish.
The How, The Why #231, 2018
Years later, I was organizing the next iteration of our national book contest at the cultural center when I remembered Héctor. We had already built a (modest) national presence through this project and now wanted to leverage that reach to find more writers in the area to work with. To help drive this, we chose judges who were local to southern California.
Digging around for names, I remembered the One Book, One Campus program years ago and the night at the Fullerton College theater. I looked him up and found that he lived down the street from us.
At the time of his visit to the college, I didn’t really understand much about “careers” and the story involved with making one. His is amazing, having been a part of the reporting team that covered the ‘92 protests in LA for which he received a Pulitzer, working in Latin America as the Buenos Aires Bureau Chief for the LA Times, and writing books all the while. It was a gift to have his support on the judge panel.
As a thank you, being a start-up, arts nonprofit (read: there is no money), we offered to have the judges on the podcast and help boost their work. Him walking into the cultural center I helped build was a gift I didn’t expect. I felt proud.
In the interview, he shared more about his work writing about the Chilean mine collapse of 2010. The 33 survivors of the collapse elected him as the only author to write and publish their story. How did this happen? What he shared was him getting ready for that moment without knowing it. The survivors were looking for someone who knew Spanish, was a journalist, who had a track record of great storytelling, and who knew the area. His work as a foreign correspondent in Latin America, Pulitzer-prize reporting, and career as a novelist suddenly all came together as the perfect credentials for this work. This book would become Deep Down Dark.
Listening to this episode again I am, firstly, taken back to that exact room that I knew so well, and secondly, I am encouraged to see how amazing life can become. Being entrusted with their stories is a serious thing, and it gives me spirit to wonder what I might be able to do in my life, especially the things for which I am preparing without my knowing. Thirdly, I love how he defines being a badass in this episode. It is rad and with a tender spirit for human beings.
At the end, he told his belief in his students was a source of hope for the world, and I thought back to the comment about selfish writers. Things change.
After the podcast, I walked him out. I thanked him and told him I hope our paths would cross again.
Tobar Podcast Page + Spotify Link
The National Book Festival, 2023
I could not have imagined our next encounter would be in my second life here in DC. I look forward to the National Book Festival every year and relish that I live in a city that offers this.
Looking at the lineup, I found Héctor was touring his new book, Our Migrant Souls: A Meditation on Race and the Meanings and Myths of “Latino”. I wrote him an email just to say hi and that I looked forward to getting my copy signed.
I knew my plan right away. I showed up early, bought a copy of the book at the festival, and snuck into a sneak for his event later that day.
He shared that a part of his inspiration for writing his book came after reading James Baldwin, specifically, The Fire Next Time, and how it is a letter to Baldwin’s nephew. On the stage, he shared that he wanted to write something equally intimate and direct as a letter on how the world sees and understands “Latino.”
I hurried to get to the book signing just after the talk. I was nervous for this next encounter. I felt that odd and somewhat-hilarious pressure to “be cool” about it. What if he didn’t read my email, and I come off too strong? What’s the quickest way to express “it’s been awhile” without being presumptuous? The young man before me took a photo then left, and I approached the table where he sat.
“Hey, Héctor. Can I ask for a throwback to 1888 Center with this one?” as I handed him my copy.
“Oh, of course! And I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your email-”
“-no, no problem. I know you must have a lot going on.”
“To 1888?”
“Yes”
“It really is a beautiful space.”
“It was. It was a beautiful space.”
“Was?” He looked up from signing.
“We tried our best.” He looked back to the book and into a 1000 yard stare. “Some of us carried it into a new project, but the space isn’t there anymore.”
He commented how the pandemic hit so many so hard. “Well, what are you doing now?”
I explained I had started and closed a publishing company between then and now, lived in DC, and was working in leadership development at a think tank.
He looked up. “Here, how’s this? ‘For Trevor…and for 1888 and all you’ve done for book culture. Héctor, 2023.’” He handed it back with a smile.
“Incredible. Thank you, Héctor. Until next time.” I shook his hand and turned to leave with years of my heart full.
More soon,
Trevor
Now-reading affiliate links:
