How to Date a Brown Girl (Black Girl, White Girl or Halfie) by Junot Diaz

So many conflicting feelings about this author.

Junot Díaz is one of those writers whose talent is undeniable, but whose personal history complicates how we approach his work. For years, he was one of my favorite authors. His ability to write sharp, vivid stories full of humor and insight made him a standout voice. But having been cancelled and knowing his troubling behavior toward women has made it hard for me to revisit his work with the same enthusiasm. That said, “How to Date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Halfie” from his debut collection, Drown, is still an incredible piece of short fiction and a prime example of his mastery of the second-person narrative voice.

Similar to other works, the story is framed as a kind of instruction manual, with Yunior, Díaz’s recurring narrator, doling out advice on navigating the racial and gender dynamics of dating. What makes it brilliant is its layering: on one level, it’s funny and sharp, full of energy that grips you right from the start. But on another, it’s an unflinching exploration of race, class, and masculinity in the Dominican diaspora. Yunior’s advice shifts based on the race of the hypothetical girl he’s dating, and in doing so, the story exposes the corrosive effects of Eurocentric beauty standards and racial self-hatred, all legacies of colonialism that still linger. For example, the narrator is caught between rejecting his culture and embracing whiteness: "Run a hand through your hair like the whiteboys do even though the only thing that runs easily through your hair is Africa."

The second-person perspective is key to the story’s impact. It’s not just Yunior speaking to himself or a younger version of himself; it’s also a direct challenge to the reader. The instructions—what to do, how to act, what to hide—are painfully revealing. They pull back the curtain on how deeply Yunior is implicated in the social hierarchies he navigates, reinforcing stereotypes even as he tries to resist them.

What’s most striking is how the story captures the intersectionality of race, gender, and class without ever feeling heavy-handed. Yunior’s behavior shifts depending on the girl’s racial identity, showing how privilege and oppression operate differently in every interaction. The story doesn’t focus on a specific relationship but instead offers an ever-shifting, almost kaleidoscopic look at how Yunior negotiates these dynamics. It’s uncomfortable, raw, and honest in a way that sticks with you.

Despite my complicated feelings about Díaz, this story reminds me why his work has had such a lasting impact. It’s funny, biting, and unapologetically real, delving into the complexities of identity in a way few writers can match. That tension—the brilliance of his art against the flaws of the artist—makes reading him an experience that’s both enriching and unsettling.