It’s been a banner year for Dominic Colón, a Puerto Rican writer and native of the Bronx who bares his HIV status and queer identity openly. What started out a year ago with winning a major award (more on that later) has continued with him scripting a new play for ViiV’s inaugural podcast “Love in Gravity”―which tells stories about Latine people living with HIV. Colón’s blessings have not stopped there. He also received a stellar review from The New York Times for his one-act play Prospect Ave or the Miseducation of Juni Rodriguez, was the cover model and main feature for People Chica, is part of the writer’s room for the new Netflix series Pink Marine, and was just announced as one of this year’s POZ 100.
TheBody was able to see a live reading of Colón’s podcast episode at Teatro Tapia in San Juan during the U.S. Conference on HIV/AIDS (USCHA) in Puerto Rico. And more than being blown away by the starry cast―which included Alexia Garcia, Ana Ortiz, Jason Genao, Pierre Jean Gonzalez, Robin de Jesús, Alyssa Hunter, Ana Macho, and Dominic Colón himself―we were frequently reduced to fits of riotous laughter and tears by Colón’s gorgeous story of a man who comes to terms with being diagnosed with HIV.
It’s a story that is similar to his own, though adapted so that anyone could recognize themselves within it. That point is very important to Colón as well as all Latine people, who account for the second largest rates of HIV transmissions in the U.S. but are often left out of the conversation. Colón and his peers are out to change that by writing their stories into existence.
While taking a break from his busy schedule, he spoke to TheBody about healing, coming to terms with living openly, accepting the lessons of HIV, and his deep love for an Afro-Queer playwright who is also living with HIV, Donja R. Love.
Juan Michael Porter II: I love that there is so much joy in Our Lady of the Six Train even though it’s dealing with HIV.
Dominic Colón: That’s what has led me to this place at 46 years old. It’s not an either-or. For me and so many people I love, comedy was how we survived. And I can’t not bring that to my work, because that’s who I am.
Porter II: How are you 46 and looking this young?
Colón: Lots of facials; good genes; I didn’t drink alcohol for 17 years. My mom just passed away. She was about 80 and she did not look her age either.
Porter II: Thank you for sharing that about your mom. I hope that you’re OK.
Colón: I’m doing my best. I mean, it’s been a lot. She always had health problems but she was always on top of it. But one day it just happened. She passed on May 4, and Mother’s Day was the following Sunday. I got COVID for the first time the day before her wake, so I couldn’t go because I was symptomatic and fucked up. I went to the funeral double-masked and isolated. My birthday was the following Sunday. It’s been hard.
Porter II: As an HIV journalist, I always say that I write part of my pain out as part of a healing process. Is that the same for you?
Colón: It always influences me. In Lady of the Six, the main character’s mom passes, but I wrote that part before my own mom passed. Other elements were things she said to me verbatim. I didn’t tell my mother about my HIV for six years and she said, “I can’t believe you waited six years to tell me,” just like in the play. Performing the podcast live in Puerto Rico and specifically having Ana Ortiz in the role―who is legendary and iconic for all of her work from Ugly Betty to Devious Maids and Love, Victor―it really hit.
That was the hardest role to cast in the podcast. We got Susanna Guzman, who is incredible, for the podcast. But when we were going to L.A., they wanted a cast of L.A. actors. So I went through my Rolodex and was like, “How about Ana Ortiz?” Now I don’t know Ana like that, but she said yes and we clicked right off the bat.
By that point, it had been a month and a half since my mom had passed. So going back, hearing it, being onstage, and looking to my left and seeing Ana there―tears just came to my eyes. I was a mess in L.A. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but I’ve had to step in and perform both times that we’ve done the reading.
Porter II: Was that stressful?
Colón: Part of it is stressful because there are times when I would like to just be a writer and sit back and experience it. But there’s a part of it that’s fun because I like to work with people I care about. Having Robin de Jesús as my best friend and muse, it’s like―“I’m gonna write some fierce shit.” For me to watch him do the work is always fun and inspiring.
What’s nerve-wracking for me is doing Q&As because I am very emotional and it takes nothing for me to cry. So it’s like, “Not only did I just bare my soul in this piece, but now you want to ask me about it?” That freaks me out because I get anxious.
Porter II: I think it takes a lot of bravery to be that open with an audience.
Colón: Thank you. I really try to challenge myself to live from that place because, for a long time, I lived with my guard up. And I think, once you’ve experienced having your guard down, it’s really hard to go back.
Learning to Live Freely With a Little Support
Porter II: How did you gain that freedom?
Colón: It’s trippy because I tested positive in February 2005. So I’m about to be 18 and legal. But I did not talk about it for many years. I could count on two hands the number of people that knew. It was very locked, without a key. And without knowing it, I was 100% killing myself.
I always say that 2011 is when I started recognizing that I could not live this way. I started therapy and started to work on myself and all of the issues that led me to think I didn’t want to live. I did not want to be that way, so I had to take steps to heal. But, you know, healing is not linear. It takes a long time. You’re always in the process of healing.
So in 2011, I told my mom about my HIV status and then I gradually started becoming more comfortable with disclosing to others. But it was still very much, like, “if you need to know.” But then, I would be talking on a panel or something and it would just come out. And there would be people there who know me well, who perhaps did not know. And they’d be like, “Oop!”
I remember having one of those experiences where it was like, “I guess I’m ready.” But what ended up helping me out the most was winning the Write It Out! prize.
[Editor’s note: The Write It Out! prize is the first prize of its kind to be given to a playwright who is living with HIV. It was conceived by Donja R. Love as part of his Write It Out! workshop for writers living with HIV [Colón is the inaugural winner of the prize, which included $5,000 cash and one year of dramaturgical support to assist in writing a new play. The prize follows Love’s belief that people living with HIV can help heal each other by writing out their stories.]
This will sound cocky―I’ve never even spoken about it with Donja―but I knew I was gonna win when I applied. I felt it. And the reason why I applied was because I was like, “OK, you’re gonna win and then you’re gonna come out publicly.”
It was a challenge for myself. “This is what’s gonna happen, this is what you’re gonna do.” So, I got an email that said I was in consideration, and a couple of days later, I got the call. And it was like, “Oh shit! You’re gonna come out publicly.”
Porter II: How did it feel to be so publicly open with your status?
Colón: It’s different when people you’re close to or who interact with know. But now it’s like, Google it and it’s there. It’s just different. And I think that winning forced me to be like, “Aight. This is what it is.”
Porter II: It’s the difference between being OK with something about yourself and being OK with the world knowing it. For me, I tend to overshare my status with just about everyone because I want the world to know that this is what it might mean to have HIV. Because if they associate me with the virus, maybe they’ll stop judging other people who are also living with HIV.
Colón: I love that, and I’m learning [to embrace] that because it’s one of those things that’s out there in the ether. And whenever I talk about it with people, they always give me this look of, “OK. Alright.” It’s so fascinating to me because when I got out of school and was pursuing acting, I was a teaching artist. So, for a very long time, I was directing a youth theatre company that did HIV theatre. That’s actually where I started writing.
I joined the company in 2000 and part of the irony was that while running it and writing HIV plays, I discovered I was HIV positive. Part of working in HIV education involves attending health conferences. And at every conference, there would always be that one speaker who would go up and be like, “HIV is the best thing that ever happened to me.” And I remember being in a place back then of, “Bitch, you lying!” Because that was my experience at that time of being newly diagnosed and angry and not feeling like I could say anything.
But now, having lived through all that I have lived through―having this as part of the person who I am today―this person who I love; knowing that it would have been impossible to become who I am without all of it, I say that [HIV] is one of the greatest gifts that has ever been given to me.
Porter II: In the past, when I’ve heard people say that, I’ve gotten very angry. But listening to you, what I hear is you might not have become who you are without this challenge. In this case, the challenge of processing HIV, overcoming self-loathing, and anger towards the world. There is so much anger that goes into dealing with an HIV diagnosis. And that forces one to confront things from their past.
For people who survive and come through on the other side of that, there is an incredible gift in being able to say, “I am not consumed by hate.” Not everyone gets there. And obviously, I don’t want anyone to have to go through HIV to attain that peace. But those who make it know that they have experienced something that no one else ever will. It’s like surviving a war where everyone is trying to kill you, including yourself. And then learning to forgive and love yourself for all the terrible things you may have done or experienced to survive.
Colón: What you just said is one of the things I am saying in the overall trinity of plays that I’m writing.
Recognizing and Embracing the New Version of Yourself
Porter II: I know you can’t talk about the plays just yet, but can you tell me about what it was like for you to be at the conference this year?
Colón: You know how some people say that writers only write about one thing? I write about what it looks like for people to step into a version of themselves. Doing that is liberating. And for me, being in Puerto Rico, I felt like part of my soul was freed.
Even when I walked into that theatre, it felt almost like my parents and my ancestors were offering me support. And being able to go up and share this story with people I love and fuck with in front of an audience―that was healing. It was reciprocal healing. It was healing for the audience, but I was being healed [as well.]
And being able to see people who I haven’t since leaving HIV education in 2012. That was weird. Like, for many years, I used to always run into Guillermo Chacón, the head of the Latino Commission on AIDS. They would always snap us up to perform at conferences, so to go back into this version of my life was just wild. It was different and beautiful because I didn’t expect “Love and Gravity” to have the impact that it’s been having, and I’m really grateful to be part of it.
And I’m excited for season two of the podcast and for more writers to have the opportunity to share their stories. All of our stories are so different, but everyone can see a bit of themselves in them, even if you’re not specifically from this particular culture.
Porter II: The diaspora is vast. But in a lot of media, we see representation flattened out in a really gross way that lacks genuine flavor.
Colón: Yeah, we don’t get to see ourselves that often. If there’s one thing I’m gonna do, Imma bring the flavor. Like today, I’m starting in a writer’s room for a new show, and I know I’m there to bring the spice. That was very clear from day one. I got it. And that’s important because I feel like people aren’t tryin to fuck with our flava. We’re taught that we have to hold back. But no, we don’t. Fuck that. My prayer every day is to show up as my full self in the writer’s room. I’m in a predominantly white space, and they’re all beautiful people. But it’s still different. And I think most of the time I’m very successful in doing that.
Porter II: What you just said about “showing up as my full self”―that’s Donja R. Love’s constant ministry. And I’m so happy to know that you’re carrying it forth. Because it’s the only way we’re going to save ourselves: not by being less, but by being whole.
Colón: Yeah. I love Donja. I respect Donja. And in ways that he couldn’t even imagine. We’re friends, but let me just say this: There was a time when he was someone I just looked up in the shadows. I was a fan first. And then I was introduced to him at Manhattan Theatre Club because I was working [there] a lot in education.
So when they produced his play, Sugar in Our Wounds, they were looking for a person of color to lead a talkback but they didn’t have a Black man on the education side. And I was like, “They don’t got nobody, so I’m gonna do this.” Now here’s the thing. I hate Q&As on both sides. Doing them and leading them, especially white people–led Q&As because they feel like they have the right to come for you.
At that point, I hadn’t done one in at least five years. But because I was a fan of Donja, I was like, “He’s very special, and I don’t want him to have to go through that.” And no shade, but I was the best option. So we did and it was beautiful, and then we connected after that. He’s actually my inspiration for doing a trilogy because of his Love Trilogy [which explores Black queer love in three different eras]. Because I love and admire how Donja holds space. I love it. I love it. That’s something I aspire to do, and Donja inspires me so much and gives me so much.
Porter II: Did you use part of your Write It Out! prize to write Our Lady of the Six Train? Or was that a separate thing?
Colón: I’m always writing a bunch of things, but with the Write It Out! prize, I am focusing on writing the third play in my trilogy, which is separate from the podcast. So the prize wasn’t just the coin [$5,000 cash], it was also the dramaturgy support. I’m working with Ashley Thomas, she’s fierce.
Porter II: So often you see these services and resources made available to people who are not us―Black and Brown men living with HIV. And I want those people to keep getting those services. I’m rocking and rooting for them. And I would really like to be able to see that same support for our community and for us in particular, the way that Donja has done and continues to do.
Colón: I think that one of my lessons that I’ve learned [from this] is to allow myself to receive help. I was raised to be “go-go-go, the shoe’s gonna drop so you gotta keep going.” And I heard this a while ago―I think it was from Iyanla [Vanzant of Iyanla: Fix My Life]. I’m someone who gives very freely, but you also have to be able to receive help because otherwise, it means that receiving help makes you weaker.
And I feel like that is very correct because the way I was brought up was, “You gotta be strong. You don’t wanna be needing help.” But for the last couple of years, I’ve been willing to say, “Hey. I need this. Hey, I’m not OK. I need you to pick up the phone and call somebody. I need someone to be there for me.” And I’ve also learned that it’s OK to receive a compliment. Compliments have been very hard for me to receive.
That’s another reason why it was so important for me to be in Puerto Rico. There was a point when Ana grabbed me and said, “This is happening because of you. I need you to receive that. You did this.” Then Robin grabbed me later and said the same thing. And I was a mess. But I’m not where I was, but I know that I’m getting better and I’m happy to talk about this because I’m continuing to heal and recognizing that I don’t have to be a strong person all the time. I can allow myself to receive help.