“Unlike the 60s, if you protest now you can end up in a hole for life.”

In the documentary I am a noise (2023), Joan Baez made an exercise in honesty by revealing secrets of her existence, such as that at the age of 50 she understood through hypnosis that she had possibly been a child abused by her father, a renowned Mexican scientist, which perhaps explained the anxiety attacks, insomnia, panic attacks and multiple personality disorder that accompanied her throughout her adolescence and youth.

Two years later, the legendary poet, singer, and activist has now published When You See My Mother, Take Her Out to Dance (Seix Barral), a collection of poems written throughout her life by her multiple selves, the young Joans who observed everything around them with a poetic flair. Her mother saved every scrap of her writings and drawings, and one day she decided to dive in there to stumble upon important life experiences. The "queen of protest song" speaks with La Vanguardia online from her home in San Francisco, Woodside.

Since I became a truly complete person, I can no longer write like this, from the magic of other entities within me.”

In this book, your sisters, your mother, your father, your friends appear... Do you feel it is a wonderful way to bring your life together?

Yes, I'm glad it's out. It's only partly written by the adult "me," but they're basically other entities, so it's like appreciating someone else's handwriting. Some people sign their names, others I just recognize, but the fact is, since I became a truly whole person, I can no longer write like that, from the magic of other entities within me, which saddens me. And it makes me happy to read the book.

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Do you publish it as therapy?

I didn't have a goal. I don't remember if someone ever said to me, "Are you going to put this in a book?" But putting it together was crazy: the poetry was everywhere, in the closet, under the bed, in the office, in the storage room. It was a long process. I don't think I realized how profound it was for me and how troubling it was for those "inner people," because I had different reactions. But mostly, I didn't have any, which didn't make sense, considering the nature of the material. It was a challenge. And I didn't realize how challenging until I looked back on it.

What kind of reactions did you have?

Most of it was unconscious. I felt fine, but then, if I didn't feel so good, I thought, "Why is that?" A lot of it had to do with both the movie and the book, and laying out my whole life. Of course, I was going to have reactions like I was in therapy, but I've decided there's no point in going back and doing all the work I've already done in therapy looking for the details; I don't want to put energy into that. I live my life dealing with those issues without going back to that past.

It's no longer strange or bad for a woman to say she prefers to live alone. If I had been able to sustain a relationship, it might have been fine, but I wasn't.

She was briefly married. She's fine on her own...

I've been here for 50 years now. And I think it's something that's becoming more accepted. I mean, it's no longer strange or bad for a woman to say she prefers this. If I'd been able to maintain a relationship, it might have been fine. But I wasn't. So I'm comfortable on my own. And I have friends very close by. My son, for a while at least, has been close by. I have other people on my property who look after me. Living alone for someone who has no connection to the rest of the world is something else. I don't know how I would feel if that were the case.

The book includes an ode to your mother, who came to the US from Scotland at the age of two. And in the final poem, you ask Jussi Björling, the Swedish tenor whom she loved so much, if he sees you, to ask you to dance. Where does this fantasy come from?

To begin with, that continues with Jussi; it's the same for me: of all the opera singers I know, I always come back to him. My mother said he had tears in his voice. And then, when I visited the small museum dedicated to him outside Stockholm, I saw that he was known for that, but we didn't have access to that information; it was simply how we felt. And when I was five or six years old, his music would fill the entire house. And I saw—as it appears in the poem—my mother leaving all her work, all her bustle to take care of all of us... she would give a deep sigh and stop to listen. That's where that fantasy came from. It was her sadness that connected with my mother. Because she, in reality, at that age and living where we lived, wasn't allowed to feel those sadnesses.

I didn't have time.

Exactly. As I talk, I learn more, because I hadn't thought about it that way.

My mother was in that role that many wives end up assuming: they can't do anything, they can't stop their husbands. She couldn't protect us.

Would you say that your lack of self-confidence was triggered by the abuse you suffered as a child, when you weren't even aware of it?

It's that you don't remember during the day what happened at night. You live life like other children... but exhausted. I was so exhausted at school, and I had no idea why. In those situations, you feel different. You don't know why, but you're not part of those other children; they seem like a goal to achieve, but there's no way to achieve it; you feel inferior. It's one of the saddest things that comes from abuse: you don't feel good about yourself. Because you only remember from the time you wake up until the time you go to bed. And it's after that that things happen. So it's complicated because you love your parents. It was harder to forgive. She was in that role that many wives end up assuming, where they can't do anything. They can't stop it or help their children. My mother didn't protect us. She couldn't.

Starting your career at 17, was it a way to escape the darkness?

I think so. It was the same thing that happened to me with drawing. I started when I was five. There's a wonderful drawing I found in the storage room: a girl standing in the wind, the kite going one direction with the wind, and her hair going the other. And I didn't notice that detail until I was over 50. But it's a good drawing. I also drew cows with huge udders, one after the other… with an Indian sitting inside a teepee. But they weren't typical drawings of a girl; they became very sophisticated from a very young age. I spent a lot of time doing that, and yes, it was a form of escape. The next creative outlet was playing the ukulele, which I got when I was 13: day and night, under the blanket, in bed… I played the ukulele. And then I moved on to the guitar. And it was the same. It was a pleasure. And then I realized that, on top of that, I was good at it. My voice didn't develop early. It wasn't until I was 15 or 16. I had a sweet voice, but nothing powerful yet.

Did you sing at home with your sisters?

My older sister was very shy, she didn't participate. But Mimi and I would sit together for long periods of time. There are very few people with whom the voice feels that comfortable. I've only met two other people in my life with whom it was the same. It was organic and flowing. The way we phrased it, everything happened naturally. Then my poor father... he wanted the family to get together and sing carols at Christmas. But we didn't want to sit as a family group. We would do anything to avoid it: sing badly, make a cup of milk, anything, just to avoid it as a family.

The film takes place in the midst of the civil rights movement, and there's no reference to that. But on the other hand, that's how things were around Bob.

I assume you've seen A Complete Unknown , about Bob Dylan (and yourself). What did you think?

Well, the important thing to remember is that it's a movie; the facts aren't the most important thing. Because my friends, in my defense, were checking the facts, and I was like, "It's a movie." Some things are well done, and some aren't. The only problem is that this was happening in the middle of the civil rights movement. It was 1963, and the country was exploding, and there's no reference to that, no context. But on the other hand, that's how things were when you were around Bob; there was nothing else going on, nothing else mattered, which probably explains why I didn't feel comfortable there, among other things.

The authenticity they both convey on stage fascinates the new generations, the generation of falsehoods and impostures.

In that sense, it's been very helpful, yes, they're speechless. And any kid with even the slightest musical sense is amazed by the music in this film. But for me, personally, my visibility is enormous, it's ridiculous. Well, it's fine, it gives me a second life in the eyes of young people, and I love it, because if any kid wants to ask me a question, I'm happy to answer.

You were busy in that United States: Vietnam, civil rights, Martin Luther King... Where are the youth in Trump's America?

We're all in a state of shock. Many are starting to wonder if this is really happening. "What do I do?" The maggots [referring to MAGA (Make America Great Again) supporters] have done so well, just as they planned. Every day there's something new, and it's disgusting, horrible, damaging, cruel. We're figuring out how to stand firm and be decent in these times when even the word "empathy" has become a dirty word: to them, it means pity, weakness. I'm going to work with a group to support the families of deportees, because they've lost the man who brought the money. Communities have been dispersed because, for example, the Latinos who work in this town with me or for me watch Fox News . "Things will be tough for a while, but then they'll be okay," they say. I hand them out little cards, "Know Your Rights," in Spanish on one side and English on the other. “You probably don’t need them, but maybe a friend of yours does,” I tell them.

It's not that a dictatorship is coming. A dictatorship, by another name, is already underway.

He does some groundwork.

It's a constant work of daily awareness of what I can do. And then I want to work with lawyers. Lawyers are our only retaining wall, the only ones doing something that makes sense, that makes a difference. They can still enter prisons, visit deportees. That's all there is for now. And probably in a week, I'll have different options on my Facebook page for things to do, places you can volunteer, to bring people out of that state of paralysis. "I don't know what to do. What do I do?" people tell me. My answer is: anything. Find what speaks to your heart, get up, leave the house, and do it. Whatever it is, as long as it stabilizes you and those around you. The problem now is that the risk is high... I mean, back then we told people, "Come and join the march. If you get arrested, great." When we went to the prison, we sang and gave flowers to the police. And now, when you encourage taking risks, you have to be careful what you say. Someone can end up in a cement hole for life. That's what's happening right now as you and I speak. It's beyond horrifying. It's not a dictatorship coming. A dictatorship, by another name, is already underway.