by Perez, Rosie
“Sorry. We cool. Right?”
“Yeah, Rick. We cool. Sorry ’bout that too.”
He gave me a pound like I was one of his boys, and that was that—crazy world of hip-hop.
While on tour, I was notified that Do the Right Thing was finally premiering. And the timing worked out, we had dates in New York. I got excited and in a split-second panicked. All I kept thinking was that all these rappers, everyone, was going to see those damn ice cubes on my big-ass breasts. I told Todd about the premiere during dinner at this Creole restaurant in New Orleans. (He would take all of us out to dinner from time to time to really nice restaurants.) I also told him about the nude scene. He just started laughing.
“Oh shit. Your man knows about them ice cubes?”
“Oh my goodness, I never told Ramier!”
“He’s gonna know now! Hey, I’m just playing with you. That’s a good look. I’m happy for you.”
• • •
When I got back to New York for the premiere, I was shocked to find out that Ramier had gotten locked up for selling narcotics. Say what? I had no idea that he was involved in drug dealing, honestly. I was devastated. Puffy heard the news.
“Yo, Money, lemme go with you. We could both dress in white and blow that red carpet up!”
“I couldn’t do that to Ramier.”
“Nah, nah, nothing like that. Ramier’s my boy. I just want to go to the premiere. It’s a good look.”
So I had four tickets, and I went to my very first premiere with Puffy along with two of my half-sisters, Kathy and Amy—and no, I didn’t wear white.
Carmen didn’t want to go. Dad couldn’t go, and Tia was in L.A. I invited my mother. She didn’t want to go either. My brother, the one who tried to molest me, the one who stole my money and plane ticket, wanted to go. He didn’t even ask me if he could go. When I went to Lydia’s to pick up my sisters, he just jumped into the limo the day of, all dressed to the nines—can you believe it? I told him I didn’t have an extra ticket, which was true, but he and everyone else didn’t believe me, made me feel like I was fucked up when I told him he couldn’t come. Leaving my mother’s house in the limo with my two sisters, I started to get upset. I felt so bad and guilty.
Sitting in the dark theater, I was blown away by the magic of filmmaking. I knew that this was my new path, and I wanted to give it my all. I didn’t want to give up on choreographing either, I did love it, but my new focus was movies. I told Tia, who was still concerned about my schooling. My father was happy, but concerned too. Not about me wanting to become an actor—he was over the moon about that—but about my breasts being splattered on the big screen for all to see.
I had never told him. How are you going to tell your father something like that? What was worse is that he had invited the entire town of Aguadilla, all his friends and our family pastor, to the local theater to watch the film! When the ice-cube scene came on, my father gasped, jumped up, grabbed his heart, and fell out cold—no lie! He was taken away in an ambulance. I felt horrible. I flew down immediately.
God bless America three times that it really wasn’t a heart attack but a panic attack. He still milked it for days! While lying helpless on the couch, he told me, “Let’s make a deal. Next time you do something like that, do it with class and let me know by saying you’re in an … ‘artistic’ film.”
CHAPTER 26
I GOT rave reviews!
Everything changed. Everything. I found myself very uncomfortable and conflicted about the attention and the fame that came with it. I love my fans, and it’s great when I hear them say that they appreciate my work, truly! I mean, without an audience loving what you do, what’s the point? But I wasn’t prepared to deal with all of the new “friends.” I wasn’t prepared for how those I knew and those I didn’t began to treat me differently too. Most important, I didn’t like being stared at, pointed out, and talked about as if I weren’t standing in front of the person or group that was doing any or all of this. It drove me crazy. I acted as if I was handling it, but inside I was a bundle of nerves.
The strangest reaction to everything was Lydia’s. Boy, did she jump on the bandwagon. When I saw her after all of the hoopla of Do the Right Thing, she was so kind and nice with me and I fell for it. I still kept somewhat of a distance, but when I did go over to see her, I relished in her attention. When I would slip her cash, she acted so humble about it, telling me she loved me so much and that I was a great daughter. Okay. I didn’t fall for all of that stuff, but still I liked the fact that she was liking me a whole lot more than before.
And on top of everything else, there was dealing with the press. Oy vey!
A lot of the media jumped on the image I had portrayed in Do the Right Thing, labeling me as street and tough. Their racism pissed me off. Attention, all racists! Not all people who are poor are street and tough! We are many things, just like everyone else! Not an interview was done with me that they didn’t perpetuate that persona immediately.
“How does it feel to come from the hard-core, dirty streets and now be part of Hollywood?”
“Don’t you think it’s a fluke, someone like you, to be in the movies?”
“You really went to college to study bio-chem? That’s unbelievable!”
It was so disrespectful. And when I would get upset over their lack of respect, they had a field day confirming their opinions.
This hurt me career-wise tremendously. Yes, my accent was strong, yes, I was Brooklyn, yes, I was poor, but did that mean I should be limited to only playing unintelligent, downtrodden, and humiliating stereotypes?
I wasn’t going to let them win either. I told one of my representatives at the time that we had to fight this: she needed to get me a shot at those Jessica Lange—type roles—love her! She patronizingly told me I was far from Ms. Lange—okay, probably true—and that I shouldn’t expect too much. Well, forget that. She further suggested that I try to sound less ethnic. “Yes, that, and, well, if you change your hair color, maybe a little nip.”
“You mean look less ethnic too?”
She shrugged her shoulders, “Everyone does it.” Now, I have no problems with plastic surgery—it’s the new mascara—but for these reasons? Come on, people!
Turning down work was tough. But I stayed strong. The only other role I could even consider after Do the Right Thing was playing a crackhead ho for HBO’s Criminal Justice, also starring Anthony LaPaglia, Jennifer Grey, and Forest Whitaker. I agreed to it since my character was a co-lead, and more important, the story was politically and socially worthwhile.
Jennifer Grey couldn’t believe what I had to deal with. She introduced me to her agent, Jane Berliner, at CAA, over the phone. I simply told Jane I wanted access to the same opportunities that everyone else had. Get me a shot and I’ll do beyond my very best to get the work. She signed me immediately, over the damn phone! Being with CAA gave me a new power and entrée into the rooms I needed to be in—the momentum was building. Yay!
Criminal Justice debuted on HBO. I got rave reviews once again—holla! And my popularity increased. That was good and bad. The press started in again asking a million personal questions. I never lied about being poor, being on welfare, being from Brooklyn, being a love child, and not being raised by my mother but by my aunt. Yes, I did leave out any mention of the Home and the Group Home. I wasn’t ready to go there. I knew that if and when the press found out, they would descend like vultures and further perpetuate this uneducated-street-urchin image they had conjured up. But honestly, I held back because I didn’t have the emotional strength yet to lay out years of abuse for the entire world to see. Who does in their early twenties? Shit, who does even after thirty?
Since I had left the system, I had made a new start. I was having great fun and on my way to the type of life I’ve always worked for. I wasn’t the girl from the Home who was to be pitied, who was less than because her parents gave her up. I had a sense of self that wasn’t so wounded and was getting stronger. I didn’t want t
o lose that. It would break my spirit. Plus, it was my right to keep that information private. And don’t give me that crap about being in front of the camera—that it comes with the job. Bullshit. That’s some Jedi mind trick invented by yellow journalism.
It was an effort to fight for those good roles and to keep the press at bay by telling humorous stories and staying on topic in all the interviews about the work. And it was working. The press stopped asking about my past and I got the attention of the major studios and independent industries. They started to see more than just my ethnicity—yay!
Then I made a really bad decision. As I’ve said, Lydia came a-calling, acting like she was the best mother ever, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. So much so that when a television show celebrating Latin celebrities wanted to do a profile on my mother and me, I jumped at the chance. I subconsciously wanted to be perceived as someone who’d always had that supportive mom like normal people did—the same bullshit I had worried about in the Home and the Group Home.
The interview was done in Carmen’s house. When the cameras began rolling, Lydia went on a tirade about herself and how her dreams of being a singer were squashed, how my father was a piece of shit to her, and blah, blah, blah. Nothing was said about her support for me—or about me at all for that matter. How could she? The interviewer, who was also the main producer, Rosanna Rosario, who is now head of El Diario newspaper, kept trying to guide the discussion back to me, asking Lydia if she had brought any pictures of me throughout the years. There weren’t any pictures to be shown; there weren’t any wonderful stories about our mother-daughter bond since there wasn’t any such bond whatsoever.
Making it even worse, when the interviewer tried to steer the conversation back to my budding new career, Lydia started talking incoherently to the walls. I wasn’t in the room—Carmen came running and told me what was going on. The interviewer, the whole crew, felt so embarrassed for me that they called it a wrap. Hurt? Yes. Embarrassed? Beyond. But defeated? No.
The great thing is that the producers never aired my mother’s interview—God bless America two times. They just aired the stuff they recorded with me. Rosanna Rosario told me that it wasn’t their agenda to exploit what had happened that day, it was about the bigger picture of promoting Latinos who were making it in the industry without compromise. “We have to look out for each other,” she said. The scandalous story had no place in their news special—cool! Ooh, Lydia was steaming mad that she didn’t make the cut. That’s when the tension between her and me kicked in all over again. But, I was still happy that they didn’t abuse the situation. I did have some friends—people in the press, even a few paparazzi, who did have integrity and wanted to make the world better.
• • •
After numerous red carpet appearances, I began to get bored with it all. Seriously. Okay, not so much bored, but anxious. Yes, I loved going to movie premieres and openings of plays, but getting all done up, worrying about what to wear, was too much—it wasn’t fun anymore. Then it hit me. The red carpet could be a gift, not just an anxiety attack or an entity to be wary of. It wasn’t just about my career and me. I had to see beyond the glitz and see how I could use the press for good.
The rewards were immediate. Outside of feeling good in my soul, a blessing came my way while I was choreographing a charity event for Arsenio Hall for AIDS. It was held at a high school gym. I went down to the locker room in the basement after the halftime performance to change. Who do I run into? Don freaking Cornelius! He was walking straight to me. I froze. Then I started to turn the other way. “Hold on, Rosie. Come here … Please.” I turn back around. “Look,” he said, “I once said you didn’t have any talent. And you proved me wrong. Seriously. You really did a great job in Do the Right Thing, and I’m sorry.” “Ah, that’s okay, Don. I’m sorry too, for the chicken thing.” He laughed and then held out his arms to hug me! Can you believe it? It was the best! We saw each other every now and then, and I was very sad when he passed. I’m so glad we made peace.
It was the early ’90s. I began to dive into the charity scene really hard now. I began volunteering for the Gay Men’s Health Crisis Center and advocating for better education in the public school system. Things were going well with me, career wise, and in the relationship department.
After Ramier, I began dating Robbie, Marion’s friend. The first day we met, which led to our first spontaneous date, I knew Robbie was gay. After that date, we just stayed friends, but eventually became a couple … that never had sex. I know. But he was gay. Being African American and from a well-to-do family from the South, he was beyond closeted and lived the life of a straight man. He never admitted it, never mentioned being gay, and I never asked. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I felt that it was his business to share with me. Maybe I fell too deeply for his kind, considerate, gentlemanly ways. Maybe I needed someone that felt safe, that I felt respected and loved by. I moved in with him. We never did it, honestly. But we were intimate in a way that was very loving. Eventually, he gave me my own room so that I could sleep better—he snored. Okay, it was because he was homosexual but who’s counting. I knew he couldn’t last like this. His clandestine late-night escapades got in the way of our trusting bond, and I finally let go, but we remained close friends.
A few years later, Robbie was dying of AIDS. Man that killed me. Why him? Why anyone? I’d really dedicated myself to the fight against AIDS and became a so-called AIDS activist while still working with kids and education. Why AIDS? I don’t know. I just felt this heavy compulsion in my heart to do so. Laurie Fabiano, who was head of the Gay Men’s Health Crisis, asked me to attend an AIDS dance-a-thon, and Robbie saw me on the press line from his bed. He rang me up.
“Hey. Listen, I appreciate all you’re doing, but make sure you’re not doing it to promote your career, don’t do us any favors.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you! I know you spent hours on your hair!”
“True. But what does that have to do with the price of eggs?”
“I just don’t want you to be like those other celebrities. If you’re going to fight for us, do it for the cause, not for the cameras.”
Wow. Besides being thrown by what he said, I was worried by how different he sounded, so weak and upset. I went to see him to make sure he was okay. I had not seen him in about a year. I tried to conceal my shock and heartbreak when I saw the devastating toll that AIDS had taken on his body. You hear about it, we talk about it, but when you see AIDS up close and personal, it’s a whole other thing. I promised him I would fight, hard and honestly.
I put all my energy into it. I wore the red ribbon at every event, on every step and repeat, and used the microphone to spread the word. I showed up at almost every dance-a-thon, every walk-a-thon, and countless rallies and protest. I wrote editorials. I visited hospitals, hugged AIDS patients, told them jokes to make their day brighter, and gave speeches at high schools, ranting on about safe sex. I volunteered for days and hours at the GMHC headquarters, following Laurie Fabiano around at the GMHC learning everything I could about advocacy and the politics surrounding HIV/AIDS.
I went up to Albany with her and screamed at lobbyists, always with the haunting visual of dear Robbie pushing me on. I listened to Laurie when she chastised me for making mistakes now and then—like the time I put my foot in my mouth when we stormed city hall. The sound bite that all activists were told to say was, “If Mayor Giuliani cuts DAS [Division of AIDS Services], he’ll be cutting off his nose to spite his face.” I was so hyped up and nervous, especially since Susan Sarandon (love) was standing right next to me, that when the camera got into my face I yelled, “If Giuliani cuts DAS, he’ll cut his face!” Or something stupid like that. Boy, that didn’t go over well. And NY1 played it over and over. But it made headlines, and DAS wasn’t cut.
On and on I went, never stopping, even when I wanted to. Odd to say, all this activism gave back to me. It brought a light to my soul that I cannot describe. I was always made fun
of for my need to be nice, to be a do-gooder, for wanting to make the world a nicer place, and here was that opportunity, through Robbie’s simple challenge. It made me appreciate Nigel, Beth, Miss Connie, Grace, and many others who had given back to me, making my life better. This opened me up to many different causes that spoke to my heart as well—like stopping violence against women. AIDS activism unknowingly began another career for me—a career of advocacy and activism that has stayed with me to this day.
Sadly, Robbie passed away from the disease. My heart hurt like never before. And I will always keep fighting until there is a cure.
• • •
From all of the choreographing jobs, especially LL Cool J’s tour, I had enough money to finally move out of the damn Jungle and was ready to buy my very first house! Yay! I wanted to make sure there was enough room for Tia and me. I told her I wanted her to live with me, and when I made more money, I’d buy her a house of her own. She refused! I kept begging and begging until she exploded, “Ay, don’t keep being irritating, please! I keep telling you, that’s your money. I’m okay. Plus, I don’t want to leave my grandkids. You know how their mothers are.”
I was hurt. I wanted to take care of that stubborn woman. I got the house for myself and got her a nice apartment but had her believing it was Titi’s—yes, Titi, the heroin addict. We had made peace. After she contracted hepatitis from dirty needles, she got sober and became a different person. Titi told Tia that the apartment was only $200 and she could afford it. Tia bought the lie and I kept paying for it on the sly. Unfortunately, Titi’s hepatitis worsened and eventually she died from the disease. It was so sad. Everyone took it hard, especially Tia. I really wanted to take care of her better, even more now. Still, she refused to move in with me. “Why?” She left the apartment and moved into an assisted living building that Millie, who was on disability, had moved into. Jeez! Of course I took care of her, but I still had to lie about it.