by Chris Perez
Every minute we were in Mexico, Selena’s Spanish jumped up a notch. She got better and better, to the point where I’d have to ask her to slow down so that I could understand what she was saying. Her fluency in Spanish eventually helped her in Los Angeles and Miami as well as in Mexico, because at those concerts the audience was also made up mostly of Spanish-speaking fans who all wanted to hear her music. They came from Mexico, Cuba, Puerto Rico, you name it: the accents were all different, but everyone loved Selena.
It was in Mexico where we had the craziest, most zealous fans. They showed up in numbers we rarely saw at concerts in the U.S., and although we appreciated how completely they had embraced us, sometimes it was overwhelming.
For instance, during one tour in Monterrey, we were playing to tens of thousands of people in an outdoor arena. Suddenly the crowd—too many people, packed in too closely beneath an intensely hot sun, without water or shade—started surging forward. The audience members shoved and pushed against each other as a force of energy moved the crowd forward. People were getting trampled below the stage. Others were climbing up the scaffolding, trying to get to us, especially to Selena.
“Get out of here!” Abraham barked at us. “Now!” He motioned for us to run for the bus, which was parked right behind the stage.
Hearts pounding, we did as we were ordered, leaving Abraham out there to try to intimidate the crowd, make them behave.
Whatever he said didn’t work. The audience started throwing half-empty beer cans at the instruments, equipment, and speakers, the metallic sounds ringing like gunshot even above the noise of people chanting and shouting for us to return.
The arena was enclosed by high walls. There was really only one way in and one way out; all I could think about was what might happen next if the fans rushed around the stage, dodged the barricades, and surrounded our bus. I put my arm around Selena and eyed the height of the wall, considering whether we could manage to jump over it if we climbed on top of the bus.
Finally, Selena shook me off. As daring and courageous as she was, she wasn’t about to just sit there. She knew that the fans were only impatient because they couldn’t see her. She went out onstage and faced the mob. Speaking in Spanish, she asked them to please calm down so that she could sing to them.
The fans always listened to her. They quieted and we went back onstage, fingers crossed that we’d be able to get out of that arena in one piece.
That was how it was in Mexico: exciting, thrilling, and a little scary. We all had to learn as we went—including our promoters. Fame had come to us before we were quite ready for it.
Anytime we played in Monterrey, it was especially crazy, because people here had been listening to Selena’s music from across the border long before she ever came to Mexico. Not only did we do interviews all day, we’d also do afternoon and evening shows. We wouldn’t get a lot of sleep, so everyone was irritable. We didn’t even have time to get out and walk around or see anything of the city. We were too busy doing promotional stops for Capitol EMI.
We were sent from one building to the next, sometimes stopping in a building that had three or four different radio stations in it to do interviews. Then off we’d go to squeeze in a TV show. If we were hungry, we’d hit a drive-through McDonald’s, or maybe we’d get lucky and have half an hour to stop at a seafood place.
Selena wasn’t able to go into those restaurants with us, though, because she was always recognized. Even Ricky, Joe, and I sometimes had trouble. The road crew might be sitting at a table in a restaurant, just relaxing, and then we’d come in and you could see them tense right up because they knew the potential was there for fans to start crowding around the table once they saw us.
We were increasingly popular in the U.S., but in Mexico there was such a constant media storm that the number of fans continued to escalate by the thousands. Our names and photographs appeared in so many magazines that we’d come out of a TV studio or a radio station and have to run to the safety of our two Suburbans as we traveled from one interview to the next.
We did have security guards, but they were there to protect Selena. For the rest of us, it was every man for himself. I was really scared a few times that I would get left behind while the Suburbans roared out of the crowd, but your adrenaline is so high in a situation like that, you just kick into survival mode.
I remember making one particular trek through a crowd wearing a jacket studded with rhinestones. As I ran for the car, a fan tried to grab on to my jacket; there was a big hole in the jacket by the time I made it into the backseat, because the fan had ripped a rhinestone right off. Another time, I had a three-hundred-dollar pair of sunglasses yanked right off my face.
None of this was as bad for me as it was for Selena, though. Even in the U.S., she could hardly leave the bus now. I could step outside and breathe some fresh air. Selena couldn’t do that or she’d be mobbed.
Sometimes, I’d be talking to somebody on the sidewalk below and Selena would open the back window of the bus and start joking around with us. But there was always somebody who seemed to know where we were. We’d hear a shout from up the street, “There’s Selena!” and I’d have to yell at her to make sure the bus windows and door were all tightly closed.
I had another big worry. Oscar Flores, the promoter of our Mexican tour, had insisted that I was to be introduced only as the band’s guitarist. “You and Selena can’t tell anyone you’re married,” he said. “It’ll ruin her image.”
I didn’t feel right about lying to the fans. Plus, it was already difficult enough for me sometimes to believe that we were truly married. For many weeks after the wedding, I couldn’t escape that subterfuge mentality I’d been living with for so long. As it was, I still sometimes walked about two feet away from Selena instead of holding her hand like any other newlywed husband might do.
Selena didn’t like the idea of lying about our marriage either, but Abraham, too, counseled us that this might be the better public image to maintain. He was afraid the fans might not like the idea of a married woman being a lead singer, and it might tarnish Selena’s image as a fresh young talent if she were coupled with someone like me.
Reluctantly, Selena and I agreed at first not to discuss our relationship in public. We knew we were playing in a brand-new game with a new set of rules, and we thought Oscar and Abraham might be right.
Because that time predated Internet news and social media, it was possible to keep our marriage a secret despite the fact that Corpus was so close to Monterrey. Nonetheless, a few rumors continued to circulate about Selena being married. Some people even thought that she must have married Pete, since he sang so many duets with her and they often danced together onstage.
At one point, a journalist asked Selena point blank if she had a boyfriend, and she had to say, “No,” which cut me to the quick. But I went along with it. I understood that the music business was partly about image, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get Selena in front of as many people as possible.
When journalists asked the rest of us if anyone was married or had a girlfriend, we’d all point to A.B., who had been married to his wife Vangie for a while by then and sometimes brought her on tour with his kids. The rest of us came up with pat answers like, “Me? My girlfriend is this band!”
The knowledge that we were hiding our marriage—and our sacred wedding vows—kept eating away at Selena. After a few trips to Mexico, she put a stop to the lies.
“I’m proud to be married to Chris, and I want to tell the world,” she told Abraham when he argued. “Besides, how’s it going to look to our fans if we keep hiding this? It’s only a two-hour drive between Corpus and Monterrey. Somebody’s going to find out, and then it’s going to look really bad.”
From then on, she started saying “yes” to the journalists who asked if rumors that she’d been married were true, and the news seemed only to increase her fans’ affection and admiration.
In the States, too, she talked happily to reporters
about our marriage. She even talked about it when I would rather she didn’t, because I was basically such a private person. At one concert, for instance, she went around introducing all of her band members to the audience as she always did: “This is my brother A.B. on bass, this is my sister Suzette on drums,” and so forth. I don’t know what clued me in, but I knew that Selena was going to introduce me differently on that particular day.
Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t embarrass me, I telegraphed silently. I was still shy about openly discussing our relationship, I suppose because Selena was such a public figure, and I didn’t want people to think I’d married her for any of the wrong reasons—such as fame, sex appeal, or money—as I knew most people would speculate.
Selena tortured me by introducing me last. Then, sure enough, she said, “Last but not least, on the guitar, give it up for my husband, Chris Perez!”
The guys in the audience started booing at this, but Selena just laughed. She wasn’t fazed by their reaction at all. “Oh, come on, if I were married to any of you, you know you wouldn’t be booing!” she said, and at that, everybody went crazy and started laughing, including me.
EIGHT
BLISS, MOSTLY
Courtesy of the author
A month or so into our marriage, I came home one night to find the apartment dark but for a few candles placed here and there. No music played. The television was off.
“Selena?” I called anxiously.
“Here.”
I turned and saw her then, sitting on the couch in the cool darkness. Beyond, the table was set for dinner and something smelled good in the kitchen. “You did all this for me?” I asked.
“For us,” she said.
“What, is it an anniversary I don’t know about?” I teased.
“It’s for us, that’s all,” she said.
We sat down at the table across from each other, and Selena served the meal. But we didn’t really eat, because we started talking so deeply about our feelings.
“I love you, Christopher,” Selena said. She always used my full name whenever things were serious or intense between us. “Let’s never let anything between us change. Promise?” Her voice was as solemn as I’d ever heard it.
“I promise,” I said, and told her how much I loved her, too. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you,” I confessed.
Selena was the first person who had ever gotten me to feel this deeply about anyone or anything. I know that she felt the same way about me. Suddenly, we were both crying, weeping silent, slow tears of joy because we had been lucky enough to find each other, and we knew that we were going to be together forever.
We laughed about it afterward, a little. But we both knew that something magical had happened. Not many people on this earth get to feel what we did. Our love for each other went even more deeply than the bonds of marriage.
Selena had originally rented her apartment in Corpus principally to use as a studio and workspace. Most of the space was dominated by a huge table where Selena did all of her fashion sketches and clothing designs. She also made some of her own clothes there; that girl could do more with rhinestones and a bra than anyone.
Music was Selena’s business, but her real passion was for clothes. She was becoming increasingly passionate about opening her own fashion boutique someday. This wasn’t because she needed the money, but because she loved clothes more than just about anything, and she wanted something in her life that was all her own.
“When I get my hair and nails done, I’ve got to pay for it,” Selena would joke. “I might as well buy my own boutique and salon so that I can get that done for free whenever I want.”
Unlike the rest of Selena’s family, who scoffed at the idea of her actually going through with this fantasy of someday opening a fashion boutique and salon, I loved fantasizing with her about doing that. I could see how important the idea was to her.
I understood that Selena desperately needed an independent, creative outlet—something that wasn’t about her family or even about making music. The business of being an increasingly popular entertainer was starting to wear on her. Selena was typically upbeat, energetic, and ready to do whatever was asked of her on behalf of the band. But, as things heated up and she felt more pressure, she occasionally broke down and cried for no apparent reason. This frightened me because I had no idea what to do when that happened.
The first time I ever witnessed one of Selena’s emotional low points was terrifying, because it was clear evidence of how fragile she really was, and of how much strain she was feeling as the lead singer for Los Dinos and as an entertainer who was beginning to gain momentum internationally. It also frightened me because I didn’t know how to help her.
It happened about a month after Selena and I were married. We were going through our CDs in the living room when Selena found Revenge, one of my Kiss albums.
“What’s this?” she asked, holding it up and making a face at the cover.
“That’s Kiss,” I said. “Check it out.” I had been a huge Kiss fan since childhood, I told her, and my bedroom as a teenager had once been papered in Kiss posters, even on the ceiling.
I tried to talk to her about why I liked this group’s music so much, but Selena wouldn’t listen. This was rare for her; usually she was open-minded about being introduced to any kind of new music, no matter what genre.
“I don’t want this CD in the house,” Selena announced.
“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” she said. “You have to get rid of it.”
“But why?”
Selena held the CD at arm’s length, as if it stank. “It’s the cover,” she said. “I hate it. It’s wicked.”
I frowned at the album cover, which had a gray background and “Kiss” printed in tall black letters, with the word “Revenge” written in what was supposed to look like red blood. It might not have been a pretty cover, but it was striking, and there wasn’t anything particularly horrible about it. “I think you’re tripping,” I said.
Somehow, the conversation blew up into a big argument, since I couldn’t believe Selena would be that irrational, and Selena was being as stubborn as always, insisting that I toss that album cover out immediately.
Finally, I said, “All right. Okay, already! I’ll keep the album, but I’ll just take the cover and throw it out! Will you be satisfied then?”
At that, Selena started crying. Not sniffling, either, but sobbing hard and starting to shake. That’s when I knew that our argument wasn’t just about a CD.
“What is it?” I asked gently. “Talk to me.”
Selena tried to speak, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying, she was crying so hard. She had been standing up and leaning against the wall; now she slowly started sliding down to the floor.
What was going on? I had no idea. All I could think to do was grab her and hold her.
I held Selena close for a long time, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” For what, I didn’t know, but I kept saying it over and over again until she calmed down.
More often than I liked, I was caught between Selena and Abraham. Occasionally I got the raw end of the deal, like the time we were returning from playing at the Colorado State Fair.
It was late at night and we knew we had a long drive ahead of us. By then, we had a crew, a security guy, and a driver for the bus. Everything was in place for us to leave except, of course, Selena. I had gone back to the hotel room to check to see if she was ready to leave, but of course she wasn’t.
“Go back in there and get her to come out,” Abraham commanded.
I did as I was told. “Hey, everybody is at the bus waiting for you,” I said.
“Tell Dad to hold his horses. I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Selena said. “Can you carry this bag out for me and send somebody back for the rest of my stuff?”
I returned to the bus—a much nicer one now than our old tour bus, Big Bertha—and informed Abraham that it would be a
few minutes yet before Selena was ready, but somebody from the road crew could go collect her bags.
Abraham was standing halfway up the bus steps. The rest of the band and the crew were there as well, just sitting in the front of the bus and watching. Abraham gave me a really nasty look, and I thought, Oh, man. Why am I in the middle of this crap? I’ve had enough of this guy. I don’t deserve to be treated this way.
Out of respect for Selena’s father, though, I held my temper. I walked past him and everyone else to put some of Selena’s gear in her bunk.
“Where’s Selena?” Abraham snapped. “Why isn’t she out here with the rest of us?”
I worked to keep my voice calm. “I told you. She said that somebody can come out and get her stuff. She’s a grown-up woman, Abraham. She’ll be here when she’s ready.”
Abraham shot the rest of the way up the bus steps, making a lot of noise, and barreled down the hallway toward me. Startled, I took a step back. I had no idea what Abraham was going to do. I didn’t want to hit him, but I wanted to be ready in case he hit me. I stood perfectly still and let him come at me. I could have pushed him or fought him, and believe me, I thought about it.
Then I stopped myself. What was I doing?
Abraham pulled himself together, too. He slammed shut the door to the bunk room so that nobody else could see us, and gave me a hug. “Sorry, son,” he said. “I’m just in a bad mood because I’m in a hurry.”
“It’s cool, it’s cool,” I said, and that was that.
Or so I thought. I have no idea what Abraham told Selena about this incident to save face, but it must have been some version that made me into the bad guy, because she was angry at me for days.
“You need to apologize for what you did to him,” she lectured.
“He’s the one who needed to apologize, and he did!” I argued.