Unbreakable: My Story, My Way

by Jenni Rivera

  “Naw, fool,” I responded. “We’re going to jail.”

  They drove us in separate police cars. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. There I was in the back of a police car as the officers stopped by the drive-through of the doughnut shop on Rosecrans and Central. Then they took me to the Compton jail. I sat on the cold, hard floor wondering what the hell I had been thinking. The cops interviewed us and tried to mediate the situation. That’s when I heard Juan say, “Well, the house is mine. It is not your house.” This was the first sign of his being a greedy asshole and was a red flag as to what was to come. I was so fucking pissed at him and even more pissed at myself.

  I called my brother Juan from jail that night. Although I’d probably be released in the next few days, Juan begged my parents to bail me out. He couldn’t bear his sister spending time in jail. Since the O. J. Simpson case, a major change had occurred in the laws regarding domestic violence. Bail amounts were much higher. My parents had to come up with 10 percent of $50,000, plus they put up the title to their house as collateral. Of course I paid my parents the $5,000 back as soon as I could. That’s what I got for being a stupid shit.

  Eventually, Juan and I dropped all charges against each other. I realized that, as in so many incidents before and after, I was at fault. I wasn’t perfect. One of the great things about Juan was that he would forgive and forget easily. We vowed to try harder and to make it work for the sake of our love and the kids. Juan told me that despite our differences and problems, he never wanted to see me with someone else.

  Our efforts worked for a while, until he was arrested and convicted for immigrant smuggling on August 1 of that same year. During his seven months in prison he was transferred from El Centro, California, to Arizona, to Oklahoma, and finally to a correctional facility in Big Spring, Texas. I wanted to make sure I did whatever I could to make those seven months as bearable as possible for him. I loved him. I had to be his gangsta bitch and have his back. During Thanksgiving weekend I bought a plane ticket and flew to Texas to see him. I rented a car, drove in the pouring rain, and got lost on my way to Big Spring. I didn’t care. The only thing on my mind was to surprise him and let him know how much I loved him. I rented a hotel room for the weekend and visited him each day. We talked about what we were going to do when he got out, how we both were going to be better for each other and for ourselves. I told him about how I drove around to the different radio stations to deliver a master copy of “La Chacalosa” to them, but none of them was playing it because I wouldn’t pay off the disc jockeys. He told me not to worry, that that I was going to be a big star one day. He was sure of it.

  Fast-forward two months, to me sitting on the pavement on a street in Compton. Waiting for the three men in the white sports car to drive away. Feeling the pain and shame of what had just happened to me. Hearing the green-eyed monster hissing, “Aren’t you El Cinco’s lady?” and “Leave me the fuck alone,” over and over.

  I sat on that pavement long after I saw their taillights disappear. I wanted to make sure they were really gone. Once I felt that they were never coming back, I lifted myself off the curb and walked over to my car to get myself home.

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I sat there in the darkness, all alone, shattered inside. I didn’t feel like the same Jenni anymore. Ever since I was a little girl, I was a fighter. I could go toe-to-toe with any of the boys from the neighborhood. But my will had been taken away. I was no longer the tough, brave, invincible girl my father and brothers had raised. I had lost my first fight.

  A mixture of fear, sadness, hatred, and deep shame took over me. I relived the trauma in my head over and over, wondering what I could have done differently. Why did I get out of the car? Why hadn’t I been smart enough to memorize their plates? Why didn’t I pull into the gas station on Central Avenue and scream for help? Why didn’t I kick them in the balls as my brothers had taught me? I decided I wouldn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t call the cops. I wouldn’t worry my parents or any of my family members. I wouldn’t dare tell my kids. Instead, I kept it inside and fell into a deep depression, all on my own. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was no longer the intelligent warrior my father was so proud of. That Jenni was gone forever. She had disappeared in the back of that white sports car.

  Juan was released three weeks later, on February 14, 1997. I picked him up around 8:00 p.m. at LAX. I tried my best to hide that I was going through a difficult time. I had been depressed and deeply suffering since the night of the rape. Juan would walk into our bedroom to find me crying inconsolably. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?” he’d say. “You don’t seem happy that I’m back home.”

  “Please be patient with me right now, babe. I need you at this time. I do love you very much. More than you can imagine.”

  What he couldn’t imagine was that I was not the same woman I had been when he first went to jail. He couldn’t imagine how weak my mind was or the trauma I had endured. Holding each other that night, we cried until we fell asleep.

  After a few days, because I felt that it was driving me crazy, I told him what had happened. For years I never told anyone else. Confiding in Juan felt good inside. He embraced me and so badly wanted to help me feel better. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew who I was talking about when I described the man with the green eyes who hissed, “Aren’t you El Cinco’s lady?” But Juan didn’t say a word.

  Soon Juan began a job at Fairchild Fasteners in Torrance. My brother Gus worked there and recommended Juan for a high-paying position. However, since Juan was an alien resident who had committed a serious felony, proceedings for his deportation also began. After analyzing every other option, the attorney we hired advised us that the only way for Juan to avoid deportation would be if he married a US citizen. So what did I do? Right.

  We were married in a civil ceremony at Norwalk City Hall on June 9, 1997. I was with my groom, my three children, and four months pregnant with my fourth child. Juan was excited that we were having a baby. He thought a baby would keep us together. I was not as happy. I thought this would put a halt to the minimal underground success I had attained with my song “Las Malandrinas.” People in the industry assured me that it was a jumping-off point, but then there I went and got pregnant again. Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled about having another baby, I was happy that we were finally experiencing some stability in our relationship.

  A major part of this newfound peace was due to our attending church regularly. We were growing both spiritually and emotionally. I felt that the bond between us was becoming stronger and stronger. I was happy I had married him, although it wasn’t for all the right reasons nor was it under the best of circumstances. I didn’t get the wedding I had always dreamed of, but we planned for one in the near future. Our love, we felt, deserved to be celebrated in a religious ceremony. We needed God’s blessing.

  In the months after we married, we were faithful visitors at the Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday services at Ministerio Logos, a Baptist church where my brother Pete was assistant pastor. Pete and Pastor Mejias taught the Word in a way it had never been taught to me before. My reason for living was a lot clearer, as was my spirituality. I felt that for once in my life I had found peace. I was good. God was good. I learned that He works in mysterious ways to show us His goodness.

  On an unbearably hot Sunday in August of that year, I was headed down the 91 freeway toward our church. Pastor Tin Mejias had asked all the parishioners to make sure we attended on that particular Sunday. He had invited a prophet, Noe Sierra, to preach and deliver the Word of God. Many members of my family were there. My children and I sat in the pew, desperately wanting to hear the positive promises the Lord had for us. I was excited. Little did I know.

  God spoke through him in a powerful and surprising way. He began calling members and visitors of the church up to the altar. He’d say a special prayer for everyone he called forward. He prophesied to many that afternoon. Some would find jobs, some would be healed of illness
es, some would grow spiritually, some would have to make changes to be happier in life . . . Suddenly, he saw Rosie, who was then sixteen, sitting quietly on one of the church pews. He looked at her, pointed her out, and asked her to come forward.

  “The Lord has Word for you, young lady,” he said. “He wants me to tell you that you are special to Him. He loves you.” Rosie began to cry. He looked at her. “No more. It will be over right now, right here.” The prophet had a stern but tender look on his face. “At this moment all chains of sadness and depression shall be broken. You will no longer be tied down by those spirits. Spirit of sexual abuse, exit her life!” I stared in shock. “A spirit of sexual abuse has surrounded your life since you were a little girl. It has saddened and tormented you. You have not been able to be a normal little girl because of it. But God tells me to tell you that it ends here. Sadness, no more. Torment, no more.”

  I was numb, but knew that it truly was the Lord who spoke through the prophet on that unforgettable Sunday morning.

  I don’t know what the rest our family thought that day, but I didn’t want to put my sister in an uncomfortable position. I wouldn’t ask her about what the prophet had said. I knew that sooner or later whatever she was dealing with would come to light. I prayed for her soul that night. I asked God to let me help in any way I could. I asked Him to bless the sister I loved so much. I repeated the prayer I had learned at the rehab center when I was younger: “Dear God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  9

  * * *

  God Never Gives Us More Than We Can Handle

  Through many dangers, toils and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

  And grace will lead me home.

  —from “Amazing Grace”

  “He knows our weaknesses, but He also knows our strengths. If we are going through difficult experiences, trials, or tribulations, it is because God knows we are strong enough to deal with them. He knows we can learn from the experience and hopefully be able to help others who may be experiencing the same problem. God never gives us more than we can handle.” My pastor’s preaching was resounding in my mind on that gloomy September 23, 1997. Pastor Tin had taught me so much about the Word of God and how to apply His teachings to my own life.

  God is good, I thought as I stood in front of the glass door at my brother’s office building on Market Street. I was seven months pregnant and didn’t feel like getting all dressed up for work at the Century 21 office I was working out of in those days. At Pete’s office I could dress more kicked back and wait for the kids to get out of school, which was right down the street. God knows everything, I thought as I rubbed my tummy, feeling my baby kick. Just at that moment I saw Rosie walk down the street toward the office. My beautiful sister, I thought. I loved her so much. Her existence was such a blessing to my life. I could see her hair blowing in the wind as she squinted her eyes because of the sunlight. She looked to be deep in thought about something.

  By the time Rosie walked into the office I was sitting at my desk drinking water, trying to make it to the sixty-four ounces that my gynecologist insisted I drink each day. When Rosie sat in the chair across from me, I sensed something was off. “What’s up, Sister? How was school today?” She sat quietly. She seemed sad as she stared down at the floor. With Rosie you never knew how she was feeling on any given day. She was so quiet sometimes, and she kept to herself.

  “Rosie, what’s wrong? I feel like you have something to say but you’re scared to tell me.” I looked her straight in her beautiful, big brown eyes. “You know you can tell me anything. You can always trust me. I will never judge you.” She still didn’t speak. “Are you holding back on telling me something because I am pregnant? Whatever it is, I can take it, Rosie.” She began crying and my heart broke. “I can take it, Rosie,” I said again as the tears rolled down her face.

  “Yes, I have something to tell you,” she said. “For many years I have wanted to tell you but I couldn’t.” She was sobbing.

  “Yes?” I asked, though I was scared to hear whatever was coming.

  “Since I was seven years old, I was sexually abused. It stopped when I was eleven, but I never had the courage to tell you.”

  My body went numb. I don’t know if my heart started beating faster or if it stopped beating altogether. “By who? Who did it?”

  She brought her hands to her face. She wouldn’t respond.

  “Do I know this person?”

  She nodded her head yes.

  I started to name people and finally she stopped me and said, “Trino.”

  “How? When? Where?” I sobbed. Rosie seemed unready to tell me all the details, but I had no doubt that he had done it. The son of a bitch had committed the unforgivable.

  How could he do this to my sister? He knew how much I loved her. He knew how much she meant to me. Why would he do this?

  Rosie said, “Wait. There is more.” I looked at her face and she said, “Where is Chiquis?”

  I could not breathe. I knew what that meant. I thought my heart could not break any more until that moment. My two babies. How could he have done this to my two baby dolls?

  I dropped to my knees and screamed without pause. I screamed so loud that my parents heard me from the offices of their record label across the street, they heard me at the apartments next door, and all throughout the building. Rosie was terrified of my reaction. She ran outside to meet everyone who had run across the street to see what had happened to me. I ran after her. Then I ran back in the office and back out. I didn’t know what to do. Ramona, my brother Pete’s wife, was the first one on the scene. My brother Lupillo followed her, and then my parents and the employees at the record label and the neighbors at the grocery store next door. I couldn’t speak. It was too much for me to handle. The pain was unbearable. The tough girl I had been all my life was breaking into pieces. I needed more than valor and bravery. I needed direction.

  “God. Dear Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I need you. Please show me what to do. Take this pain from me. I can’t handle this alone. Please don’t abandon me now.” I was shaking, crying, and dying inside.

  Chiquis was at the library, and I sent my sister-in-law Brenda to go get her. Chiquis walked into the office and she seemed to know what was going on right away. She saw the tears. She saw the commotion. I asked everyone to leave the room. I needed to be alone with my daughter. She was only twelve years old, but she was mature beyond her years. She sat in the same chair Rosie had sat in, knowing something was terribly wrong. I sat at my desk across from her.

  “I need you to tell me the truth,” I told her.

  “This is about my daddy, right? It’s about what he does to me.” She spoke in a soft voice; her little sneakers were shaking on the ground.

  I tried to be strong for her. Though I was broken inside, I couldn’t show my baby. “Yes. Don’t be scared. Mommy will understand.” She was so brave as she told me the hell she had been living through since she was seven years old. I hugged my daughter close and kept repeating to her, “Mama is going to fix it. Mama is going to make it okay.”

  Both Chiquis and Rosie told me in detail when, where, how much, how often, and since when it had been happening. Everything. They both knew all about sex. Trino had done it all. He had taken their innocence since the ages of seven and eight. It had gone on for four years each. Where was I? Why hadn’t I figured it out? Why hadn’t they ever told me?

  Suddenly my sadness and pain turned to anger. I ran out of the office looking for my brothers. I wanted to kill Trino that very day. I wanted to beat him with a baseball bat. Lupillo and Juan agreed with me that we should get rid of him ourselves, but Pete, Gus, and our parents told us that was the worst thing we could do.

  Ramona prayed for us to understand that we had to file a police report. We had to do things right. I was too filled
with anger and thoughts of revenge. Fuck the cops. I was going to kill that sick fuck myself. I threw a baseball bat in the trunk of my car. I was on a mission, but then my father pleaded with me not to leave.

  “I don’t want any of my children incarcerated for homicide,” he said. “That’s not in my plans for my family’s life. We have to be civilized and allow this to be dealt with legally. The police will take care of him.”

  My mother echoed his thoughts. “Your father is right. The vengeance is not yours. It is God’s. He will take care of it. Please don’t make this worse than it already is. We cannot suffer more tragedy.”

  My parents’ tears and visible pain held me back.

  We went down to the station to file a police report. I sat in the room with Rosie and then with Chiquis as they told the officers, in detail, what Trino had done to them. It was horrific to listen to, but I had to be strong for them. I had to show them that they were safe and they needed to tell as much as they could remember. Trino had started with Rosie one night after he and I got in a huge fight. After that Trino would come for her every time we had a fight. It was as though he was trying to get back at me through my beloved sister. I couldn’t breathe thinking back on all the fights we had through the years and the fear Rosie must have been feeling each time. The guilt was crushing me. Trino had told Rosie that he would kill me and our whole family if she ever told anyone, so she stayed quiet. He stopped with her once she developed pubic hair, which apparently grossed him out, she said. And that’s when he started on Chiquis, or so we thought. Chiquis could remember it starting at seven, but afterward I took the girls for physical examinations and the evidence suggested that he had molested her as early as two years old. I had my second daughter, Jacqie, examined as well, and there was the same evidence, though thankfully Jacqie had no recollection of any abuse. I truly believe that God protected her from the trauma.

  When we got back to our house in Compton, Chiquis told me why she’d never confessed what had been happening to her. “I knew you would kill him. I know you, Mom. Then I wouldn’t have a mommy or a daddy. He would be dead and you would be in jail. I learned to forgive my daddy for what he would do to me. Pastor Tin would say that God wants us to forgive. That’s what I learned from church, Mommy.”