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CONTENTS
Epigraph
1. Bicycles and Garages
2. The Swap Meet Princess
3. The House on Fifty-Fifth Street
4. A Day at the Beach
5. Playing House
6. When the Bomb Goes Off
7. No Quinceañera, No Sweet Sixteen
8. I Am the Air Force
9. More Kissing than Time in Bed
10. How to Judge a Broken Heart
11. On Your Knees Before God
12. Cold Feet, Warm Heart
13. Long Live the Newlyweds!
14. Dancing with Jealousy
15. Grabbing Rumors by the Horns
16. Too Much Sugar
17. The Day I Lost My Mother
18. Sometimes You Have to Be Cruel . . .
19. When a Butterfly Flies Away
20. Graduating with Honors
21. Pieces of My Heart
22. Dust in the Soul
23. The Damn Video
24. Happy Birthday, Mom
25. “White Dove”
26. Don’t Worry
Epilogue
A Letter to My Mother
Photographs
Acknowledgments
Do You Need Help?
About Chiquis Rivera and Janney Marin Rivera
I dedicate this book, with all my heart, to my great love, God. You have never turned your back on me nor forsaken me, even when I deserved it. I can feel that I’m missing my mother or my father in this world, but I am never lacking in You.
You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.
—ANNE LAMOTT, BIRD BY BIRD
I lost my mother on October 2, 2012. Another date on my calendar. And there’s no delete button to erase it from my heart.
My family, her fans and the whole world said good-bye to Jenni Rivera on December 9 of that same year, but I lost her first, on that strange Tuesday earlier in the fall. That was the moment when my pain and mourning began. The heaviest weight I’ve had to bear thus far.
I remember our final meeting down to the last detail. The clock showed it was nine in the morning. We’d be seeing each other soon in Long Beach, our sweet old Long Beach.
1.
BICYCLES AND GARAGES
I think it was winter, judging by the freezing wind hitting my cheeks. Though it’s hard to be sure in Long Beach—with the mist blowing in off the Pacific, the mornings were always overcast and that chilly humidity soaked into your bones. What I do remember with perfect clarity is the bike: one of those cheap beach cruisers. I rode in the back, in the child seat, wrapped up like a tamale in my coat, my hat and I don’t know how many sweaters, with my chubby cheeks getting flushed in the wind.
This is the first mental picture I have of my mother: pedaling hard, hands firmly gripping the handlebars, her dark, coffee-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail and her head held high. It was 1989. I had just turned three, she was eighteen and our car had just been stolen.
“It’s okay, baby, we’re almost there. Don’t worry.”
I remember how she would say that—“don’t worry”—and somehow her words made it so I didn’t feel the cold. We lurched on down the street, past the houses with their gardens in perfect rows and tangled bougainvillea on their porches. What could I have to fear, if my Super Momma was in charge?
The night before, I’d woken up to the sound of breaking glass. I slowly dragged myself over to the only window facing the alley, and there I saw, just a few feet away from me, two guys wearing Halloween masks getting into my mom’s car. It was an old little clunker, and I can’t even remember what color it was. Suddenly I heard the tires squealing, and the two shadows sped away.
Just then, my mother—who had been watching everything, right there at my side, motionless in the dark little room—hugged me tightly and took me back to bed. She didn’t say a word, but from the look in her eyes, she was pissed. There were no signs of fear on her face; my mother never let me see her afraid. If I hadn’t been there, things could have gotten very ugly for those punks. No doubt about it.
The next morning, my mom got up early and quickly pumped up the tires of her bike. In the blink of an eye, she had me securely strapped to the back seat, and we were on our way to school.
Back then, my mother, Dolores Janney Rivera, was just another kid who wasn’t even dreaming about making it big and becoming famous. She’d temporarily separated from my father, José Trinidad Marín. Those were tough times, with lots of twists and turns. My momma, a top student at Long Beach Polytechnic High School, got pregnant with me when she was fifteen and effectively had to put all of her studies and plans for college on hold in order to face her new reality. My parents both felt pressured by their families and strong Latin tradition, which dictated that you must be married before you could have a child. My father, whom everyone called Trino, was twenty-one and felt trapped in a corner with no way out. He had gotten my mom pregnant and now his only option was to take care of her. Meanwhile, my mother had been kicked out of her house by her parents. Both came from Mexican immigrant families, workers who were trying to make the streets of Long Beach and Los Angeles their new home.
And there I was, in the middle of it all, in that garage facing the alley behind my uncle Gus’s house, where my mother and I spent several months sleeping alone on a mattress on the floor. My mom was too proud to ask my grandmother to take us back. No way! She was going to take care of me in whatever way she could, even if it was in that dark little garage that was never intended to be set up as a guest room. Every night we ended up there, huddling under the covers. And my greatest joy was for the sun to come up in the morning, so we could get out of there. First, day care, and in the afternoon, to my grandma Rosa’s house, where she would take care of me until my momma got off work.
Back then, Chay (as she had been affectionately nicknamed by her siblings) had two jobs: one at an office, and the other at a video store. Her days seemed endless, and mine did too, waiting at Grandma’s house for her to come back for me.
When night fell, the mattress in the garage was there waiting for us. Next to it was the bicycle with the child seat firmly attached to the back.
And that—my first adventure on the back of that bike, the images of which I keep so clearly and so fondly preserved in my mind—is how I would picture my mother for the rest of my life, or rather, for the rest of her short but intense life: fearless, pedaling away, her head held high. With the steadying words “Don’t worry, baby” always on her lips, which gave me more comfort than she could possibly have imagined.
That’s how it begins: my story of great joys and challenges, of setbacks and successes and bitter pills to swallow, but, most importantly, my story is one of love and forgiveness. These are the experiences I want to share. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is always our best teacher, and we’d better not cut any classes.
2.
THE SWAP MEET PRINCESS
The alarm rang at four, and the still-dark house already smelled of coffee being brewed.
My grandma Rosa woke me up. Like always, her hair and makeup were already done.
“Come on, mija, hurry up! We’re about to leave.”
Not without me! I’d never miss a Saturday at the swap meet, no way. I jumped out of bed and got dressed in a flash.
Her only option was to move the two of us back to the house on Gale Street, and accept her mother’s help.
My poor momma—this pregnancy was a real kick in the gut. She was still just a kid, 18 years old, and once again she was watching her dreams be cut short. Even so, she never stopped going to her night classes for business administration. Her life was basically work during the day, take care of me at night, study in the morning and now she was going to have another baby.
I remember my momma sitting on Abuelita Rosa’s couch, her hair dark and short. She cried day and night. I think she cried the full nine months of the pregnancy. My mom didn’t believe in abortion.
“I’m fine, baby, I’m fine,” she said every time I went up to her to dry her tears.
She cried until she gave birth to the most beautiful little baby girl in the world. Even today I’m convinced that Jacquelin came to heal that sadness and bring a light into all of our lives. Mine included. That was late in 1989, and I was obsessed with the idea of having a little sister to play with. My mom was so overjoyed to hold Jacqie in her arms that she got her mischievous little laugh back, along with her joy for life, even though the turmoil with my dad would continue.
And with that turmoil, the coming and going. We spent the next three years bouncing around from house to house and then back again with my grandparents. Every time my parents reconciled, they looked for someplace to live. And every time they fought, my mom, Jacqie and I went back to Don Pedro and Doña Rosa. I have to admit, I secretly wished they would fight because it meant that we would be going back to the house on Gale Street. Later it would be “la casa de Ellis Street,” after my grandparents moved across town, but always in Long Beach, and always full of love and unforgettable smells.
Ahhhh! I close my eyes and I can still breathe in the smell of Pine-Sol, so strong that it almost choked me. I have yet to meet a woman who mops the floors more than my grandma. I swear, she could go into the Guinness Book of World Records with curlers in her hair, her mop in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She would smoke day and night, like one of the old Hollywood actresses, until she became a Christian and the cigarettes went out the window.
But more than Pine-Sol and cigarette smoke, the one scent that flavored my childhood was the smell of beans. Every day, without exception, my grandma would put on a pot of beans to cook, so that they would be ready by the time my grandfather got home. My Abuelito Pedro would sit there, alone in the kitchen, in front of a massive plate of such exquisite deliciousness, and devour the entire thing down with his queso fresco, tortillas. I think that’s why I’m a proud “beaner” to this day. Beans with queso fresco, tortillas, and a giant crunchy jalapeño—if I had my choice, that would be my last meal.
And the sun! I remember it would just pour in through the front windows. Grandma Rosa really knew how to fill a room with light and love. I didn’t find those sorts of feelings in the other places I lived. I spent the happiest moments of my life there with my mom and my relatives in the houses on Gale and Ellis streets.
And it wasn’t just the Rivera home that was magical. Those neighborhood streets and the people who lived there also had their charms. At least for me.
Those neighborhoods were a melting pot of Mexican and African-American families, living side by side, though never mixing. Mexicanos y morenitos, as we said. Or Brown and Black, as they say. When it came to the Mexicans, some of them had just arrived in this country, while others, like us, had already started families here. They called us pochos, because supposedly we spoke bad English and bad Spanish as well. But that wasn’t true for the Riveras! It was a rule in the Rivera house to only speak Spanish, and when we didn’t Grandpa Pedro would give us a light smack on the back of the head. In the house, we only listened to Mexican music, and we watched TV in Spanish the whole damn day. My mom also made sure that we had a sense of our Mexican roots. Even though my mother and I were both born in the U.S., it was important to her that my Spanish be as good as my English, especially when it came to cursing people out. She insisted that we not use sayings like “Go to hell, asshole.” It was always “Vete a la chingada, pendejo” in our household.
It was truly remarkable how well my momma could both speak and write Spanish. And then there’s me, who didn’t learn a word of English until kindergarten. But as the years went by, the streets and my friends ended up winning the battle against my grandpa and his traditional Spanish, and we started incorporating a bit of the famous Spanglish. But just a little! That’s what you do when you’re a girl from “Long Bishhh.”
“Don’t be out wandering the streets!” my grandma would yell at me as I walked out of the house.
Too late. I had already slammed the door behind me and was heading from house to house, looking for other girls in the neighborhood. I couldn’t help it. I’d felt the call of the street. I loved to invite myself over to a friend’s house for dinner, so I could watch how their families behaved. I wanted to see whether they were like us, the Riveras, who were always yelling, singing and cracking jokes. I wanted to compare the other moms to my own and see if they were as hardworking as my momma.
Those were the days of near total perfection that God had granted me, before I had to live with the destiny that He had in store for me.
My grandma would pick me up from school, and together we’d hop on the bus heading down Long Beach Boulevard. Hand in hand, we’d enter Robinsons-May, her favorite store, or the now-defunct Montgomery Ward, where we would spend hours just looking and browsing.
“If you behave yourself while I pick out a blouse, I’ll give you a cuora,” she said, offering a kind little bribe.
I’d get excited. “Twenty-five cents!”
My grandma loved to go shopping, and she was always perfectly made up with fresh-from-the-salon hair. So it’s obvious where I inherited my love for going from store to store. I had a great teacher! My mom, on the other hand, hated it. Even when she was making thousands and thousands of dollars, dragging her to the mall was a serious ordeal.
Back on the bus, Grandma Rosa would tell me countless stories about the Rivera family.
My grandpa, Don Pedro, moved here from Sonora, Mexico, back in the sixties. He quickly earned some money working in the fields or at gas stations. Once he made enough money, he sent for my grandmother and my uncles Pedro and Gustavo, who were still young at the time, to join him in the U.S. My mom was the first one to be born in California, but she always jokingly brags that she was “born in the USA, pero hecha en México.” According to my grandma, she crossed the border with my momma in her belly.
“I’m not sure whether we made her in La Barca, Jalisco or Caléxico, mija,” she’d say with a mischievous grin.
Then came my tíos: Lupe, Juan, and Rosie. Rosie quickly became known as “baby doll,” and was my mom’s first little toy, so to speak.
By the time Rosie was born, Pedro—Tío Pete—was married to Tía Ramona and they lived in a separate house. They didn’t have any children yet. I was the first and only grandchild—born four years after Rosie—until they gave birth to my cousin Petey two years after my arrival. At this time they still hadn’t given their lives over to God. Years later, Tío Pete would find his true passion, becoming the pastor of his own church.
Tío Gustavo and his wife gave birth to my cousin Karina the same year Petey was born. Tío Gus’s calling was photography: he had a small business working as a photographer for weddings and quinceañeras.
Even though he was already married to María, Tío Lupe lived with us in that crazy, fun house with my grandparents, which made it that much better to go back there. He worked at Taco Bell, and I remember running to the door when he got home from work to see how many tacos he had brought me, all wrapped up in a paper bag—now that’s the life!
Tío Juan was still a teenager, and was always running around causing trouble. He was very friendly and very
flirtatious. He was always getting into something at school, and falling for every girl on the block, but I was his true princess. As time went on, Tío Juan became my protector, my guardian, the older brother I never had.
And finally there was my tía Rosie. Even though she looked more like my sister, my aunt was always a bit standoffish with me. She never let me touch her dolls, and wouldn’t let me climb in her bed. I wondered whether it was because I was so little, and playing with kids can be a pain, but maybe she was a little bit jealous, because I stole all of her beloved Chay’s attention away from her.
I was just dying to be her best friend. I constantly sought out her approval for everything I did, but she’d usually just yell, “Get outta my room!”
Many years later, I found out the real reason for her constant anger. Her agonizing torment—the same one that I would have to deal with years later—had already started by then. That house on Gale Street, which was a haven for me, was also the dungeon where my poor tía Rosie had her innocence stolen from her. But I’ll tell you more about that later.
For now, let’s talk about the swap meet. “Mija, your hair is a mess. Go comb it. You don’t want people to see you looking like that!” My grandma was rushing me. We had to be in Paramount before sunrise. That was the best way to welcome in a new day.
I went into the bathroom that reeked of my grandpa’s cologne and combed my hair as fast as I could. I was about five and had not yet adopted my grandpa’s meticulous grooming habits.
My grandpa always liked to look sharp. He always kept himself in shape, well maintained and smelling good, regardless of whether he was going to work at a factory, meeting someone at a bar or going to one of the many little shops he opened up all over the place. But his one true passion—which we all ended up inheriting—was music. Don Pedro sang every chance he got, at parties and open-mike nights, and even in the shower. This passion eventually manifested itself in the formation of Cintas Acuario, his own label. My grandpa would record local musicians using his garage as a studio, and then, with the help of my mom and all my aunts and uncles, they’d dub the master tape. Back in the crazy eighties, it was all about cassette tapes, which is what led us to the swap meet, where we would sell those cassettes.
Forgiveness Page 1