“Hurry up and get in!” my grandma called from the front seat of their old green van, while my grandpa waited patiently behind the wheel. That old green van plays so prominently in my childhood. It is where we stored all of our stuff to set up our puesto and it is where I would go to take naps when I got tired, inhaling the smell of gasoline fumes as I slept.
That morning, all their merchandise had already been packed into the van. All that was missing was me. In twenty minutes, we’d be in the happiest place on earth: the Paramount Swap Meet.
“Abuelita, you didn’t forget the hard-boiled eggs, did you?” I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t have to go without my favorite lunch. Those eggs made up the entirety of my menu, and I’d eat them so fast I’d almost choke.
We pulled into the massive, still-empty lot on Paramount Boulevard just as the first rays of the morning sun were stretching across the horizon. We quickly set up our blue tent before the big crowd started to arrive. I still remember the smell of that plastic tarp, which always fascinated me.
Then we started to set up the folding tables and organized the tapes for sale: some were new, some were used, some were pirated and others were by artists recorded by my grandpa.
My grandpa—always thinking like the music businessman that he was—would put a cup in front of the tables, and as soon as the crowd started to rush in, my grandma made me get up to dance and sing.
“Shake it, mi Chiquis! Shake it!”
Between chuckles and words of encouragement, people would toss coins into the cup. Encouraged by such a resounding response, I sang the lyrics to the music that all Mexicans carry in their backpacks when they make the move to the North: Los Razos, Saúl Viera, and Ezequiel Peña. And, of course, I also danced to the beat of the artists whom my grandpa represented in the hopes of making more money: artists like Chalino Sánchez, El Lobito de Sinaloa, Las Voces del Ranchero and his favorite, Graciela Beltrán. And then, of course, when Tío Lupe started singing, we’d play him constantly, blasting those beat-up speakers to death. My mom never managed to perform there on the swap meet stage. Her songs would hit the airwaves a little later, when I was a teenager and had swapped out those magical Saturdays there for time with my friends.
Whether he realized it or not, my grandpa Pedro, with the stubbornness and tenacity of a great small businessman, was writing history. Decades later, he would be recognized as one of the pioneering stars of the swap meet. Radio broadcasters and major record label executives would walk past booths like his, looking to discover the hot new artists spreading throughout the community.
That day, we moved a lot of merchandise, and my cup was filled with clinking coins. My grandpa, who would disappear for hours at a time, looking into a thousand different business ventures, got back just in time to help us take down the tent and clean up the mess. When it was time to pack up and leave, I’d run to the food truck selling sweet breads and buy one for myself with my hard-earned money, along with a cup of hot chocolate. Then I’d hop back in the green van, completely happy with my life and my bolillo and chocolate caliente.
I remember that day in particular because after we got home and unloaded everything, I went to play soccer in front of the garage. And with one swift kick, I sent the damn ball straight under the green van. It was stuck. But then, a tall, slim man dressed in clean jeans, an ostrich belt and ostrich cowboy boots suddenly appeared.
“Here, hold this,” he said, handing me his tejana before diving under the old van. “Here you go, kiddo. Here’s your ball,” he said. He didn’t smile, but there was a kind look in his eyes. He seemed very quiet and serious, but I wasn’t afraid.
That’s the first memory I have of Chalino Sánchez. This was around the time when the calming, balladic corridos that became his style were starting to get airplay.
Along with Chalino’s arrival there at my grandparents’ house came the arrival of my first love: a platonic love, of course, but a love just the same. And, to this day, I’m still a bit embarrassed to admit that Adán Sánchez, son of the great Chalino, was the first boy who ever caught my eye. And damn, he was so cute.
Adán was also really smart. He didn’t seem like all the other kids. He had a certain swag to him that I liked. He liked playing soccer and baseball with my uncles and doing other stuff that boys do, but at the same time he was gentle and super nice. I was seven and he was eight. I only dared to look at him from a distance.
But that was one serious crush! Three years later, when we were living on Fifty-Fifth Street, Adán’s mother, Marisela, would often come and visit us. She’d been a widow ever since Chalino was brutally murdered in his hometown of Sinaloa. But, of course, his legend would grow even more after he was murdered, just two short years after I met him there in my driveway.
The glory of an artist goes beyond death: this is the strange and sad phenomenon to which the Chalino family and mine are witnesses.
But back then, Momma was on her own as well as Marisela, since my momma had recently separated from my father. The two quickly became friends. They’d go dancing from time to time, and somehow the best plan they could come up with was to leave Tío Juan in charge of all the kids. He was crazy! The house would turn into a party, and Jacqie, Adán and I would play until we dropped. One of those afternoons, Adán asked me if I’d be his girlfriend. I was jumping for joy!
He was my first sweaty-palmed boyfriend. We never even got to the first kiss, but how cute was that? He told everyone we were an item, and our moms would just laugh. They thought it was funny.
As we grew, Adán became a little too cool to be playing those dating games. That handsome young man was getting more and more serious about his own singing career, and his fame was starting to grow, just like it had for his late father. And my crush on him started to fade, but my affection for him never did. Somehow I continued to hang on to that platonic love during the time when an adult man robbed me of my innocence. Adán was my first prince charming, a perfect gentleman who never hurt me, never even forced me to hold hands, and who never knew—until we were both grown-ups—about what was happening in my life behind closed doors.
Years later, when he was at the height of his career, my dear Adán died in a car accident. Ironically, it was also in Sinaloa: the same city that had witnessed the death of his father. It was two weeks before his twentieth birthday.
We hadn’t seen each other much during those last few years. Our families had grown apart, because of some problems between Marisela and my grandfather. But as destiny would have it, we bumped into each other at an event in Oxnard about a month before the accident. He was just about to go onstage, and thousands of fans were screaming his name. I didn’t dare go up to him, so I just smiled at him from far away. But Adán walked over to me.
“Hey, Chiquis, how are you?”
I could tell that he was nervous. First he shook my hand, but then decided on a hug. It was one of those loving embraces between two people who never ceased being friends.
At that moment, everything—the noise and the crowd around us—disappeared. The clock stopped, and Adán looked at me with those eyes that could speak so well:
“Lo siento . . . I’m sorry we had to grow up so fast.”
Bam! Back to reality. I didn’t have time to answer him. The producer and the event coordinator grabbed him by the arm and dragged him up the stairs to the stage. He was on!
“Stay! I’ll see you in a bit!” he shouted.
I nodded yes, but the truth is that I had to go. There was another commitment. And it was better that way. There are some stories best left unfinished.
A few weeks later, at his funeral, Marisela gave me another one of those long hugs that I’ll never forget. The place was packed with fans and journalists, with love and pain alike. And I was foolish enough to go up to his casket. I still regret doing that. It would have been better if I had just left myself with the image of him standing there at the foot of the stage.
“Ay, Chiquis, my son always loved you,” Marisela
whispered into my ear with that tiny little voice that she had. Her arms didn’t want to let me go from her embrace, and I didn’t want to escape.
Marisela cried for Adán with a mother’s tears, which are always the heaviest ones. His fans cried tears of devotion. I shed the tears of a girl. Like a third-grade schoolgirl. I cried for him like that first girlfriend who danced along to the songs of his father at the swap meet.
3.
THE HOUSE ON FIFTY-FIFTH STREET
I swear that during the early years of my life, we moved so many times that I can’t even remember them all. It’s hard to tell whether I was living in a trailer in Long Beach or that first sad, ugly little house we were renting in Compton when I lost my first tooth or when I started school. Maybe it was grandma’s house? What a mess.
What I do remember is where we were when my brother Mikey came into this world: the house on Fifty-Fifth Street.
My mom and dad were back together and having one of their good streaks. They had just rented this house, not far from where my grandparents lived. That house on Fifty-Fifth Street was our first real home, though not for long.
My parents seemed happier than ever, and I even remember them talking and laughing together at night. They were feeling so good about things that they decided to have another baby. They were both hoping for el chamaco, the little man of the family.
And that’s how Mikey came into our lives: the first planned baby of the three. They called him Trinidad Ángelo Marín. We started calling him Tongo right from the start, but when he grew up, he changed his name to Michael for other, more important reasons.
They say that babies are born with a loaf of bread under their arm. But our Tongo must have arrived with a pair of boxing gloves, because just a few weeks after he was born, the arguments and the pushing and shoving between Mom and Dad started up again in the kitchen.
By then, my mom had already finished her studies and was completely devoted to buying and selling houses, while still helping out at my grandpa’s little record company.
My father was also working in real estate, but he spent more time with us at the house. He was the one who did the laundry, after which he would iron and fold it meticulously. In fact, he was the one who taught my mom how to clean and cook. Everything about him was neat and tidy, and all his stuff smelled like Zote, these bars of soap that were as big and hard as a brick.
My father liked Spanish rock. He didn’t listen to banda or corrido music. He always wore a leather jacket and a white T-shirt, and his black hair was long and slicked back. He was sweet with us, and listened to us with a patience that was occasionally lacking in my mom. He talked to us like adults.
And that’s how he spoke to me that afternoon in 1994.
Trino and Jenni—like oil and water—had just had their latest blowup that included a shove or two. They never hit one another in front of us.
It was getting dark, and my father sat me down on the sidewalk there in front of the house. He was wearing his leather jacket, which he usually did when he left the house upset.
“Mija,” he said to me in Spanish, just as he always did. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not your brother or sister’s fault either. Your mom and I just aren’t happy together anymore, which means we can’t make you kids happy either. I know you’ll understand.”
“Yes, Papá,” I replied, knowing that this was definitive.
“You have to take care of your siblings and help out your mom. I’ll talk with Jenni about when you can come visit me.”
I said “okay” to everything. He climbed into his tiny little car and drove off. Sitting there on the curb, I felt as if I’d just aged ten years. I had to grow up so damn fast! When the car turned the corner and disappeared down the street, I burst into tears.
I went back in the house, starting to feel afraid. Now, without my dad around, I was worried that Momma would get more strict with us.
But, much to my surprise, my mother was just waiting calmly there in the kitchen with a peaceful look in her eyes. She also spoke with me like an adult.
“How do you want to handle this? You’re the oldest. Does it sound alright to you if you kids spend half the year with me and half with your father? And on the weekends, you could visit whichever one of us you’re not staying with. I want your approval on this, Chiquis,” she said seriously.
I told her I agreed, not knowing that the two of us had just sentenced me right then and there.
My father moved into an apartment with his sister Chuchi and her husband. My father set up some blue bunk beds in one of the rooms so that we could all fit. The first six months were spent with him and weekends with my mother. My momma was working extra hard at the realtor’s office to pay off all the bills related to the house on Fifty-Fifth Street.
And there, in that room with the bunk beds, began the most horrific story of my life. A story that I have to tell exactly as it happened, because to leave anything out would mean that I’m ashamed, and that’s not the case. For better or for worse, it’s a part of who I am now. What happened to me happened, and I can’t change that. And at this point in my life, it’s clear that it was not my fault.
I’m telling this in a way I never have before, so that other victims can arm themselves with courage and stop hiding their pain. I won’t be giving details because I’m trying to be morbid, but rather for the purposes of cleansing the soul and being transparent. Abuse is not something to be ashamed of. The most important thing is to face it and to move on.
Talking about it brings me a strange sense of peace, but this is only because I have forgiven those responsible.
4.
A DAY AT THE BEACH
It was a late summer Saturday. One of those days in Long Beach where you wake up to an overcast sunrise not knowing whether the sun will eventually come out and melt you alive or whether the skies will stay gray until the evening comes. In my mind, that day will forever be filled with clouds, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t block it out, not even with the fog of passing time.
My father and my aunt decided to spend the morning at the beach so they wouldn’t have to be locked up in the apartment with three kids. It was during the first month of our life as a divorced family, and we still weren’t quite used to living with Dad for most of the week and spending so much time away from my mom. And we were also very young kids: Mikey was a ten-month-old baby, Jacqie was three and I had just turned eight.
We’d been at Redondo Beach, with its noisy seagulls and families, for less than an hour when a big wave smacked us hard and ripped Jacqie out of my hands. My baby sister was caught in a swirling undertow of foam and sand. “¡Papi, Papi!” I screamed in fear, but he wasn’t even paying attention. He was too busy flirting with some girls. Luckily, one of my cousins reacted quickly, diving into the waves and pulling Jacqie out. She was bawling her eyes out, and so was I, from being so scared.
You could say that the party was over; that much was certain. With so much whimpering and sniveling, my father and my aunt quickly piled us all into the car and decided to take the drama home.
Once we got back to the little apartment where we lived, my father ordered me to take a bath. He insisted, over and over. “You get in the shower now!” he shouted. I wanted to take Jacqie with me because the poor thing had sand in her ears, but my father was adamant: “No, leave her in the living room. Go by yourself. Now.”
I obeyed him and went into the bathroom. I was naked when he entered.
“Come here, mija, sit with me,” he said. He was wearing nothing but his boxers, and sat down on the toilet seat.
I sat down next to him, but he picked me up and had me straddle his legs.
“You know I love you very much, mija. You know how much I do . . .” he started telling me. And as he was speaking softly to me, I started to feel some pressure on my private parts. A lot. I didn’t understand any of it. Suddenly I cried out, “It hurts!” and I jumped down. It was then that I saw his penis, exposed through his boxers, bu
t I still didn’t understand what had just happened.
“Fine,” he said, all nervous and upset. “Go clean up.”
I obeyed and stood under the showerhead. My tears began to mingle with the water falling all over my body. “Nobody will know that I’m crying,” I thought to myself, relieved. “The water will hide it all.” But cry I did, out of pain and fear.
My father left the bathroom, but not long after that, he returned as if nothing had happened. He took off his boxers and got in the shower with me. And that’s when the sweet talk began.
“I’m sorry, mija. Don’t tell anyone. It won’t happen again. I promise. Just don’t tell anybody, and remember that I love you very much.”
He lathered up, rinsed himself off and left in a flash.
That left me even more confused. Whatever that was, it can’t be that important, I thought to myself, feeling very disoriented. I dried myself off, got dressed and went out to have dinner with my aunt and the rest of the family, all of whom were waiting for me in the dining room.
After such a gray, foreboding Saturday, my father avoided any contact with me for several weeks. I was afraid to even hug him when he came over, and I still didn’t understand what had happened, but even at that age, my instincts were telling me that it was very wrong. That’s when I started begging my mom:
“I want to come live with you. Please, Momma, I want to go to your house.”
I kept pressing her without explaining why. I was terrified about what would happen if my mom found out. I didn’t know why, but what I was feeling at that moment was pure horror. “Mija, it’s normal. It’s only been a few days. You’ll get used to this house very soon,” she said, looking to calm me. “Your aunt Chuchi takes good care of you, and I have so much work I have to do. You can come stay with me soon enough, mi princesa, I promise you.” She was so focused on earning a few extra dollars so she could feed us and keep a roof over our heads that she couldn’t possibly have imagined what was going on.
Forgiveness Page 2