There were so many times when I tried to get in touch with both him and his family, and yet every time I was denied. On the other hand, since my mother’s passing, his family had started inviting Jacqie to Marín family gatherings, and she even became friends with our stepbrother, Dora’s son. Meanwhile, I was still being ignored and it hurt. Still, though, I learned that my grandpa Trinidad was very ill, and that he was nearing the end. I didn’t care how anyone looked at it: I went straight to the home of one of my aunts and gave him a kiss. My grandpa had always been good to me, and nobody could deny me the right to say good-bye to him.
That day, much to my surprise, everyone smiled and visited with me, and one of my aunts even whispered in my ear: “Chiquis, get ready, because soon your father is going to want to see you. Very soon, in fact.” Suddenly I saw it for what it was: a layer of sweet words with an ulterior motive underneath. A lot of sweet words, in fact, but nobody had the decency to ask about my mother. Four weeks after the accident, and still nobody had the guts to even ask me, “How are you feeling, Chiquis? We’re so sorry about what happened.” It made my stomach turn, and I got out of that house before all that artificial sugar made me sick.
And there, sitting in that same Long Beach courthouse where, five years earlier, we had waged the great battle of our lives, I understood why my aunts were trying to sweeten me up and why my father was so arrogantly asking the judge to reduce the twenty-six years of his sentence that were still ahead of him: because his number one enemy—the one he feared the most—was no longer there to oppose him! Good God! Dolores Janney Rivera, his arch-enemy, was gone, and that emboldened them all.
But that morning, with or without my mother’s presence here in this world, the judge denied his appeal. Simple and quick. No.
She might not be here to testify before this judge, but she’s sitting there, in a much higher court, next to a much more powerful judge, I said to myself when the gavel came crashing down.
As the guards were escorting him back to his cell, I thought, May God watch over you, Dad.
That came straight from my heart. For what he did to me as a little girl, I forgave him a thousand times. But it would be a betrayal of my mother if I sought out the friendship of a man who never even sent me a message of condolence, who in fact seemed to revel in our misery.
A week later, we celebrated my mom’s birthday. And with that day came a gift for everyone: her autobiography, Unbreakable, was released, and it quickly became a huge bestseller. I have to admit, though, that to this day I have only read a few pages. I just can’t. The sadness clouds my eyes every time I try to read more.
For that first birthday without her, we decided to get the whole Rivera family together in the backyard for a simple little family ceremony. Melele insisted of me:
“Chiquis, why don’t you wear your mother’s printed dress. Don’t be a party pooper. It’s there in the closet. Just put it on.”
To make her happy, I went up and changed into that long, cheerful and very comfortable dress that my momma loved to wear for family festivities, and I went back down to rejoin my siblings. They all smiled when they saw me. And though the memories were eating us alive, no tears were shed. Between the laughter and jokes, and after a lovely prayer, we released some white balloons into the sky that contained messages and hopes. Mine read, Please, Momma, guide me so that I can raise our babies how you would want me to. And please help me to forgive you.
That balloon floated higher . . . and higher . . . until it became a tiny white dot over the Encino hills. Then it was lost in the immense blue sky over the valley. As I looked to the heavens I thought:
If I could forgive my father, after all the harm he caused; if I could forgive that other woman; if I could forgive my mother’s fans, who hurt me so deeply; if I could forgive Esteban for not being man enough to clear everything up; if I could forgive my family for doubting me and not defending me . . . why can’t I forgive you, Momma? With all the love I have for you, why can’t I do it? Why does it hurt so much that you left without giving me a hug, without retracting the accusations, without giving me a kiss? My heart is still broken.
Then, searching the clouds for that tiny white dot in hopes of seeing it one more time, I was reminded of the expression, “There’s a thin line between love and hate.” Two emotions so near and yet so far apart. Like the yin and the yang. And in between, my mother and me, and that damn forgiveness that continued to elude me.
25.
“WHITE DOVE”
The months and years on the calendar raced by, and we found ourselves in January of 2014. How time flies. It was Friday, a cold Friday, sometime after eight in the evening, and I got in the truck, alone. I didn’t want anyone coming with me. All I had was a bottle of La Gran Señora tequila. I was wearing sweatpants and a pair of Uggs. And I drove off in the direction of my new life: recording my first song.
I’d made the decision months before: restart the plans to get into singing as soon as the first anniversary of the accident was behind us.
We celebrated that anniversary at the very same arena in Monterrey where my mother gave her final performance before boarding that damn plane. It was really hard to see, for the first time, the airport where she took off early that Sunday morning. It was hard driving down that same road to her hotel. But all the Riveras were there, surrounded by the insurmountable affection of her fans. Thousands of voices shouting, “Jenni vive!” I introduced a couple of the artists during that tribute, and a couple of my uncles and siblings were moved to sing. Even my tío Lupe, who’d said he wasn’t going to come, showed up at the last minute, putting aside the conflicts he was having with his brothers.
But what I remember most is the intense feeling of love that my mother was sending us through her fans. When the crowd was chanting, “Chiquis!” or “Rosie!” or “Jacqie!” it was as if my mother was telling us, “I’m here, and I love you.” She was present, yes, but just a couple of little steps behind me. My mother still wasn’t quite standing beside me.
When the event was over, I stood there staring out at the half-empty stadium, watching the people leaving, and I closed my eyes and prayed: “I miss you Momma, I know you were here, and that you’re listening. Now I’m the one who is asking you for time. Give me time to fix everything in my heart.”
A month later, here I was, on my way to the studio with the lyrics to “Paloma Blanca” in hand, thinking that this would be the night and this would be the song. I wrote these verses to put an end to my anger and my pain. My mother liked to put an end to our fights by dedicating songs, and so I would do the same.
Fausto Juarez, the producer and engineer, was waiting for me there at the studio. I had given explicit orders that no one else could be present. I asked him to lower the lights, I took two shots of my mother’s tequila and I cried. I cried a lot.
Fly high, fly free
Fly, my white dove
And though you are not here with me
I will live beneath your wings . . .
And I sang . . . I sang a lot there in that isolated and almost dark recording booth.
I had so much to tell you
But you wouldn’t let me
I’m going to tear out the pain with the love that you left me . . .
I sang it three times in a row, start to finish, stopping only to wipe away my tears.
I may have been wrong
But it never was about all of that
It’s not a part of this world
To betray the one I love most . . .
And I thought, after that last shot, that the forgiveness I so coveted would surround me. I thought that was the time when God would allow my wound to finally heal.
I’m going to pray in your name
I’m going to ask that you rest
I feel that your soul can hear me
So let us finally make peace . . .
But no. Nothing. I left the record with Fausto and left the studio disheartened. My emotions were running arou
nd like crazy.
Sitting in my truck, watching the headlights of the cars coming down Ventura Boulevard, I shouted, “God, I’m begging you! I have to shake off this pain before it breaks me down. If time cures everything, then what is happening to me?”
While I was still trying to find peace, there were others who were starting to feel the effects of time.
“Chiquis, your tío Juan and I think it’s time we repaid our debt to you,” Tía Rosie said, standing in my bedroom door. Right away, I knew this was something important. She, her husband and her two daughters lived on the first floor of the house, and rarely went up to the second floor, where Mikey, Johnny, Jenicka and I had our bedrooms. Without ever actually saying so, each family had settled into its own little corner of that enormous home. Together, yet still separate.
“Juan and I decided that we would give an interview this weekend to clear your name and to explain to the world that you never had anything to do with Esteban,” my aunt said in a serious voice. The decision had been made.
“Okay . . .” I replied, a bit suspicious. “If that’s what you want, then go right ahead. Right now I have bigger problems to deal with, and the truth and public opinion are old news. It’s been two years since the scandal broke, tía. But if that’s what you feel you need to do, then more power to you. Just one question: Why now?”
“Chiquis, because now I know how you felt all along. I don’t know how you were able to go on living in the midst of all that public humiliation and bullying,” she said.
I could see that Rosie was on the verge of tears, and suddenly I understood: ever since she took over Jenni Rivera Enterprises as executor, people had done nothing but tear her down. “She’s skimming money off the top, she’s a selfish old witch, she charges interview fees, she lives for free in her dead sister’s house but charges Chiquis rent.” Now she knew firsthand what it was like to be the name on the tip of everybody’s tongue, to be the center of envy and rumors, and she didn’t like it. She looked exhausted, and I couldn’t blame her. Taking over everything my mother left behind is a hell of a task. Only Jenni knew how to deal with so many responsibilities, criticisms and obstacles at once. And even Super Jenni, the strongest of us all, got worn-out and fell from the sky.
“I’m sorry, Chiquis, for not standing up and defending you. My love for my sister stopped me. Defending you would be to publically admit that my sister was wrong, and I didn’t feel like I had the strength to tarnish her memory. I just couldn’t do it, after losing her in such a tragic way. But now it’s time.”
Said and done. They had already planned how they would be doing it. Rosie and Juan would be sitting down with Myrka De-llanos, and would give their exclusive. Oh well, I thought. At least it will be with a woman like Myrka, who will know how to treat the issue with dignity.
“Thank you, tía. I’m grateful. Better late than never. But I’m not expecting much to come from this. It’ll be whatever God wants it to be,” I replied, and gave her a hug.
Our relationship during that year hadn’t been an easy one. We had our little issues, which was to be expected, after all the emotional and legal pressure we’d had to bear. She had the title, but I was doing the work as mother and housewife. My younger siblings and I had our way of doing things, and she and her family had theirs. But I know we were both trying to do the right thing each and every day, just as my mother would have wanted us to do.
So that’s how it was. My tío Juan and my tía Rosie gave their interview, and somehow—after seeing them and listening to their words—I was able to forgive them for delaying it for so long. Although, as I’d thought, their statements had little effect on the public, and little effect on my heart, which for all intents and purposes was still at war.
The peace I was searching for came to me shortly after that, though via a different path. It came through a major screwup on my part. I had to do something pretty damn bad before I hit rock bottom and was able to find my mother once again.
Finally, “Paloma Blanca” was released on just about every radio station in the country. I swear, I never even heard the final master cut that was ultimately released and sent out. And immediately my Twitter feed caught fire with the most horrendous comments:
You fucking hack, you can’t sing. This song sucks. You’re just riding your mother’s fame. You wanna be like Jenni but you never will.
Oh no! More harassment! I was crushed. I broke down. But I have to admit that the insults—after being called a bitch so many times in the past—didn’t hurt as much. This time, what hurt was having screwed up with the very song that was supposed to have been a form of medicine between mother and daughter.
In my defense, I will say that it’s a difficult song, with a lot of fluctuation between the bass and the treble, and we didn’t do a bad job as a team. But the cut that was released on the radio was not the one that should have been published. It was a strategic mistake. I never had the chance to correctly master the song.
“We’ll rerelease it,” was the producer’s immediate response.
“No. If we screwed it up, then that’s it. Please, don’t even mess with it,” I asked in a fit of honesty. One thing we all learned from my mother is to face up to your mistakes, not to run away from them.
I went home and spent the next few days reading all the highly opinionated messages. Some of them were true: as a singer, I had a long way to go. But internally I tried to find encouragement: when my mother first started singing, she was only so-so, but she ended up learning how to develop her voice and her style. I know that one day I’ll get there too.
And when I started getting those tweets, like “You’re just riding your mother’s fame, you’re just trying to be like her,” it made me want to yell to the world: “Of course I want to be like her! I’m her daughter! Didn’t you grow up emulating your parents? Didn’t you want to walk like them and talk like them? Who the hell do you want me to be like instead, Celine Dion?”
And when it comes to riding my mother’s fame, that has never been my intention. However, in a weird way, it was her wish and she repeated it a thousand times over: “I’m building a name, a brand you can benefit from, that you can carry forward,” she would say. I’m tired of explaining and justifying the reasons why I started singing. It was something I’d been talking about and planning with my mother for years. And this was the time to make it a reality. Period.
Music runs through the Rivera family veins. We were born and raised around instruments and microphones. It’s what my grandpa taught all of us. I don’t understand why the whole world seems surprised that now I want to start singing as well. It would be stranger if I wanted to be a scuba diver or a nurse, wouldn’t it? Music was always there in my heart, but the moment wasn’t always right. But now is the time.
I grabbed my phone, sent out a giant “WHATEVER” dedicated to all the haters comparing me to my mother and went to bed. I spent three sleepless nights in a row, but on the third—between the frustration and the exhaustion—it happened.
It was three in the morning. I’m a bit obsessed about that time of day, I admit. It’s when her plane took off. I got up to get a glass of water, and suddenly I felt an overwhelming need to pray. I got down on my knees and spoke first with God. Then, I turned to my mother, and from my mouth came these words:
“Momma, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t a good mother, like you weren’t good enough for me. Please forgive me, as I forgive you. I forgive you for having left me with this pain, I forgive you, Momma, I forgive you.”
I couldn’t believe it myself, but it was coming from my heart.
“I forgive you for everything you did that made me cry, and for doubting me. I forgive you for denying me a good-bye hug and kiss.”
At this point, the tears took over, and I gave in. But it wasn’t a painful cry, it was a healing one.
“I know that you did everything to make me into a stronger person. And I am. I swear to you, I am. I learned the les
son. Now I want to be happy, and carry you with me in my heart. I want you to guide me with the kids, and with my career. You knew how to fall, how to get back up and how to get better each and every day. I need you to help me get out of this, so that I can continue to sing to you, and to sing in your honor. Only your love will carry me forward. I love you, Momma, and I miss you.”
No sooner had I spoken those words than my tears stopped, and I felt the strange sensation that my mother had accepted my prayers and my forgiveness. I didn’t hear her voice, but I did feel her warmth on my face and in my heart. And a silence filled with peace and happiness surrounded both me and the entire rest of the house.
I went back to bed and slept like a baby. It was the kind of sleep I hadn’t had in years. It was peaceful and silent. I didn’t dream about her, or anyone, or anything. My soul was exhausted, but blessed.
The next morning, when I opened my eyes, I felt her there. My mother was next to me, very close, and she stayed beside me with every step I took. I went downstairs, entered the kitchen, went out into the yard. There she was, right there with me. She wasn’t shutting me out any longer. And all I could do was smile.
“I did it, sister,” I told Dayanna on the phone a few days later.
“You got custody?” she replied, on the other end of the line. She knew that sooner or later I was going to file for legal custody of Johnny and Jenicka.
“No, sister. I forgave her. I forgave my mother, and I feel like the happiest woman on earth. I swear, I forgave her a hundred and ten percent.”
I just couldn’t contain my joy, and I knew that Dayanna was one of the few people who would understand.
“Oh my God! Finally! You had me worried. I could see you suffering, sister. I could see it in your eyes.”
“Yeah, the whole ‘Paloma Blanca’ mess really touched my soul. I think I felt the way my mother must have felt back in the beginning, when nobody believed in her and everyone just laughed at her. How ironic! Only when I put myself in her shoes was I able to forgive her. That’s the best way to say it.”
Forgiveness Page 21