by Jenni Rivera
After Los Amigos, my daughter and I stayed with my parents. I took it day by day. I made it through February without getting back with Trino. Then March. I made it through the entire spring. I was focused on going to school and being a good mother to Chiquis, who was now almost two years old. That June I graduated from high school, and I was the valedictorian of my class. I was offered eight different college scholarships. Trino came to the ceremony and afterward pleaded with me, once again, to come back home to our trailer in Carson.
“Not tonight,” I told him. “I’m going to grad night.”
“You’re not taking me?” he asked.
“I guess not, since I have a date,” I responded proudly. “Three’s a crowd, baby. We’ll talk another day.”
I jumped on the school bus with my date, Al, and the rest of the seniors. It was my first time at Disneyland. For one night I felt like a normal teenager.
6
* * *
Why Are You Crying, Baby?
If the teardrops ever start
I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls . . .
—from “Before the Next Teardrop Falls”
I wanted to take advantage of the scholarships I had been offered, and so that summer of 1987 I began taking classes at Long Beach City College. Though I was focused on my studies and goals, guess what? Yup. I did it again. I took him back. I went back to the “I want to be like my mom” spirit. Back to the violence and the fistfights. Back to the loud arguments, another year of the never-ending screaming and boxing matches. I became concerned about Chiquis living in this unstable environment and how it was affecting her. I decided to leave the trailer in Carson that I had helped pay for. To me the lost money was worth my freedom. So, at the end of 1988, I packed up and took my daughter back to my parents’ house in Long Beach. As a mother I learned to put aside my pride and do what was best for my child, even though this meant admitting failure in my marriage. I was only nineteen years old.
For about two months my life was stable and quiet without Trino in it. But then my world came crashing down again. It was February 11, 1989. I was leaving my job at the Wherehouse Music Store at the Long Beach Mall. I could sense something bad was going to happen. I had stayed overtime to do stock count and had left a bit late that night. At about 10:15 p.m. I was walking through the empty parking lot toward my 1986 Toyota Supra. I heard a pair of quick footsteps coming toward me from behind. It was Trino. “I want us to talk,” he said. I argued with him before I finally agreed to discuss things with him. We sat in his Nissan Maxima talking for a while before he began kissing me. ¡Ahí va la pendeja! I wanted him to stop when things got heated, but he wouldn’t. “You asked for it! You can’t mess with me like that!” he yelled at me. Fearing that I would make things worse, and because I hadn’t gotten any in a while, I gave in. I can’t blame it all on him. I was stupid enough to put myself in that predicament. I asked him to use protection or pull out. Since I wasn’t sexually active, I wasn’t using contraception, but I had learned about the ovulation method and I was positive I could get pregnant that day. So Trino ignored my pleas and with an evil look on his face said, “Fuck that!”
That night I went home knowing that we had conceived another child.
So I was once again living at my parents’ home and pregnant. I contemplated having an abortion, but one day, as I sat in my bedroom attempting to do my homework, my mother walked in my room and found me crying. I told her the truth. Considering what I was thinking, I am glad I did.
“You can’t have an abortion,” she said. “I won’t let you do it. It wouldn’t be fair to a life that God has planned for. Believe me, one day you will appreciate my advice.”
That day I decided to keep the baby, but not wanting to face my father with the news, I also decided to move back in with Trino. I packed up my belongings and headed to the trailer park in Carson with my four-year-old daughter. When I knocked on the door of the trailer, Trino answered and immediately asked me what I was doing there. I told him I was pregnant and couldn’t take advantage of my parents any longer. I knew they were disappointed in me and I wanted to show them that we could work things out.
“You can stay,” Trino said, “but don’t hold me responsible for whatever might happen.”
He didn’t want us there. He seemed to be having too much fun being a bachelor and had no interest in married life anymore. However, he did have an interest in belittling me, calling me names, and trying to stop me from achieving my goals. He told me I would never complete my associate’s degree that year because I was pregnant and depressed. I put up with more from him during that time than ever before in our relationship. I was committed to making it work, but I was also committed to proving him wrong. I wasn’t about to let him win.
We fought constantly. It would start with a screaming match and would quickly escalate. I made sure to run to Chiquis’s bedroom before the fights became physical because I feared for my unborn child. Oftentimes Rosie, who was eight years old by then, would spend the night with us. She had grown close to Chiquis. They would both have terrified looks on their faces when I would run into the room and slam the door behind me when Trino was about to hit me.
The fights continued until one day in July of 1989. Trino and I were arguing when he began to beat me. I tried to run away, but I was five months pregnant and couldn’t move quickly. He kicked me in the stomach, trying to hurt the baby. I didn’t want to scare Chiquis, so I tried not to yell, but when he kicked me again, much harder this time, I couldn’t hold it in. I screamed in pain and Chiquis ran out of her room to see if I was okay.
I saw my daughter’s face, and that was the breaking point. I could no longer allow my Chiquis to be emotionally scarred and my unborn child to be physically endangered.
Not knowing where I was going, I left that night holding a blanket in one hand and my daughter’s hand in the other. I thought we would be sleeping in my car somewhere, since I was not about to go back to my parents’ house. I didn’t want them to see me in that condition. I drove to my brother Gus’s house on Arlington Street on the West Side of Long Beach. Patty and Gus took us in and let us sleep in their living room. Since it was only a one-bedroom house, I knew we could not stay there long. The next day I asked if I could rent out their garage. Although the floor was cement and the ceiling wasn’t finished, it had a full bathroom, and that’s all we needed. I bought a mini-refrigerator and a small microwave, and financed a bedroom set. A few days later I went back to that trailer park on 228th Street only to pick up our belongings.
I had received my associate’s degree in June of 1989 and decided to take that summer off from school. In September I went back to Long Beach City College to complete a few classes before I enrolled at Cal State Long Beach the following semester. I had also started a new job at the Willow/Daisy branch of the Bank of America. Chiquis was enrolled at Young Horizons Child Care Center in downtown Long Beach. Despite the sadness I carried around with me, I felt that I was doing okay. I was moving forward. I didn’t want to let our situation get to me. I couldn’t let my daughter see me cry any longer. I constantly assured her that we were okay and that things would get better. In a way, I was trying to convince myself, because at that point, whenever I took a step forward, it seemed as though life was pushing me five steps back.
One night when we were living in my brother’s garage, I woke up to the sound of someone starting my car. I got up to look out the window. Soon Chiquis woke up and was standing by my side. We watched helplessly as two masked men stole my little Honda. I was seven months pregnant and standing beside my four-year-old daughter in that cold garage apartment. I couldn’t move. I stared into the darkness as I recalled that I had nothing but liability insurance on that car. The theft would not be covered. I couldn’t afford a new car. I was barely getting by as it was. What the hell was I going to do now? I had to get to work and school. I had to get Chiquis to day care.
I must have been lost in my thoughts for a while; then I
felt my daughter softly tugging at my pajamas. “Mommy. Mommy, listen to me.” I looked down at her beautiful face. “You let them borrow it, right, Mommy? They’re going to bring it back in the morning so you can take me to school, right?” I fought back the tears as I looked into her eyes, those green eyes I so dearly loved. At that moment I wanted to see the world through those eyes so badly. I wanted to be young and innocent and believe in the good of the world. But I had to be strong for my babies. That night, after filing a police report, I lay in bed thinking about how I would pull through for my daughters. I was having another girl, so the ultrasound had shown. I would not let the three of us down. The three musketeers, I thought, trying to smile. But instead I quietly cried myself to sleep, making sure my baby couldn’t hear my sobs.
I could have gone to my parents and brothers for help. They would have given me everything they had if I had asked them, but my pride would not allow it. Deep inside I felt that I had to prove—to myself and the world—that I was strong enough to make it on my own. I wanted so badly to be an example of strength for my little girl. At that moment I was down, but one day I was going to be on top of the world with my daughters by my side. With or without my man, I was going to make them proud to have me as a mother. And I was going to make my parents proud, once again, to have me as a daughter.
The following day I called in sick to work and skipped class. I took Chiquis with me to purchase a ten-speed bike. I found a used child seat for her and strapped it to the back of my new vehicle. That bike would be my means of transportation until I could save enough money for the down payment on another car. But this bike wouldn’t be as easy to steal. I didn’t dare leave it outside. I parked it where it belonged, right next to my daughter and me in the garage. Home sweet home.
The desperation and desire I felt during this time was almost overwhelming. I knew I had to call upon the lessons from my past to get through it all. I reminded myself that I couldn’t change my situation immediately, so I learned to live with it and live through it, just as the counselors had taught me in the rehab center. I reminded myself that I had to be a fighter and never stay down, just as my brothers had taught me. I called upon the faith I’d learned from my mother and the Victory Outreach Youth Group I’d joined during my senior year of high school when I felt so lost and alone. And I appreciated all of my father’s early-morning wake-up calls, because they gave me the tools I needed for what I had to do.
I got up at four o’clock every morning. I got dressed. I woke Chiquis and got her ready. Then I would strap her into the child seat and I’d ride my bike to downtown Long Beach to drop her off at the day-care center. Next I would ride across town to Long Beach City College to take my classes. After class I rode to Willow Street to make it to my job at Bank of America. I rode that bike as though I were training for a race while my daughter cheered me on from the back. I’d turn to look at her during every single one of those trips. Sometimes I would notice her eyes had turned watery during the cold mornings.
“Why are you crying, baby?” I’d ask.
“I’m not, Mommy, it’s the wind hitting my eyes,” she’d say.
I still wonder if she was telling the truth. I just knew that she was like her mommy, a gangsta baby.
Toward the beginning of November my father somehow found out about my situation (I am sure from one of my siblings) and asked me to come home until the baby was born. I agreed, and Chiquis and I moved back in for those last few weeks of my pregnancy. I was once again living in my childhood bedroom, and my father would sit by the side of my bed. He couldn’t bear to see me cry alone, so he would cry with me. I would feel secure with my daddy, my hero, by my side. Chiquis was just happy to live in the same house with Tía Rosie.
A year earlier my father had established his own record label, Cintas Acuario Music. He produced popular regional Mexican artists, including the now iconic Chalino Sánchez. My parents were doing much better financially, and I was so happy that my baby sister was living a childhood of plenty. My mother used to apologize to me because I didn’t have the same luxuries, but I would tell her, “No, Mami, get her the best of everything. Spoil her.” I never thought, Why did Rosie get this and I did not? Instead I told myself that one day I would be able to provide this much for my daughters too. Maybe more.
My second daughter, Jacquelin, was born on November 20, 1989. She was this skinny, fragile baby as a result of the circumstances we had lived through while I was pregnant with her. I rode my bike for miles every day. I hardly ate or slept. I was depressed and cried all the time. Yet, from the moment she was born, Jacqie had this beautiful, joyful spirit. My mother said that I should have named her Dulce (Candy) because she was so sweet.
Now that I had two babies depending on me, I knew I had to start making better money. I was determined to get out of my parents’ house and into a place of my own as soon as possible. While working at the bank, I noticed that some customers continuously made large deposits to their accounts.
One day I asked one of these customers what he did for a living. He said he was a real estate agent for one of the realty offices in the area. Immediately, an idea sparked in my mind. I wanted to make the kind of money he was making. I decided to quit school temporarily and enroll at Anthony’s Real Estate School in Torrance. Four months later I had my license and was hired at the Century 21 offices on Pacific Avenue. Few Hispanic women worked in real estate, so I recognized that I could fill that void. I would pay Chiquis and Rosie to pass out flyers in the neighborhood to potential real estate clients, and in my first month I sold six homes, which was unheard of in that office. With that money I was able to purchase my first home on Fifty-Fifth Street in Long Beach. I was twenty years old.
Stupidly, during the time I was in real estate school, I began to see Trino again. For a smart person, I can be a real dumbass sometimes. But I was in love with him. He was the father of my children. He was the only man I had ever been with, and so, despite all of his faults, I still thought I could make it work.
He moved into the house on Fifty-Fifth Street, and for a while we did make it work. Things were good between us for a year or so. Through my contacts at work he was able to get a job as an entry-level loan officer. I introduced him to the business and he got busy at work, so we didn’t have much time to fight. I thought we were finally on stable ground, so when I found out I was pregnant with our third child, I was happy. I wanted to have a boy, and on September 11, 1991, I got my wish.
While I was in labor with our son, Trino went to the car and fell asleep. Almost instantly, I went from being five centimeters dilated to ten. The nurse came in to check on me and said, “You are ready. Don’t push yet. I’ll get the doctor.” But my baby boy did not want to wait. As soon as the nurse left the room, I delivered my son all by myself. I was there with my baby, his umbilical cord still attached, and I felt so alone.
“It’s just me and you, little boy,” I told him. Soon I realized the truth of those words. My son was not going to have his father in his life. We named him Trinidad, after his father, but years later he would change his name to Michael, severing the last remaining thread between father and son.
7
* * *
Breaking Away
Espere mucho tiempo pa’ ver si cambiabas
Y tú ni me miras.
(I waited so long to see if you’d change.
And you didn’t even look at me.)
—from “Nieves de Enero”
I gained sixty pounds when I was pregnant with Michael, and after I delivered him I was hit with the baby blues (nobody called it postpartum depression back then). When I least expected it, the fights with Trino were back, and they were much worse this time. Once again he belittled me and called me fat. He got heated and jealous over the most minor situations. I was bringing in the most money and bearing the financial responsibility of raising three kids and paying a mortgage, and maybe that made him insecure, so he tried to keep me down. Who knows?
It’s craz
y how violent, possessive relationships can become so addictive. For so long I kept going back for more, and each time I did, I somehow thought that I was strengthening our love. It seemed impossible for me to live without the father of my children and the first man in my life. It didn’t help much that I was still intent on being like my mother and hanging in there forever. I can’t ever be with another man, I thought. My father wouldn’t allow it. Yet, over the years, my father came to know how rocky our relationship was. I didn’t know it at the time, but Rosie would report back on the abuse she witnessed whenever she slept over. And when we lived in the back house or in the house nearby on Fifty-Fifth Street, the rest of my family would hear our fights. As hard as it was for them, my daddy told my brothers to never get involved in anyone else’s relationship and to mind their own business. And so they didn’t intervene.
But one day during the early summer of 1992, my father surprised me by not following his own advice. We were sitting at the dining-room table at my parents’ house on Ellis Street. Daddy looked at me and asked, “Aren’t there any other men in the world, mija? Why are you so stuck on this one? Do you not feel worthy of being loved and admired by another fish in the ocean?” I was surprised, but happy to hear him say such words. It meant that if I did someday meet, date, or fall in love with someone else, it would be okay with him. Since he was the boss, it would have to be okay with the rest of my family too. It was on.
I was sick of taking Trino’s shit. In August of 1992, he hit me for the last time. I was too tired to fight back. Instead, I called the cops and put his ass in jail. This time we were over for good. Something in me finally said, “No more.”
While he was in jail, I began going out with friends. I was twenty-three and had never been to a club, aside from the singing competitions I’d gone to with my father. I hardly went out at all. When you get pregnant at fifteen, that kind of thing falls by the wayside. And when you are married to a man like Trino, forget about it. Now that I no longer had him running my life, I could make up for a bit of lost time. I learned how to have fun, drink, and let loose. I enjoyed being able to dance again like when I was young and carefree at backyard barbecues or in my parents’ bedroom.
