by Jenni Rivera
Before our interview was over, he asked me to stay and cohost the show with him for the following three hours. I was so honored and so grateful. Sábado Gigante is one of the most entertaining shows in the US Latin market and has been for many years. Getting the chance to sit with Don Francisco gave me the exposure I needed with Latinos from different cultures, not just my already-established Mexican following. Outside of Southern California I was a nobody. Don Francisco changed that. After that interview aired I got letters from Guatemalans, Salvadoreans, Cubans, Nicaraguans, Dominicans, and Puerto Ricans. In the following years I became one of the most frequent guests on Don Francisco Presenta, where I was invited to perform, and that has always meant a lot to me. Don Francisco is a wonderful man, and every time I’ve sat down with him I’ve had such a good time. When he spoke to me off air, he told me how much he respected my hard work and determination. He also told me that I was “Two R’s: Real and Ratings!”
Though I still had a long way to go on the national and international stage, I had become a local celebrity in the Hispanic parts of LA such as Long Beach, Huntington Park, and South Gate. Fans started to gather outside my home on Keene Avenue in Compton. They would show up in the middle of the night asking for pictures and autographs. Oftentimes they would be drunk, yelling my name, or knocking on the front door. Don’t get me wrong, I was flattered, and a part of me couldn’t believe people were actually that interested in me. But another part of me wanted peace and quiet, and I worried that it might not be safe for my children.
Though I had quit my job at the real estate office earlier that year, I still loved to search around Southern California for properties. I saw a listing for a gorgeous house in Corona, a city forty miles east of LA. I got in the car and drove to see it in person. When I got off the 91 freeway and drove the four miles leading up to the driveway, I passed horse and dairy farms. We weren’t in Compton anymore. As soon as I pulled up to the house, I fell in love with it. The seven-bedroom, six-bath, seven-thousand-square-foot ranch was set on an acre of wide-open land. And the price was just too good to pass up.
I moved into the house in July of 2001 with Juan and my five children. As we unpacked, I said to Chiquis, “Remember when we lived in the cold garage in Long Beach and I used to ride you on the back of my bike to day care at six in the morning? I used to promise you that one day I was going to get us a big house like this.”
“I remember,” she said. “And I knew you would do it too.”
It was an amazing moment for me, yet in the back of my mind I was wondering what I was doing with my husband, who was not really bringing anything to the table. I knew Juan loved me and I knew I loved him, but that simply wasn’t enough. It didn’t guarantee happiness. We had been together for six years and I still can’t really pinpoint the reason why we weren’t able to get along. Was it that I had become too determined to make it as an artist? Did I become buried in reaching my goal? Did he resent that I was becoming more popular? Was he scared of losing me to the greatly demanding record industry and all that came along with it? Or was it that I never got over that he had cheated on me during the most difficult time in my life?
Deep inside, as much as I loved him, I have to admit that I did still resent him for having deceived me after I had done so much for him. I didn’t trust him anymore, and that caused serious marital problems between us. If I acted as if everything were okay, that was also a problem. He’d say that because I was now JENNI RIVERA, I thought I was better than him, which was ironic, since I was still trying to get the rest of the world to call me JENNI RIVERA.
One night Juan and I got into a big fight, and I called Rosie, Gladyz, and two more friends who were all going through heartbreak at the time. We went to a hole-in-the-wall bar where I knew they had a good Mexican band playing. As soon as we sat down, Rosie told us, “There is no crying tonight. The first person who cries has to put their underwear in the middle of the table.”
By the end of the night five pairs of thongs were in the center of the table, and we were all too drunk to drive home, so we called Lupillo to come pick us up.
When he got there, he said, “Why the fuck are your thongs on the table?”
“Pupi,” I said, “will you sing for us?”
“No, Jenni. I’m here to pick you up and go. Let’s go.”
“Please. I want to hear ‘Sufriendo a Solas.’ ”
Lupillo couldn’t say no to me. Especially when I was drunk and heartbroken.
He got up onstage and the crowd couldn’t believe it was him. As soon as he was finished singing the song, people shouted out requests and cheered for more as they handed him tequila shots. In true Rivera style he couldn’t say no to his fans. And in true Rivera style he “accidentally” got buzzed onstage. I joined him onstage and we sang a full free concert for the patrons of the dive bar, as my underwear sat on a table in the back.
In September I had a radio interview in New York. I was on another of my diets and got stupid drunk on three martinis. I was still going through a lot with Juan, and I was just pissed at the world. We were in a taxi riding uptown when I rolled down the window and screamed Fuck yous into the night. “Fuck you, Juan. And fuck you, Trino. Fuck you, streetlamps. Fuck you, New York. And fuck you, trash bags on the sidewalk!” This was just after 9/11, and the whole city was on edge and eerily quiet. And there I was, this crazy Mexican chick, screaming “Fuck you” to the world.
The taxi driver couldn’t get rid of Rosie and me fast enough once we got to our hotel. We were staying in this huge, fancy place that the radio station was paying for. It was ridiculously expensive, and I would never have picked it. If I had been paying, we’d have been staying at a Best Western or whatever was the cheapest hotel in New York. But instead we strolled our drunk asses into this fancy-ass lobby. This very proper Asian lady was walking down the sweeping staircase in a red coat that probably cost enough money to feed a small country. “Fuck you, lady in the red coat!” I screamed at her. She didn’t know what to do, and she definitely didn’t know who I was. She paused for a second, then turned and went running back up the stairs.
“Sister!” Rosie yelled at me. “What did she do to you?”
“I didn’t like her red coat. It was ugly. And you know what? Fuck your mother.”
“Well, fuck your father.”
“Fuck your brothers.”
Rosie took a deep breath and said, “Fuck your fucking fans.”
She knew that was crossing the line. “Now you’ve gone too far!” I yelled at her. “Leave my fans alone! I don’t want to play anymore.”
My family and friends all knew that they could talk mess and joke around about my mama, my daddy, my brothers. I could take it. But not my fans.
When I returned home from that trip, I walked into my new home and was greeted with my first big stack of fan mail. It was as if they had heard me defending them in the lobby of that ridiculous rich person’s hotel. That night I opened the envelopes one by one. People wrote such beautiful words of support and inspiration. They talked about how much they appreciated my music for giving women a strong voice, about how my lyrics helped them through difficult times. They said they had seen me on Don Francisco Presenta talking about such personal issues and it made them feel as if they were not alone. What these fans never knew is that they made me feel as if I were never alone either.
That year I hired an assistant to help me with the mail because I wanted to correspond directly with everyone who took the time to write to me. I also hired someone to travel with me and carry a Polaroid camera so when people came up to me, they could have a photo on the spot. I had these people on my staff before I even had a steady manager.
My fans were so special to me because they loved me even though they didn’t have to, and that always touched me so deeply. They were not related to me. They didn’t have to stand by me when I made mistakes or took risks that everyone else thought I shouldn’t take. They didn’t have to have my back when I got in public feuds or if so
mebody talked mess about me. They didn’t have to believe and support me before I was anything.
Yet, from the very beginning, they did.
12
* * *
Busting Out
Se las voy a dar a otro,
porque tú no las mereces.
(I’ll give my love to another
because you do not deserve it.)
—from “Se las Voy a Dar a Otro”
People often ask about the moment I knew I had “made it.” I don’t know about other artists, but for me there was never a single day or event that I could point to and say, “That was it.” It wasn’t the first time I heard myself on the radio, or that stack of fan mail, or the first time I was recognized on the street. It was a series of events, a collection of small and big moments that built up to make me believe that maybe, just maybe, I had staying power.
In November of 2001 I went to Vicente Fernández’s concert at the Gibson Amphitheatre (which was then called the Universal Amphitheatre). My whole family looks up to Vicente Fernández, and every year we all went to at least one of his concerts. The first time I saw him perform was at the Million Dollar Theater in downtown LA during the 1970s. I was about four or five years old, and my dad and I went to take Polaroids to sell to the crowd. At one point during the concert Vicente saw me and asked me to get onstage for a picture with him. I was so proud. Nobody is bigger in Mexican music than Vicente. I grew up listening to his music and idolizing him. He was huge back in the seventies, and more than two decades later he was still going strong and singing to sold-out Gibson crowds for three nights in a row.
As we walked to our seats that night in 2001, people started to cheer and go nuts. Naturally I thought it was for Vicente. It took me a minute to figure out that they were all looking at me, calling my name, and asking for a picture or autograph. Vicente saw the commotion, and once again he invited me onstage with him, but this time he wanted me to sing. I was so nervous, but kept telling myself to be cool and not to show it. I sang “Por un Amor” as he watched from the stage. I will never forget the words he spoke to the crowd when we were done with the song: “Esta mujer no le pide nada a cualquier artista de aqui o alla,” meaning that this woman does not lack anything that any female artist from here or there (the United States and Mexico) has. I was flying high that night and for many nights to come.
Less than a year later, in 2002, I was nominated for a Latin Grammy for Best Banda Album for Se las Voy a Dar a Otro (I’ll Give It to Another). When I got the news, my mind immediately flashed back to that desperate night at the Compton house when I was watching the 1998 Grammy show with my children, holding baby Jenicka in my arms, wondering if my husband was cheating on me, and hearing my Chiquis and Jacqie tell me that I could one day be nominated for a Grammy. Four years later my daughters’ words were coming true.
The show was on September 18, 2002. I was fighting with Juan, as usual, so I decided that I wanted my parents, my brothers, and my sister to come with me instead. We all met at my parents’ house. Everyone was running late, of course. This was our family’s first big awards show, and if there was one thing that was perfectly clear to me, it was that I never wanted to live through an amazing moment on my own. I always wanted my family to be around me to share in it. Even if it did take forever to get all eight Riveras out the door.
My four brothers drove me to the event in a convertible, and I sat on the top of the car as if I were in the hood and I was the queen of the parade, just as I had all those years ago for my quinceañera. We walked down the carpet together and then into the Kodak Theatre. It was all so surreal.
Mom, Rosie, and my brothers sat up in the balcony, and my dad sat next to me on the lower level with all the other nominees. When my name was announced, the cheering and applause did not stop. It gave me the chills. As the applause continued, I looked at my dad with tears in my eyes. He was crying too. It was as though all of the heartbreak, the hardships, the hard work, had led us to this one moment, in the middle of the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood. I didn’t win—Banda Cuisillos did—but to me that didn’t matter. I was just happy to be there. I know everyone says that and it sounds like bullshit, but I swear it’s true. I felt as if I won by being the public’s favorite. They didn’t clap or cheer like that for anybody else. That one event gave me so much more confidence that my career was moving in the right direction.
Of course, I was still making mistakes and stumbling along the way. For example, that year I became friends with a female disc jockey named Rocío Sandoval, who went by the nickname La Peligrosa. We had a good time during and after my interview with her, and I felt that I could trust her. I let her into my life and told her very private things. I thought that she respected me, that she respected our friendship, but that was clearly not the case. The next time I went on her radio show, she took a lot of cheap shots at me by asking questions directly related to secrets I had shared with her. I couldn’t believe she was going there. She also acted surprised that I had five children, as if she didn’t already know, and she made it sound as if it were something for me to be ashamed of. I have always been so proud to be a mother, and she knew that. She also knew that a lot of my fan base was made up of single mothers who related to me, so I didn’t think it was too smart on her part to have brought it up in such a negative way.
I could forgive all of this, but the day after the Que Buena Awards she took it too far. She bad-mouthed my mother and my family and that sent me over the edge. My mother is a kind, respectable lady, and La Peligrosa said my mother was expecting red-carpet treatment at events simply because she was “the mother of the Riveras.” To this day I do not know what pushed her to make those comments; I only know that she was way off base. My mother has never expected red-carpet treatment in her life. Anyone who has ever met her knows I’m not lying. Shortly after, Isis Sauceda, a reporter at the LA Spanish-language newspaper La Opinión, published an interview with La Peligrosa where she was quoted as saying, “The Riveras are very ungrateful people.” I don’t know who she was referring to, but it didn’t matter, I was officially offended and pissed.
A few weeks later that same reporter, Isis Sauceda, interviewed me and asked me about La Peligrosa’s comments. I responded that I had nothing to say and that I wasn’t angry at all, but I simply felt sorry for her and hoped that God would cure her of that horrible disease called jealousy. I said I hoped her bad feelings toward me would disappear and that her heart would heal.
The reaction to my comments was intense. The media wanted to know more about who said what. I guess La Peligrosa thought I would keep quiet about her problems since she was a prominent disc jockey at the radio station that had opened the doors for me. But my dignity was on the line. My self-respect as a daughter, mother, sister, and woman would have been shattered if I had let her talk about me and my family without defending myself. It got out of hand, and one day one of the heads of Que Buena asked me to refrain from commenting on the situation anymore because it was hurting the image of his radio station. I like and respect this man very much, so I honored his request. I got together with La Peligrosa, and we both agreed not to take the matter any further.
In my career I’ve learned to respect the media because they can make or break you as an artist, but I refused to bow down to them if my pride or dignity was at stake. I refused to stop being myself, regardless of what it might cost me.
The drama with La Peligrosa also made me realize that if I was going to stick up for my dignity in my professional life, I had to do it in my personal life as well. So I decided to make a break with Juan once and for all.
No matter how much I tried to make it work with Juan, we couldn’t get it right. The problems began to take over my entire life, to the point where I found myself bringing my emotional problems onstage with me and into media interviews and not being able to give my best to my fans.
Nothing in my life felt complete. I wasn’t yet where I wanted to be in my music career, but I couldn’t focus o
n actually getting there because my relationship was growing more and more dramatic. I realized that if I stayed in my marriage, I would never make it as an artist. So I had to make a decision: either I had to stay in the troubled relationship that was continuously bringing problems to my career, and live with the consequences, or I had to let the relationship go and focus on my career and on getting ahead in life. I didn’t know what to do.
In late June 2002, Juan made a mistake that helped me make that difficult decision. One night, after one of our famous fights, I walked into our bedroom while Juan was in the shower. I wanted to talk to him and hopefully resolve the quarrel we’d had earlier that evening. As I made my way toward the bathroom to surprise him, I was in for a surprise myself. I saw his cell phone sitting on the nightstand on the side of his bed. For some strange reason I picked it up and began running through his call log. I noticed that the last call he had made was less than thirty minutes earlier. It was to a 562 area code. The *67 that registered before the number jumped out at me. He had obviously called someone and didn’t want to have his number come up on the person’s caller ID.
Of course I pressed redial on his phone. And of course a woman answered.
I hung up and walked to the bathroom where he was sitting on the step by the Jacuzzi with a bath towel wrapped around his waist, nice and fresh after his shower. I immediately confronted him. “Who is this?” I demanded, pushing redial once again while setting his phone on speaker mode. I saw the same stupid look he’d had on his face when I’d confronted him the first time he cheated. He didn’t know what to say. I went crazy. I began throwing whatever I could find at him—drinking glasses, colognes (his, of course), vases, anything I could find to hurt him.
“I didn’t do anything!” he screamed. “I just called her. I just got the number!” He claimed it never went past a mere phone call, but it didn’t matter anymore. In my mind, the intention was there. He had crossed a line. My heart loved him, but my mind hated him for being so stupid and putting our marriage at risk once again. I told him to stay at his mother’s house in Huntington Park. I needed some time alone.
