My family was really upset. I didn’t warn them about the interview, so it came as a total surprise, like a bucket of ice water being dumped on them. But at that point, I didn’t care. They’d officially turned their backs on me for a long time. What else did I have to lose?
In fact, I found out that they had a meeting with my mother where they all listened to her reasons, and they thought that it was only fair that I be given the same chance. Well, it never happened. I was denied my chance to attend that family meeting.
What this interview will do, then, is give them a chance to hear my words, I thought, without hesitation.
The only ones willing to give me a chance to defend myself were my grandma and grandpa. And, of course, my tío Juan.
When I sat in that chair opposite Azucena, all I could think about were my siblings, especially Johnny. They’d told me that my mother spoke about the problem in front of them, down to the gory details, and that Johnny now hated Esteban violently. My baby must have been so confused. Until two weeks ago, Esteban had been his hero! Would he hate me too now? So much stress, my God!
“And rolling!” ordered the producer standing next to the camera. Azucena was very cautious with my emotions and she let me speak freely. In my mind, it was all very clear as to whom I was really addressing: my mother, my aunts and uncles, but most of all, my babies. These words go out to you, because I miss all of you so much, I thought. Listen to what they won’t let me tell you in person: that I did not do these terrible things.
In my head, the half hour passed quickly. That’s it. I did it. Through that lens, I had faced the world, the Rivera family and my mother. I told them that I had never slept with Esteban, and that I didn’t understand where such an accusation could have come from. I told them that my mother and I were going through a rough patch, but that everything would be resolved soon enough, whenever we were able to finally talk face-to-face. I asked my mother to give me that opportunity to talk in person. I told her I loved her and that I always would. And I thanked Azucena and Iris for giving me the courage to be there and say what I felt. But deep down I doubted that my words would have their desired effect. Would my mother listen? Would she listen with her heart or with her anger?
Indeed, the reaction was swift, and my mother damned me to hell in front of the entire planet with a devastating Tweet: Your tears, your lies do not move me . . . You know, I know, and God knows the truth. Good luck.
Good luck, Chiquis, I thought after reading it. I had now been publically condemned. Until then, the accusations were mere tabloid gossip, but now that Tweet had validated them. The entire world just read that Jenni had officially condemned her daughter, so therefore the rumors about Chiquis and Esteban must be true.
From Twitter to YouTube, the relentless Internet had it in for me.
It was the night of the Radio Awards. How could I forget the encounter between my boyfriend and my mother, especially since it was captured by dozens of camera phones!
The video clearly shows him insulting my mother and her friend Vanessa. “Step aside, let those filthy pigs through,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. Obviously, he was drunk. Drunk and hurt by all the sadness and suffering he saw me dealing with each and every night. Unlike the rest of my family, he bore witness to my agony.
Before getting into her car, my mother challenged him to show some respect and to sit down and talk in private. She defended herself and she did it well.
My mother didn’t deserve that insult, regardless of what we were suffering from or enduring in private. And my boyfriend stopped and lowered his head. He knew full well not to argue or press the issue any further. Many interpreted that as a sign of weakness, but he told me later that he knew instantly that he’d messed up bad, and that he didn’t want to make matters any worse. Better to keep quiet and accept your mistake.
Was he right to do what he did? Of course not! A man always has to respect a woman, especially when it’s his girlfriend’s mother. And I told him that later the same night, when we talked after the incident. I made it abundantly clear that no matter what was going on between my mother and me, he had to respect her. He promised he would and even tried to call her a few days later to apologize, though without success. My mother wouldn’t take his calls. But despite the whole mess, I can’t deny that I appreciated having someone stand up for me publicly. It was rude, yes, but I know my boyfriend was just trying to defend me. Maybe the way he did it wasn’t in the best taste, but finally someone had dared to stand up to the Diva.
And my mother, instead of dismissing this unpleasant episode, returned to Twitter to air the dirty laundry. She challenged him, writing:
It’s good that you believe her version and you want to defend your “girlfriend” . . . but that’s not how things are done. Face me the right way, not like you’re showing off your bravery. Talk the way civilized people talk. That way you won’t spark huge scandals like this. Make an appointment with me. Lastly, as you see, I’m not afraid and I’ll face any man like you. @chiquis626, congrats on your boyfriend. Good job.
So yeah, she publicly offered to set up an appointment to talk and listen to my boyfriend in private, yet she changed her number and there was no way to get ahold of her. And she wouldn’t accept a single e-mail from me. Right away, I responded through the only means that I had left: damn Twitter.
Mother @jennirivera, exactly my point . . . You’re telling him to talk to you the way civilized people talk . . . just like ME, your DAUGHTER, has the right to be heard. I haven’t talked with you for about a month because you won’t give me the time of day. But, like I said, you should take the time to listen. After all, I deserve it. I love you.
And Esteban? Where was he during this war of insults and tweets? Because there was a price on his head as well.
The truth is, I didn’t know anything about him. Even the idea of contacting him still scared me. Iris called him to make sure he was safe and sound. Eventually, I decided it would be best if we each waged our own battles. If we were to be photographed together—even if we were simply trying to clarify the truth or lend support to one another—it would only be seen as confirmation that we were in a relationship, and nothing could have been further from the truth. And giving a joint interview would only add to the morbid curiosity and everyone would be more focused on how we acted together or how we looked at one another than they would be on what we had to say.
The strange machinations of public relations: when good people have to stop talking to each other in order to prove their innocence.
Forgive me, Esteban, if I didn’t do the right thing. This is a book about forgiveness, and I’m also asking him to forgive me, as I will forgive him if he wasn’t sure where to place his chips during those months and in more recent times. Forgive and be forgiven. Let it be so! The game of life—especially when played under the microscope of fame—can be a very complicated one indeed.
Days went by and November arrived. And then one morning, crying over my tea, I said to myself, Enough already! I remembered an expression in English that always seemed to lift my spirits: “It can only get better.” When you’re down, the only way to go is up. I decided up was the way I wanted to go and I decided to go to therapy. Not even the love of my friends and my boyfriend was enough to free me on its own.
I hadn’t been to see a therapist since what happened with my father. This time, the reason for my visit was my mother. How ironic is that?
During our third session, the therapist told me, “Chiquis, perhaps it’s time to start to visualize life without your mother. You need to start living your life the way it is now, not the way it was in the past.”
Those words flowed deep into my soul. This was my life now, in November of 2012: Chiquis without her mother, without her siblings, without her aunts and uncles, but with her friends and boyfriend. With her salon and her business ventures. That was my reality, and I was going to run with it.
“This is my life now and I have to get over my mother,�
� I remember saying to Dayanna. “It’s like when a boyfriend leaves you for someone else. And this love of my life just left me.”
“She might have left you, but you’re not alone, sister,” Dayanna said comfortingly. “There are many hearts out there who are asking about you, even if they don’t know you personally.”
And she was right. Right off the bat, Beto Cuevas, the popular Chilean artist, was one of those beautiful souls who had the balls to intervene on my behalf, despite not even knowing me. We’d never met and hadn’t even spoken, but some mutual friends told me that during the recording of La Voz . . . Mexico—where both he and my mother were judges—he gently yet firmly rebuked her: “I don’t care what happened between you and your daughter. You have to talk to her.” My mother adored Beto, and they were great colleagues, but she never took his advice. Thank you, Beto, for trying. I send you my gratitude through these lines. Your reputation for being a good human being precedes you. And thank you, also, for being a good friend to my mother. Good friends, like you, sow peace, not war.
With the support of my friends and those kind souls who prayed for me, I woke up on Thanksgiving Day, one of the biggest days of the year for the Rivera family. It was our most celebrated holiday of the year, one that nobody wanted to miss, and that I had always been in charge of organizing. Needless to say, I wasn’t invited to any of the family gatherings. My tío Juan tried to host one of them at his home in order to include me, but had no luck. Everybody went to Tío Pete’s house, and again, needless to say, I wasn’t welcome there either.
That silent Thursday morning, I lit a candle and said my prayers, and after reading my devotional, I felt in my heart that I should write one last e-mail to my mother.
This one would have a different tone. I now knew that my mother wasn’t interested in hearing my arguments in my own defense, so I wasn’t going to bother her with any more of that. This time, my intent would be to send peace, love and gratitude. In this message, I wanted simply to apologize if I had ever offended her with either my actions or my words. I asked her to forgive me for not understanding what was going on in her heart and in her mind, and that I was only then coming to understand that this might be another one of life’s lessons that she was teaching me. And finally, that I accepted it with complete and utter humility.
On that peaceful morning, I thought and meditated. Maybe all this was a sign. Maybe I needed to show what I was made of, to stop being the daughter behind La Diva, to grow some thicker skin. Okay, Momma, if that’s why you’re doing this, then you’ve succeeded. And if I can survive this, there’s nothing in this life that can break me.
Sometimes you have to be cruel in order to be kind. In this final e-mail to my mother, I humbly accepted that proverb and its consequences. I accepted whatever reason or lesson there might be behind my penance.
I ended my e-mail with I love you, Momma and I sent it to my tía Rosie, begging her to send it to my mother. She agreed to do so and asked that I wait a few hours.
And so I wouldn’t be waiting alone, staring at my computer screen, I ended up accepting an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at my friend Briana’s house in Whittier. Her mom, Delia Hauser, welcomed me into her home, and showered me with hugs and affection. For the first time in two months, I felt the warmth of a real family. For a couple of hours, I allowed myself to dream that everything would be okay and that I wouldn’t miss being surrounded by so much love. I am eternally grateful for that night, for the Hauser family taking me in like one of their own. I love you all.
After dinner, I returned alone to my apartment. I took one last look at my e-mails. There was nothing. An empty inbox. No response to my words of peace and love.
All that came was a text from Tía Rosie, who swore that my mother read the message, and that tears began to flow when she was done. That Jenni herself asked the whole family for just a few more days, that soon enough she would fix everything, and that we all just had to be patient.
I didn’t know what to think. I was tired of waiting. That was the only thing Rosie ever said—wait, just wait—and now it was my mother who was asking for a little more time. Could it be that something was beginning to change in her heart? Exhausted from so much promise, I turned off my light, turned off all hope and went to sleep.
19.
WHEN A BUTTERFLY FLIES AWAY
Beep beep beep . . . Back in those days, that little sound of messages on my phone was so traumatizing that I didn’t even want to check them. It was seven in the morning and I was lying there alone in a massive bed in a Las Vegas hotel, happy and exhausted from the night before. That weekend, my dear friend—my favorite cousin—Karina had gotten married, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
I took the opportunity to attend the event with my inseparable companions Gerald and Briana, and to celebrate my new life with them, giving thanks for everything I still had left: my health, my job, a few of my cousins, my boyfriend and my best friends.
Beep beep . . . Again with those damn messages. I tossed my phone away and rolled over.
Still half asleep between the sheets, I remembered the drive across the desert on I-15 the previous day. I’d had a premonition and I shared it with Briana and Gerald:
“You know what? Today I really miss my mother. I used to go days without feeling like this. But the funny thing is that I get the feeling that she misses me too. Don’t ask me how, but I know.”
“You think she’ll call you before Christmas comes?” Briana asked me.
“I don’t know. Maybe, but I’m not holding out much hope. Not anymore. I feel like her anger has passed, but now she’s not quite sure how to find her way back. I know her. Maybe now she realizes that it was all just a misunderstanding. I don’t know, boo, I just don’t know, but for the first time in a while, I get the feeling that she wants to speak with me.”
“I hope that’s the case,” Gerald said, encouragingly. “But in the meantime, remember the promise: we’re going to Vegas to begin a new stage—Chiquis Time!”
“Chiquis Time, here we come!” I shouted with relief. And I stepped on the gas.
As soon as we got to the hotel where we’d all be staying, my tío Gus and the rest of my cousins welcomed me warmly. It seemed as if the drama was starting to calm down, at least among some members of the Rivera family. My mother wouldn’t be attending because she had to give a performance in Monterrey, Mexico, that same night, which meant they wouldn’t be forced to choose who to invite: her or me. I’d finally be able to see my brothers and sisters for the first time in ages. I missed them so much! Though I wasn’t quite sure how they would react to seeing me.
The wedding was celebrated on Saturday afternoon at the legendary Little White Chapel. It was very romantic, and I finally got to see my beloved cousin marry her high school sweetheart, Eddie.
After the ceremony I could finally see the kids again, who were all there with Jacqie. “Hey, sister,” is all I got from her. She didn’t even touch me. Total cold shoulder. Her movements and the look in her eye were exactly like those of my mother. Jacqie has always been her spitting image and that remains true to this day.
Jenicka was the only one who dared to give me a hug, but even that felt tense. Her nervous eyes didn’t seem to want to make contact with mine.
But the one that finally killed me was the reaction by my little Johnny. He refused to kiss me, spun around and ran to hide behind Jacqie.
Choking back my tears, I prayed to God for him. It’s so unfair when children get dragged into problems between adults and leave them so confused. I’d been told that he even ripped the head off of the figurine he had of Esteban, which was part of the collection my stepfather had given him. Why did they have to fill that poor little boy’s head with grown-up garbage? That’s what really hurt me.
Since the banquet ended early, I decided to continue the party over at the VooDoo Rooftop Nightclub at the Rio Hotel with Briana and Gerald. Just the three of us. It was Saturday night in Vegas, time to reinv
ent myself and unleash the fun. It was high time to put an end to two months of being holed up in my apartment.
The music the DJ was spinning, and the terrace and the spectacular view of the city that never sleeps moved me deeply. While I was dancing in the crowd, I looked up at the sky, and all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain in my heart, and I was overcome by a profound sense of sadness from head to toe. It was something physical. I could feel it in my arms and legs. I looked at the time: one in the morning.
“What’s up?” Gerald shouted over the music.
“Nothing. Just tired,” I lied. “I think I’m gonna sit down. You two keep dancing.”
I left the dance floor and headed back to our table. Without knowing why, I burst into tears.
“What’s wrong, boo?” Briana asked, not knowing what was going on.
“I don’t know. I want to go. Let’s head back to the room.”
“But we just got here,” Gerald protested.
“Sorry, guys. I guess I’m just not feeling too good,” I said. I didn’t want to explain that, once again, I was thinking about my mother. They’d call me out for being a drag.
When we got back to the room, we ordered some McDonald’s, we talked, we laughed and that strange bout of sadness gradually faded away. Still, though, I kept waking up every hour or so throughout the night and on into the dawn of Sunday, December 9. Tossing and turning. I just couldn’t sleep. And to make matters worse, those beep beeps had been buzzing from my phone, which was now at the foot of the bed, since the earliest hours of the morning.
Around ten o’clock I got the fateful call that got me out of bed and explained why I’d been getting all those messages.
“Hey, cousin, it’s Karina. Are you still in Las Vegas?”
“Yes, we’re here. Totally racked out. Why?”
“My dad’s already back in Long Beach, and he called me. We have to get back there right away.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Forgiveness Page 16
