Unbreakable: My Story, My Way (3 page)

I soon developed a reputation as “the girl who beats up the boys.” But I also fought with girls quite a bit. I was an equal-opportunity brawler. My dad and brothers loved it. Usually whenever a fight started, one of the boys would run into our house and scream to the rest of the family, “Chay is fighting! Come outside.” Dad would run outside with my brothers, and all of them would be very scared. Mom would run outside with Rosie, and both of them would be very scared. Mom would be screaming for somebody to stop the fight, but Dad wouldn’t let anyone step in. He would say, “Let her learn how to defend herself.” I was not a girl who picked fights. I was a nerd, a straight-A student. I usually got along with everyone, but if a boy touched my butt, it was on. I would turn right around and sock him in the mouth and then get him down on the ground and start punching. Nobody was going to touch my ass and get away with it.

And that was precisely what started the big drama of 1983.

One evening in early November, I could hear my mother shouting at my father: “That’s it, Pedro. I’m done with Janney. I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve had to pick her up from school for fighting. It’s so embarrassing!”

My mother was furious. I could hear her all the way from the kitchen as she heated up tortillas for my father’s dinner. He was sitting in the dining room, listening to Mom’s rant while eating. I was in my bedroom right next to them, staring at all the Menudo posters I
had pinned to my walls. I loved spending time in there with Rosie and telling her how one day I was going to French-kiss Ricky Meléndez and get my lips stuck on his braces, as if she could really understand what I was talking about at the tender age of two.

Mom wasn’t letting up. “Everyone expects a mother to pick up her teenage gangster son for getting in trouble. But who do I walk out of that office with? My daughter. This time she has gone too far. This time she got into a fight with a black boy and it’s created a racial problem at school. Everyone is talking about it, and it’s causing more trouble than the school officials can handle. They’re having a directors’ meeting tomorrow and will decide if she will be expelled or transferred to another school.
¡Qué vergüenza!
How embarrassing! I’m not going to show my face this time.”

Rosie looked at me. Even she knew Mom was mad at me and something serious was bound to happen. Her beautiful brown eyes were wide open as I told her to shush with one finger over my lips. I didn’t want to miss my dad’s response.

“You don’t seem to fuss much when you go to the awards assemblies and she’s getting her outstanding-student awards, do you?” my father said. “You’re full of joy when you get notices in the mail letting you know your daughter is the only Hispanic female on the honor roll, aren’t you? I don’t think you should come down on her so hard when she gets in a little trouble.”

“A little trouble!” Mom shouted. “Didn’t you just hear me when I said she will most likely be expelled?”

“I know my daughter. I’m sure she had a reason for slapping the crap out of that boy.”

That’s my daddy, I thought to myself. He always had my back.

So what had happened, exactly? On Halloween Day 1983, a black boy grabbed my ass and I turned around and popped him one right on the mouth. He socked me right back and busted my lower lip. Eddie,
a friend of mine who lived on the same street, saw it all. Eddie did what any other boy from our barrio would have done: He punched the black boy in the face and knocked the living daylights out of him. That’s the way it was in the hood. We had each other’s back. The Mexicans defended the Mexicans. Besides, it was a female who had been hit. It was on now. The racial war at Stephens Junior High had begun. The blacks against the Mexicans. Within weeks it grew into a citywide issue. Blacks and Mexicans were caught in rumbles in all the major junior high and high schools. There were fights throughout the city streets, especially on the West Side. All of this happened for grabbing a girl’s ass. Janney Rivera’s ass.

I headed to school the following morning wondering what they would do with me. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to be able to finish my ninth-grade year with my best friends, Ruby and Alma, and the rest of our homegirls. The counselors and decision makers at our school were all black. That I was a straight-A student and on the honor roll wasn’t going to matter. What mattered was that a Mexican dared mess with one of their own. Sure enough, that morning I was kicked out. And sure enough, my proud father came to get me. We didn’t say a word about it on the way home. Instead, my father played the car radio full blast as we listened to Vicente Fernández’s “El Rey.” We stopped at our favorite place: 31 Flavors. I got a scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge on a sugar cone as a reward.

I was transferred to Bancroft Junior High in Lakewood Village to complete the rest of my ninth-grade year. Academically, I remained a straight-A student. My behavior, however, changed quite a bit. I found myself surrounded by white girls whose main concerns were their looks and not who was the better fighter. I soon wanted to be, and look, more feminine. My mother was happy to see that her daughter was looking and acting like the young lady she had always wanted. The change also brought on something I wasn’t at all used
to—attention from boys. My parents weren’t familiar with this either. At Stephens, I was the nerd. My friends were all beautiful, and they were the ones getting all the attention from the boys. I was considered the bookworm that everyone respected, but not the girl anyone hit on. At Bancroft, this was no longer the case.

Suddenly I wanted to wear the same Jordache jeans, the Vans, and the Nike Cortez that the other girls were wearing. I mentioned it to my mother and she said we couldn’t afford it. For years my mother shopped at the Purple Heart Thrift Store, a secondhand-clothing store on the West Side of Long Beach. But that wasn’t what I wanted anymore. With six kids it was not easy to dress us all, and if I wanted to buy expensive clothes, I would have to pay for them myself. However, Mom wouldn’t allow me to have a part-time job during the school year. Maintaining good grades was highly important in our house, and nothing was to get in the way of that. I would have to wait until summer vacation to have a job and save up for my new wardrobe.

We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. I don’t know what kind of person I might have turned out to be if my parents hadn’t been so economically challenged. Our financial difficulties and our being such a large family forced my parents to work nonstop to give us a better future.

My father often reminded us that we had to work harder, longer, and smarter than everyone else in this life if we wanted to be successful. He talked almost every day about reaching for the Mexican American dream. Because of this I always knew that there was not just one American dream. In a nation of immigrants, there are countless versions of the dream: the Mexican American dream, the African American dream, the Cuban American dream, etc. I’ve always thought that was such a beautiful lesson and I’ve carried it with me throughout my life.

So much of what I learned from my father stayed with me forever.
He was a nonconformist. He was a dreamer. He always wanted more. When he started a new job, his goal was to be recognized as an excellent employee by his superiors. He wanted to be known as the best at what he did. He aspired to get to the top of the ladder, and he always accomplished it. He always got what he wanted. For years to come, I would hear his loving but firm voice in the back of my mind as I headed out to my different jobs. That voice is still ingrained in my mind now: “Get up, kids! Find something to do. I don’t want to see you guys asleep after the sun comes up. I couldn’t care less if it’s not a school day. I don’t want lazy people living in my house. Wake up, clean the yard, rake the leaves, pick up the dog poop, wash down the walls, ask your mother if she needs help with anything. Do
something
! If you can’t find anything to do physically, then get up and
think
. Put your mind to work. The key to success in life is getting up early.”

My daddy’s words have stuck with me. The men I have been with in my life have either said I’m unstoppable, nocturnal, just plain crazy, or, as one of them put it, “a fucking machine.” They never understood why I wouldn’t stay in bed with them even when I didn’t have school, work, or anything else to do. I never understood why they wanted me to lie there and be a lazy ass like them. It just isn’t in my makeup. My daddy made sure of it.

To this day I do the same with my own kids. In the morning I go into each of their rooms clapping like a madwoman: “Time to get up, kiddies! Find something to do! The sun’s up, waiting for you!” They hate it. “Mom, what’s wrong with you? Go back to sleep!” Chiquis will tell me as she throws her blanket over her head, trying desperately to ignore me. Then Michael will scream from across the hallway, “Be a
real
diva. Wake up at one p.m. And let your kids do the same.” I tell them to blame their grandpa.

My father’s work ethic became my work ethic. When I was a child, I would accompany him to the Paramount Swap Meet and work at
his music stand, or at the taco hut. At every job I had I always made sure to be on time and do my best. At my first real job at the purse-packing factory, I got up at 4:00 a.m. to be at the factory by 6:00 a.m. At my waitressing job at the Golden Star Restaurant, at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and as a video clerk at Video One, I worked with a passion. Just like my father.

I learned as much from my mother as I did from my father; her lessons, however, were very different. My mother, Doña Rosa, or Chamela, as I would call her to get her attention (it still pisses her off and I love it!), wasn’t too fond of my accompanying my father to his singing classes when I was ten and eleven years old. She would rather I be studying in my room and playing with other little girls in the neighborhood. But I had no interest in playing with Barbies. I much preferred sitting in on my father’s singing lessons with La Maestra Franco in Echo Park—or at the many singing competitions around Los Angeles. This did not sit well with my mother, especially because many of the competitions took place in bars. She thought I was wasting precious time. She wanted me to do something with my brain. She knew her daughter had the smarts to be a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, anything that would give me a certificate or a degree. That was her idea of making it in life and in the United States. She knew my straight A’s and being on the honor roll would take me somewhere.

My parents got into quite a few arguments over this. Of course my daddy wanted me to be recognized as an outstanding student, but he would always remind my mother that I had a talent for singing. “My daughter can one day be like Lucha Villa, Lupita D’Alessio, Rocío Dúrcal, and all the rest of those
cantantes
,” he would say. “ I am sure that is what her future will be. She has it in her blood, Rosa Amelia. You always talk about how you want her to be an academic scholar, but it’s you who sets her in the middle of guests at family parties to sing and dance for everyone. I will be happy with whatever my
reina
turns out to be, but stop trying to fight her talent. Nobody can.
Tiene demasiados huevos como para ser algo normal en esta vida.
God gave her and all the rest of my kids a talent for a reason. Singing is her destiny. One day you will remember my words. You’ll see.”

My mother would give him a “whatever” look to end the discussion, but when she and I were in the kitchen cooking or washing dishes, she would impart her teachings. “Whatever you do,
mija
, do your best. Be different from everyone. Stand out.
Asegúrate de dejar ‘huella’ donde quiera que vayas.
You’re my first girl. Please try to make me happy and become something. I know your father wants you to be a famous and successful artist, but it’s a very difficult career, especially for women. I hear all the stories that go on in that dirty industry.
¡Son puras cochinadas!
You’re better off being a psychologist like we’ve talked about before.”

I desperately wanted my mother to be proud of me. I loved bringing her my report cards and outstanding-student awards, but I also wanted to make my father proud. Both of their voices were constantly ringing in my head:

“God gave you a talent for a reason.”

“Be different from everyone. Stand out.”

“Please try to make me happy and become something.”

“Singing is your destiny. One day you will remember my words.”

“Whatever you do,
mija
, do your best.”

Taking the Stage

Por eso desde hoy mismo te digo

Que sigas tu camino.

(
That’s why from this very day,

I tell you, follow your way.
)

—from “Besos y Copas”

_{I was eleven years}
old. My father and I were sitting at La Tormenta Nightclub in Los Angeles for yet another singing competition. Humberto Luna, the most famous Latin disc jockey at the time, was the master of ceremonies. I was the only child among twelve contestants, including my father, trying to win first place that night. When it was my turn, I walked up to the stage, which was actually the dance floor, and the mariachi was ready to play my song “Besos y Copas.” It had been one of Chayito Valdez’s greatest hits, and ironically, my mother taught it to me. I had been deciding between that song and Chelo’s track “Mejor Me Voy,” which was one of my favorites.

But for some reason, I went with “Besos y Copas.” My father gave me his full support, telling me, as always, that I could do anything I set
my mind to, but on this night I was nervous as hell. I took the microphone, just wanting the whole thing to be over with. But when the music started, I panicked and forgot the words. I wasn’t even halfway through the song when I ran out of the room and heard the “you’re not good enough” bells ringing. I spent the rest of the night sitting next to our car in the parking lot.