Handbook for an Unpredictable Life: How I Survived Sister Renata and My Crazy Mother, and Still Came Out Smiling (with Great Hair) (19 page)

Beth taught me poetry and spoke with me about my dreams for my future. Janis introduced me to Todd Rundgren, Paul Simon, Led Zeppelin, and Paul McCartney and Wings. And one of them introduced me to Burt Bacharach! I loved, loved Burt Bacharach! The girls gave me shit for it, saying that I wanted to be white for liking something other than Gladys Knight and the Pips.

Unfortunately, Grandma and Grandpa didn’t last past two weeks. Two of the older girls found marijuana in their bedroom,
and they freaked out! The girls jumped on their bikes and tried to ride all the way back to Saint Joe’s—a two-hour car ride down the Hudson—to tell the nuns. They ended up flagging down a cop along the road. The cops found two brown paper shopping bags filled to the brim with pure homegrown weed. Scandalous! The geezers were arrested that same day. Although I was brainwashed, I mean a believer, in the Catholic Church—sorry, cheap shot—I didn’t want to see them go. Their sedate approach was such a nice change from the strict, uptight regime we had been subjected to.

Saint Joseph’s sent over a woman named Miss Carmen until they could find replacement parents. Miss Carmen was cool, but she followed most of the Home’s instructions to a tee, like enforcing the monthly chore chart that hung in the kitchen. We were each assigned a set of daily “charges,” as the chores were referred to, that were inspected and double-checked every single day. Good thing Beth and Janis stayed on. Especially Beth. She would take me riding in her Karmann Ghia around the countryside as we’d listen to Joni Mitchell and talk politics—Kissinger, President Carter, etc. I loved that. Beth also talked about her weight constantly, which made me understand Miss Connie’s diet pill—popping and made me aware of my own fixation. I had gotten so chubby—okay, fat—from eating all of my feelings. The other girls would taunt me about my chubbiness, especially Betsy. It started to get to me, and I began to get obsessed with my weight. No, I didn’t diet. Are you kidding me? With all that good food we had up there? I just felt like shit for being so fucking fat. It was all that I could think about, especially after being used to everyone telling me I was so cute. I know, shameless, but true. One day Beth taught me this poem, which still whirls in my head:

Well, something like that.

I had turned nine years old. Tiffany and Brett Rivera were selected to be the next Group Home parents. Tiffany was white, always wore a low ponytail and no makeup, and was very moody. I liked her most of the time, but never let on to how much her grumpiness annoyed me. I was getting good at placating people. Speaking of assholes, Brett was a big one. He was pompous, arrogant, short, and rather chubby with a potbelly. Yet, he thought he was fine as hell, which he wasn’t, and that his shit didn’t stink, which it did. I couldn’t stand the guy, he creeped me out at first glance. I never wanted to be alone with him and made sure I never was. He knew it too, which created a constant tension between us.

Brett and Tiffany did do a good job of keeping order, but Brett held the threat of their authority over us constantly. The GH parents were required to keep a record of absolutely everything that happened each and every day—from what we wore to what we did outside and with whom, to all of our disobediences—in a huge journal kept under lock and key. This record was sent down to Saint Joseph’s at the end of each week for review. If a problem developed (based solely on the Group Home parents’ account, mind you), you were sent to Dr. Tisby for further evaluation. And Dr. Tisby could send you back to the Home in a hot second and possibly Graceland Hospital. That was power, and Brett loved to exercise it. At least Tiffany did have good intentions despite her cranky disposition.

That Christmas I didn’t go home, either to my mother’s or to Tia’s. Why? I don’t know or maybe I forgot why. In any case, I felt unwanted but played it off, as usual. My half-sisters, to my surprise, didn’t get to go home either. Tiffany made a wonderful Christmas morning for us and the few other girls who stayed behind. She decorated the house, with our help, to a tee. The Christmas tree was big, bright, and perfectly trimmed by all, with a bunch of
presents underneath. And of course, I kept playing Johnny Mathis’s
Winter Wonderland
album nonstop—love him! It felt like a Christmas that people on television had. And I was so happy that Tiffany got me a bathrobe that fit. Because of my weight gain, my other robe could barely close—God, I got so fat. Brett ended up ruining the day for me because he kept asking if my “bad, nasty attitude” was the reason why my mother didn’t ask me home for the holidays. Who does that? Sick ass.

•   •   •

Spring arrived. Terry and I snuck out the window onto the ledge of our bedroom to watch the tiny clusters of stars twinkle in the night air. We were in the middle of our one-liner corny joke contest—don’tcha love it! We were supposed to be downstairs watching television with the rest of the household. Although it wasn’t a rule, we all had to do almost everything together, all the damn time—so annoying. Brett came looking for Terry, calling out her name—not mine. I instantly got suspicious. Terry was around fourteen or fifteen years old and had a body that wouldn’t quit. I had noticed him noticing her hourglass figure on the sly.

We got busted. After a long-ass reprimanding, he told me to take my shower downstairs and go to bed. Wait. Why only me? And why downstairs when our bathroom was upstairs, five feet away? Terry looked shaken, like she knew what was coming. “I’m gonna take a shower too.” Brett grabbed her arm, telling her to stay put. I freaked out, mind racing to think of something to stop this!

“You’re not allowed to grab her like that! I’m gonna tell Mr. Neil!” I said.

“Go to the bathroom! Now! Or you’re on restriction!”

“No,” I flatly stated.

“What did you say to me?”

I paused for a moment, scared shitless.…

“You just doubled your punishment! Two weeks’ restriction.… Come here. Now!”

I shook my head no. Brett then stood up. His size and anger scared me. Terry held her hand out.

“No,” she blurted out. “Go, Rosie. It’s okay.”

Oh no! I pretended to go down the staircase, but quickly ducked into the upstairs bathroom. Then I heard
smack … smack … smack!
Then silence. Dag, I just had to find out what was going on. I slipped out of the bathroom, went back to the top of the stairs, and stomped on one step over and over, pretending that I was coming back up. I walked back in.

“I forgot my bathrobe.”

Terry’s eyes were cast away. I took my time getting my bathrobe, glaring at Brett. He looked back at me—“You little shit,” he said—then got up and walked downstairs.

Terry and I went into the bathroom. She began brushing her teeth with her eyes looking straight into the mirror as if nothing had happened. I started to quietly cry. She turned around and wrapped her arms around me, slumping with an exhausted, muffled sobbing, making sure that no one could hear. She then pulled back and made a funny face. I smiled back and left it at that. I never asked her what happened, ever.

Within less than a year, Brett and Tiffany were gone without an explanation. I didn’t find out the real reason why until forty years later. One of the girls reported to Mr. Neil that Brett had raped her, and she was afraid that it was going to happen again, to another girl he’d been eyeing. I thought of Terry. And the worst part is that no cops were called. They arrested the senior citizens for smoking a fatty, but no cuffs came out over the rape of a child. Sick.

And to add insult to injury, Maurvive came to take Citizen,
my
sheepdog, back to live with her. I was devastated. I barely interacted with any of the girls after that, except Olga Lopez and Terry.

Terry started to act like a real sister to me after that. She taught me how to ride a bike after many attempts and crashes into the big fat tree at the bottom of the hill. She taught me how to fight too. I used to just slug with one arm, which didn’t always prove to be effective, especially with my other half-sister, Betsy. Her attacks went from verbal to physical. Why? Who knows? Even though I always fought back, her size and power were too much. She would beat the shit out of me, especially since I wouldn’t stop fighting back.

Terry could kick some ass. It came naturally. Plus, she used to help one of our brothers train for the Golden Gloves, though he never made it. She would take me out back and begin jabbing me in the face until I learned how to take a punch and, more important, how to move my head out of the damn way. Duh! Imagining that I was Muhammad Ali helped me stay in there, because those punches hurt like hell. Every time I got in a shot I would quote Ali—“I’m a bad man!” Terry would die laughing. The next fight Betsy and I had, I didn’t win, but I surely didn’t lose. I got some good licks in, especially a nice body shot to the stomach—we never had a physical altercation again. I gained her respect, sort of. I wish it had come in a different form, but I got it. And I began to understand my love for boxing. It takes dedication, hard work, guts, and belief to go toe to toe with someone. Whether you win or lose, you know you had what it takes to just step in that ring and face your fears.

Papi’s government photo—that’s when he was bringing brutal-sexy back! Holla! First apartment in New York. Abuela (Grandmother) Carmen, Dad, friend, his wife, Tia (seated, don’t know who she’s holding), Augusto on the floor.

My glamorous mom. This is how I remember her looking every day. [CREDIT: Courtesy of Sally Pabon]

Saint Joseph’s Catholic Home for Children, aka “the Home,” looking appropriately gloomy. That’s how it has always felt to me. To the left is the girls’ dormitory, to the right is the nuns’ quarters, and underneath, the cafeteria.

When I went back to the home forty years later, the nun in the middle recognized me and told me that she used to sneak me cheese sandwiches because she felt so sorry for me when food was withheld as punishment. She added that she remembered me as “so nice, so funny, so sad.”