Authors: Rosie Perez
Leaving the club, Eric kept saying that I looked pathetic for even engaging. She wasn’t worth the energy. I was so angry with him, but I knew I should have walked away.
The next few days that followed, I was still upset. The glee and excitement on everyone’s face at the club as they watched us fight had sickened me. I kept asking myself, why did she hate me so much over a phone message? And how did it get so public? We ladies of color all know how hard it is for us in the entertainment business. This kind of shit hurts us all and those that will follow in our footsteps.
I quickly found out what was going on. Some of my so-called new friends had jumped on the Jennifer bandwagon and talked mad shit behind my back to her as a tactic to get in good with her, making up shit and distorting stories about my time at
In Living Color
. Funny thing—they were the same people who used to talk shit about her. One particular so-called friend of mine was so upset that I couldn’t get her a decent agent—I tried, but no one wanted to represent her—that she conjured up the whole thing about me being jealous of Jennifer as a way of getting back at me and impressing industry people with power. Petty bullshit. Welcome to Hollywood, folks.
I took a deep look inside and asked myself what my part was in this. Seriously. A friend who used to work at
In Living Color
told me later that it went back to the recording thing. Not just my stupid comment, but also that I had told Keenen she wasn’t that great of a singer. Really? I was being honest and just doing my job. But if it was true, that was her shit. I still needed to know why I reacted so poorly to this pettiness.
Then it hit me. I was still holding on to some of those old cards, working on old hurt feelings from the past, and using the same weapons that had served me well back then—in this situation and in others. That war was over, and I didn’t have to fight back like that anymore. I now had a wonderful life, with wonderful opportunities, and I was better than this. This was young stupid shit. I had to let go. And I did.
Unfortunately, I still hear rumors to this day. And every time I get asked about her in an interview, regardless of what I say, it’s twisted into a negative light. Sadly, there are mean, malicious people who get off on talking bad about others and who keep the fight going—them and yellow journalism. It’s okay. Like I’ve said, I’ve moved on. And I hope she has moved on as well. And hey, not for nothing, girlfriend did apologize.
• • •
The film
Fearless
was a flop in the States, it lasted three weeks in the theaters. The studio put all of its marketing dollars into another film that year, scared that
Fearless
was too depressing for American audiences. Then Europe came a-calling. It was a humongous hit overseas! The film and cast were getting recognized and nominated all over the place. The Foreign Press nominated me for a Golden Globe for best supporting actress, and at Germany’s Berlin International Film Festival I received a nomination for the Golden Bear Award for best newcomer and Isabella Rossellini got best actress. The cast and Peter were flown over to attend the ceremonies. I brought my best friend Julie to travel with me. We got a knock on our hotel room door—it was the producers. “Yes?”
“Rosie! You got nominated for an Oscar!”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
I slammed the door in their faces. They knocked again. I opened. “We’re serious! You got nominated!”
A dag-gone Oscar! Holy crapola! Nicolas Cage was the first to send a telegram. My first call was to Carmen, my second was to Dad, and I saved the very best for last—Tia. She screamed for joy!
Just when things were going great, this asshole wannabe actor-model who I had never met in my entire life went to the press and stated that we had gotten engaged. Why? Because his terrible manager told him it would get him publicity.
Lydia and my half-siblings, who I had not seen or talked to in almost a year, believed the story, went to the press, and told them how horrible a person I was for not inviting them to the supposed wedding or engagement party that never happened. They went so far as to say how ungrateful a daughter and sibling I was for not taking care of them, letting them live a life of poverty. Say what? Despite the fact that I had spent a year and a half pulling myself
out of debt in part because of them, last time I checked they were selling my shit on the street while I was recovering from head trauma and not one of them called to see if I was okay—except for the oldest sister, Amy, who had nothing to do with it—or for that matter to apologize. Yes, there was a bit of truth to the scandal—not the engagement part, but the fact that I was distant from them. But come on, people!
All hell broke loose. I was chased by paparazzi. The tabloids went crazy again. I was scorned and ridiculed, again. Instead of focusing on my nominations, this was the pressing story. I was accused of being a big fat liar, again. Great. God damn it, I was angry! How dare they, all of them? They had no right. But what was done was done. All the horrible memories and pain from the past that I thought I had left behind came back. My publicist at the time, David, who had the best intentions, told me to shake it off, to go out and be seen as if nothing had happened—easy for him to say. I should have. I should have played that stupid game and kept it moving, but I didn’t possess that skill set. I felt too much, felt all of it too much.
David was beyond frustrated with how I dealt with the Foreign Press too. I was defensive, at times passive-aggressive. I was sick of the condescension. “We can’t believe you pulled this role off! It’s amazing! It’s such a fluke! How did you do it?”
“I just did what the director told me to do.”
Bad move. So much for letting go of those damn cards. I pinned myself into a corner, making myself look like a dummy who was manipulated into an Oscar-worthy performance. And when they asked about my past, I just retreated within and went quiet. I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t stop it. I decided to go back to Brooklyn before the ceremonies.
One night, hanging out with Dad at Carmen’s, still angry, still in my bitch-ass mood, Dad told me that I should make peace with Lydia and forgive her. It wasn’t her fault that she had mental issues.
I should understand. Say what? I just nodded silently, out of respect, which I had a lot of for this man. I mean, I never even cursed around him, ever. Then, another night, he jokingly brought up a recent incident that involved this recording artist I thought I was having a relationship with—he thought we were just messing around, even though he told me otherwise. For some ungodly reason, this artist wanted to meet my father. I had never introduced a guy to Dad, ever, not even Ramier. I kept refusing, but later I gave in.
“Make sure you address him as Señor.”
“Is that some Puerto Rican shit?” He fucking chuckled.
“Yes! It is, okay? And it’s some simple respect shit too. So please, don’t humiliate me or him.”
We walked in. He walked up to my father. “Hey, what’s up, man,”… and gave my father a freakin’ pound! I thought I was going to die! My father didn’t reply, just nodded, with enormous disgust, and wouldn’t even look his way for the rest of the visit. I was pissed, at both of them. Dad didn’t care. “It’s your life. Do what you want, but you should break up with him. Now!” And I did.
So anyway, Dad brings this back up.
“I was right! I know when a man’s no good when I see one. He had no respect for women, for anyone, not even himself. I’m glad you listened to me and ended it. I hope and pray for your happiness that next time you pick better.”
Ooh, that pissed me off. I unleashed all the anger that had been building on my poor dad.
“Well, I guess if I had a better example, instead of you, I’d pick better.”
“No, no, no, no. Please, baby. Don’t be like that with me. I’m your father!”
“My father? You can only call yourself a father if you’re being a father! You were never there for me, ever! You left me to rot in the Home! And don’t give me that crap about not being able to bring a
love child home, ’cause you had no problem bringing Carmen. Yes, I know! I know that she’s a love child too! I swear to God I wish I’d never been born to you or my mother!”
“Please! Rosie!”
He grabbed his heart. I dismissed it, thought he was milking for sympathy. I kept going. Then he slowly got up and went upstairs into Angela’s bedroom to lie down on the bottom bunk. I followed, still on the attack. Carmen ran up, yelling for me to stop, telling me to not do this to “her” father. I turned toward her, telling her to stay out of it, this was between “our” father and me, and I was going to have my say!
When I stormed into the room, I saw my father curled up, crying like a little boy, clasping his heart. Carmen sprinted into the bathroom to get a glass of water and a cool washcloth. I knelt down in front of him, stroking his head to calm him.
“Daddy, please stop! I’m sorry! I love you, Daddy. So much!”
And there it was. I finally said it, said what I’d always felt, what I always wanted to say even if I didn’t know it. My father turned around and sat up, breathing heavily, then his head fell heavily on my shoulder and he began sobbing. Carmen came back in, handed me the wet cloth. I gently wiped it over his face, helping him to calm down. Carmen excused herself, saying she was going to get a glass of water so that we could have our moment.
Dad eventually caught his breath. He then looked down at the cheap, tacky carpet. (Carmen never had good taste.)
“All these years I thought I would never hear you say it. I know I don’t deserve your love, but I thank you.”
“Papi, stop. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m so sorry. You have no reason to, but I pray that you find it in your heart to forgive me one day—for everything.”
And there it was. The apology I always wanted, even though I didn’t know how badly I needed it. His apology calmed me immediately.
“I forgave you a long time ago, Pops. I just wanted you to be my dad, you know. And you have been.”
He reached for my hand, and we sat there for quite some time, holding hands in a quiet new beginning. We both felt Carmen’s presence as she hid respectfully in the hallway. He waved her over. “Come. I have something to show you both.”
We went into Carmen’s bedroom, and the three of us sat on her bed as he brought over a shoebox from his suitcase. It was filled with pictures of all the women in his life who held a significant meaning for him. He proceeded to pick out only the ones that meant the most.
“This one was my first marriage. She’s not good-looking, kind of plain, but a good woman. Bored me to tears.”
We all chuckled a bit.
“I thought that’s the kind of woman you were supposed to marry. You know, a good woman who cooks and cleans—but I didn’t love her. I always regretted how I hurt her.… This one, was only for the sex.… This one was crazy.… This one had style, I loved to show her off. But she was crazy too. This one, that’s your mother, Carmen—took me for every cent I had. That’s why I lost my house.… And this one is my wife. It took years for me to understand how much I love that woman.… But your mother, Rosie, she is the only woman I truly loved.”
I looked over at Carmen. I grabbed her hand.
“You know, I love you both very much, and I want you to always be there for each other and for your brother. We’re family.… You know, I don’t know why I love crazy women, but I do. Maybe it’s the sex.”
“Dad!” Carmen and I screamed and laughed in unison.
“What?” he said, laughing, “It’s the truth. Crazy women are good in the sack.”
“Dad!”
We spent the next several hours going through all the pictures
and hearing all of the slightly inappropriate stories attached to them. After a while, Carmen left to start dinner. Dad and I continued to talk. He told me the truth, the whole truth, about meeting my mother, leaving Halo—his wife—and everything behind for her. He told me about her shooting at him and how he left her—and unfortunately me as well—when, too late, he found out about her mental illness. He told me how he wanted to get me but Lydia wouldn’t let him—but even if he did get me, he was scared to bring me home for fear of Halo’s reaction since he had already begged her to take in Carmen. Most important, he said he was as much at fault as she was in all of this: he shouldn’t have left her pregnant like that, and he prayed that one day she and I would forgive each other too.
“You know, I know she wasn’t the best mother …”
“Uh, yeah, Pops.”
He kind of laughed.
“But, you know, not for nothing, I wasn’t the best papi either. But you gave me another chance. Everyone deserves another chance.”
I wanted to tell him everything—about the emotional and physical and mental abuse I’d endured from Lydia, even what my siblings endured from her, which they all did. I wanted to cry out that even though my half-brother tried to molest me, the real pain came from Lydia when she smacked the shit out of me and accused me of lying. All of it. But I didn’t.
I didn’t want to spend the rest of the time defending what had happened. I didn’t want to lie to him that I had forgiven everything my mother had done, and would agree to excuse all of her bad behavior away because she was crazy. I just wanted to keep spending this precious time with my dad. I wanted to keep holding his hand and listen to the wonderful, ridiculous stories of his adventures.
I FLEW back for the Golden Globes a couple of days before they happened. I went over to see Tia to ask her to come with me to the awards.
“You wanna go to the Golden Globes with me?”
“
Ay
, no. Then you would have to push me around everywhere and everything. No.”
Tia’s diabetes had gotten worse, and they’d had to amputate part of her leg. Sometimes she would scratch it, thinking that the part removed was still there. I had taken her to the set of
White Men Can’t Jump
with me a couple of times. She hated it. Hated having to be pushed around, waiting for long hours.
“It would be my honor to push you around.”
“
Ay
, please. Don’t be stupid. Plus, then I have to find something to wear and do my hair and it’s humid and everything. How is your mother?”