Authors: Rosie Perez
I gave her a look.
“She’s your mother. You should still look for her.”
I took a deep breath and calmly told her the truth, finally.
“Tia, you don’t know this woman. She has fooled everyone. Remember all those times I came home black and blue? Remember how I told you I fell down or whatever? Lydia did that to me. Remember the time she came after me and I ran home to you bloody and bruised? She did that to me. So please forgive me—I love her, but I do not like her, and I do not want a relationship with her either. I’m done.”
“
Ay
, Rosamarie, don’t say that. She’s your mother.”
“She’s not my mother. You’re my mother. You’ve always been my mother. And I love you for it. So please, respect my feelings on this.”
“But you have to understand. She’s crazy. You have to forgive her.”
“No, Tia. I don’t. At least not right now.”
Tia looked at me for the longest time without responding, like she was finally putting all the pieces together. She started to well up. I was getting frustrated. I don’t know why, but I was. I took another deep breath.
“See, this is why I never told you. I didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“Oh, Rosie. I keep telling you, that’s not your job.”
“Yes, it is, Mommie.”
Later we watched an old movie and I gave her a manicure. We never brought my mother up again for the rest of our visit.
I went to the Golden Globe awards ceremony with my agent and I think my publicist. As I took my seat, I wondered if all of my peers were looking at me differently because of the scandal in the tabloids. I went to the bar to get a glass of wine. It was just the bartender and myself. Then, of all people, Rodney Dangerfield walked in, eating a hero sandwich in his bathrobe and slippers! He was living at the Beverly Hilton, where the ceremonies were taking place.
“Hey, what’s going on? All the commotion woke me up! Look at all the fake boobs. Where am I, Hollywood?”
I died laughing. Two waiters quickly pulled up a small table and chair for him. He looked over at me. “Wanna sit?”
“Me? Oh man, would I! But I’m nominated and I have to get back to my seat.”
“Hey! Good for you. Who are you?”
I died again. “Rosie! My name is Rosie Perez, sir. I’m so excited to meet you. I think you’re hilarious, Mr. Dangerfield.”
“Oh, good. Tell everyone you know, kid. Wait! I know you! Funny girl.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Don’t mention it, kid. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Someone might ask me for money. Good luck tonight.”
I didn’t get the Golden Globe. Was it because of my asshole behavior, or was it that the better actor won? Who knows? But I got to meet Rodney Dangerfield—yay! And I took the loss like a champ. Seriously. It really surprised me how I was able to shake it off and enjoy the whole event.
• • •
So I call up my father.
“Hello, baby! I’m playing this song by Peggy Lee. Great singer and what a body! You know, I dated a woman in 1972 who looked just like her. What a body she had!”
“Dad. Please. Don’t start with one of your long soliloquies about women. Wanna be my date for the Oscars?”
“About time! I was dying waiting for you to ask!”
Why didn’t I ask Tia? I did. Figuring that she would say no again, I told her that I asked Dad to be my date and wanted her to come along. She shook her head no with this sad smile.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m happy you’re bringing him.”
“Please! Please come! If you don’t come, I’m gonna be so sad!”
“Why you gotta be so dramatic? It’s okay. You go with your father. I’m so proud of you.”
It made me very upset. Man! I asked Carmen instead.
I felt like everyone wanted me to wear something daring, press-grabbing, but I wanted something that reflected a respectful girl whose father was her date to the Oscars—a black velvet Armani gown with a laced open back and slight train won.
Carmen took forever to find an outfit. She had gained even more weight, and nothing fit except matronly looking gowns. She finally settled on one. It was a tight-fitting black, long, off-the-shoulder kind of—it had straps—gown. The top part was white with large white stripes down each side. She walked out of my guest room dressed in it. Dad and I gasped. Then he blurted out, “You look like Orca, the whale!”
“Dad!” we both screamed.
“What? She looks like Free Willy,” he said laughingly. I must admit, it was funny as hell.
Carmen and I felt out of place. I also felt melancholy, thinking about Tia, even thinking about my mother, wishing things were different. Dad, he felt happy as a clam with all of the hoopla. He flirted with every starlet, every woman on the red carpet.
“Dad! You’re embarrassing me. It’s not cute.”
“What? Can’t a man live?”
I was mortified and tickled pink. Good thing I chose him to be my date. I knew he would cheer me up. I was really scared that the media on the red carpet were going to ask me about Lydia and not about my nomination—thank goodness no one did!
We walked in, and Carmen spotted Raquel Welch. She pulled out her cheap-ass instant camera she’d picked up at the 7-Eleven. “Ooh, Ms. Welch! I’m Rosie’s sister. Can I take your picture? I’m Puerto Rican.”
We took our seats. Pops and I were seated in the front row, while Carmen was seated three rows behind. When Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise walked down the aisle, all heads turned. I could hear only Carmen’s voice shrieking with excitement. The couple took their seats … wait for it … right next to Dad and me—holla! I was so excited—I love both of them! I wanted to say hi, but was too shy. Then Tom reached over and introduced himself, then Nicole said hello to Pop and me, with congratulations—cool!
Then Dad got a diabetic attack! I panicked. I didn’t want to leave him, but I had to get him some orange juice or something. Tom leaned over.
“Is your father okay?”
“No! He has diabetes and needs some juice.”
“Go. I’ll sit with him, make sure he’s okay.”
“Oh, thank you!” Tom moved over to my seat and held my father’s hand! Can you believe it? Love him.
I dashed out, got a cup of OJ, and rushed back in. I then got stopped by security. I didn’t have my ticket or anything on me.
“Please,” I begged. “My father’s sick. Diabetic. I need to get him this!”
They still wouldn’t let me in. I exploded! “I’m fucking nominated, you ass! If you don’t let me in and something, God forbid, happens to my father, I’ll fucking sue your ass and this whole fucking production! I swear to God and the entire fucking universe!” They let me in.
Tom was still holding Dad’s hand. Love this guy! Dad drank the juice and calmed down. He and I thanked Tom, then Dad whispered in my ear, “Who’s that?”
“That’s Tom Cruise, Daddy!” I whispered back.
“Oh! He’s Puerto Rican or Cuban?”
“No,” I laugh. “It’s C-r-u-i-s-e, not C-r-u-z.”
“Oh. Wonderful guy.”
Then, right before they were about to go live again and announce my category, Whoopi Goldberg—love!—who was that year’s host, walked down from the stage and over to me and said, “You’re gonna win. You deserve it. I feel it.”
I turned toward my father with the biggest grin on my face. He gently grabbed my hand, whispering softly, “You’re gonna lose.” Huh? How the hell could he just say that to me? “The kid’s got it. You can’t compete with a kid. But it’s okay,” he continued. “I’m
proud of you. I love you, baby.” He squeezed my hand tighter. I leaned over, pulled his face gently toward me, and kissed him tenderly on his cheek. “Thank you, Papi. I love you too.”
I looked back at Carmen. She was a nervous wreck. We smiled at each other, I reached my hand back, and she reached hers toward me. Our hands never physically met, but, well, you know—luckiest girl in the world. I turned to Dad.
“I wish Tia was here.”
“Me too, baby.”
They announced the winner, Anna Paquin, for her wonderful and moving performance in
The Piano
. Dad patted my hand and then smiled at me. We both started to chuckle. Why, I don’t know. Immediately after they went to commercial and the applause stopped, Carmen stood up and screamed, “You were robbed! Fucking little bitch!” Great. Mortified to the millions—not really. Shit was hilarious.
I think I was the happiest loser in that place. We had such a great time at the after-party too. Especially when Antonio Banderas asked us to his table! That was such a nice thing to do. He was so great with my dad, even though Dad kept hitting on every woman in the joint. He even hit on Sidney Poitier’s wife. We were graciously asked to come to his table too—so cool, I loved every picture that man ever made! We politely said thank you to Antonio and headed over. Mr. Poitier had not joined us yet. Dad sat next to this beautiful woman, leaned in, and started in with his corny repartee. I kept pinching him under the table to stop.
“What? Why you pinching me?”
“Dad,” I tried to discreetly whisper. “That’s Ms. Sidney Poitier!”
He chuckled and in the same breath turned his head toward her and said out loud, “And may I say he has impeccable taste.” Lady was tickled pink.
• • •
Months later, still in Los Angeles, I crashed.
All the drama with my family and the tabloids, all the hoopla with the Oscars, everything just came crashing down on me. Plus, my manager at the time—who I had fired shortly after the awards—told everyone I had quit the business because I lost! Say what? Not true. Jeez. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even do my hair! Carmen said that I looked like an emaciated Chia Pet.
I kept thinking about the emotional cost of being in the public eye, not just for me, but for my cousins, my sister and brother, and most of all, Dad and Tia. Both Ismael and Ana Dominga were proud Puerto Ricans with impeccable reputations for being honest, humble, and good people. Aguadilla is a small town. And Dad was its unofficial mayor. I know it must have hurt when the whispering started.
Daddy told me to come down to Aguadilla and get away from the entertainment business. I stayed in bed for the first few days, coming out only to sit with him in the living room to listen to old jazz records or watch a boring Western. When his friends would come over, I’d excuse myself politely and go back to bed. He finally convinced me to get out of bed and go into town with him to get a couple of ice cream cones. Later, we went to Crash Boat Beach. We sat on the sand as I listened to him tell his tales of life after the war.
“… And in 1957 I went to the Village Vanguard to see—”
“Dad,” I interrupted. “Would you mind if I stopped acting?”
“No. Why would I mind? It’s your life, you can do whatever you like.”
“No. What I mean is, what if I quit? So all this craziness could go away.”
“Well, like I said, it’s your life, you—”
“I know it’s my life!” I yelled. “Can you just say what you want and need to say? Man!”
“Don’t be like that with me, please. I don’t like that. It makes me upset, ’cause I love you too much.”
I let out a deep, frustrated, guilt-ridden, but kind of happy and hammy smiling sigh.
“Sorry, Papi. Sorry I’ve been such a b-i-t-c-h.”
“No, no, no. Never call yourself that … even though you can get, you know, how you get.”
He started chuckling, cautiously at first. Then he couldn’t hold it in, and we both started to laugh.
“I’m very proud of you,” he said. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you love it and keep being my daughter. And don’t worry about the craziness. It’s not real. You know, in 1939, before the war, I was sitting on this very beach when I made out with this beautiful …”
He stopped for a moment and looked at me.
“Baby, you look beautiful with your hair natural like that. You don’t look like a Chia Pet.”
I smiled. To a Puerto Rican, that’s a big compliment.
“Pop,” I softly said.
I don’t know why, but at that moment the timing felt right. I quietly told him everything—almost everything. I didn’t go into detail about what happened in the Home or about the verbal, emotional, and physical abuse from Lydia, and of course I left out the molestation parts: I didn’t want to kill the guy. I simply told him there was severe abuse from all parties. Told him that I battled with depression, and that when I came down here just to sit with him, it helped. A lot.
I saw the pain and sorrow in his eyes. I also saw him marveling at me, through this slight curl coming from the side of his mouth. He hugged and kissed me. I gave it right back. We were both smiling. It was weird shit, but it felt good. I still felt sad. There was just no anger attached anymore.
“Come on. Let’s go home. You know, in 1945, I went to the Apollo to see Lionel Hampton! Oh yes! Only blacks were allowed
in. So I knew if they heard my accent, I wouldn’t get in. Oh yes! It was like that. So I acted like I was mute. Went up to the ticket booth and held up one finger. When I got inside, I saw a friend of mine from the ship—black Cuban guy. We started laughing and talking in Spanish, telling each other how we got in. Ah, but nobody cared. Inside, the American black people didn’t care. We were all just having a good time! Oh, and there was this beautiful lady.…”
• • •
Of course I didn’t really want to stop acting! I mean, come on, people!
I felt renewed. Staying strong, I got new representation with one of my former agents, Carol Bodie, and signed with another agency, ICM. I would still be offered stereotyped roles, and I still turned them down. But I could wake up each morning and look at myself in the mirror and get respect. I did independent films that I felt proud of, and became proactive and produced two projects for HBO,
Society’s Ride
and
Subway Stories
, along with a movie,
The 24-Hour Woman
.
And Broadway came calling. Yay! Who knew I was such a ham for the stage? Tony Award–winning stage and film director George C. Wolfe did and told me so! He was the artistic director of the Public Theater and wanted to offer me a role in Tony Kushner’s play
Angels in America
, which George was directing for Broadway. I stupidly turned it down. I know! Still, he didn’t turn his back on me and hired me for my debut at the Public Theater in
References to Salvador Dali Make Me Hot
, pushed me hard with loving hands, and showed me the depths of my talent.