Authors: Rosie Perez
More Broadway theater roles came my way. And I did Eve Ensler’s
Vagina Monologues
along with the likes of Jane Fonda, Whoopi Goldberg, Amy Irving, and Mary Alice. I met Oprah Winfrey for
the second time when we did the
Vagina Monologues
benefit at Madison Square Garden. When she entered, it was like the oracle entering. Brooke Shields was sitting next to her, and I was sitting next to Brooke. I begged Brooke, who had become a good friend, to switch seats with me. We were like two little kids.
“No!”
“Please, Brooke! I’ll cook for you!”
“No!”
Then Eve asked the audience to stand. She then asked them to raise their hands if anyone was a victim of child abuse of any kind—rape, attempted rape, incest, domestic violence, or all of the above. Oprah raised her hand. Okay, we all knew that. Then Brooke raised her hand. Most people kind of knew that, since the malicious tabloids had exploited her issues with her mom. Then I slowly raised mine. Holy crapola! This was the first public admittance I had ever made. Brooke looked my way—we had shared secret stories and bonded years back. She smiled, cried, and hugged me. Then Oprah turns to me—not Brooke, ha!—and says, “Oh, honey. I didn’t know. You’re a survivor too.”
Hold up! “Survivor”? The way she said it was without guilt or shame but with strength and dignity—Oprah’s no joke, people! She held out her arms to me. I rushed into them, crying like a little kid.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she said. “You’re okay. You’ve survived. Take it. Own it. It’s yours.”
Holy crapola! Then she patted the seat that Brooke was sitting in for me to sit in. I turn to Brooke with a gloating smile, whispering, “Did you see that? Did ya?”
“Oh, shut up, Perez!” We died laughing!
I was a survivor. I’d accomplished a lot. And I had my life that I always wanted too. I had my beautiful home in Clinton Hill. I had my activism and sense of purpose. And most important, I had my
family’s and friends’ love and support: Tia, Daddy, Carmen, Tito, all of my crazy cousins—especially Millie and Sixto—and my very good friends. I even got married, even though I divorced a year and a half later—ha! But that relationship, even with all its problems, served me well and taught me a lot about healing.
Seth and I started dating in 1995. We moved in together I think in 1996. He was the first man I had ever lived with. It was a great relationship, but like I said, we had a lot of problems.
Around the early part of 1997, I believe, I was not in a good place because of my mother, which I’ll go into in a minute. Eve Ensler had advised me to seek psychotherapy. I told her I wasn’t into it. I had tried going to see someone with Seth, and I hated it. My experiences with Dr. Tisby and the Home had closed me off to it. Eve told me that not all doctors fit; sometimes you need to shop around and find the one who works for you. She shared with me how this one doctor, Dr. Susan Grand, had helped her tremendously. Psychotherapy didn’t heal all her pain—there were times it would come back out of nowhere—but she learned how to cope and deal and get past a lot of it, how to find peace.
Peace? That fucking word again, that word Tia and Daddy always kept telling me to find. I thought I had peace, but I guess I didn’t. Hell, Eve had some deep issues. If it worked for her, maybe I should give it a shot. I told Seth that I wanted to go but couldn’t bring myself to do it. He held my hand on the way to Dr. Grand’s office and waited in the lobby for me.
“Hi, Dr. Grand. Yeah, so, I’m only here because my husband wants me to be here. I don’t really need this. I really don’t believe in this. I’m Puerto Rican, and we don’t do this. But everyone thinks I should give it a shot, so I’m here, but I really don’t need it.”
She nodded, smiled, and then sat silently for what seemed forever.
“Yeah,” I continued. “I’m gonna go. This is stupid.”
“Okay,” she responded. “Before you go, forget what everyone else thinks. I just want you to think, for yourself, if there is any part of you that believes you should be here.”
“No … not really … I just … oh my goodness! I’m.…”
I started bawling like an ass! And those were the only words I said for the rest of the hour! Every time I tried to say something else, snot and tears would shoot out.
“So, our time is up. Would you like to come in again? Tomorrow?”
“No thank you. This really isn’t for me.… What time?”
I stayed in therapy for a couple of years. God bless America three times! To be honest, the first six months were a wash. I kept lessening the severity of my past. I kept hiding things from her so I didn’t seem a complete mess. What can I say? I do have a lot of pride. And if I did tell her the complete truth about a certain situation from the past, I would always ask if my reaction to it was an indication of mental illness. She suggested that in addition to seeing her, I should see a psychiatrist as well. Say what? Bitch, I’m not crazy!
“You keep asking me if I think you’re crazy, which I don’t think you are, yet you seem not to believe me. I think if you see a medical doctor, they will tell you the truth. And hopefully you’ll believe it and understand the benefits of receiving help … And I think medication, which I can’t prescribe, might help you with your depression.”
Well, I never! The nerve of this woman! I am not depressed! Well, maybe a bit. But I certainly don’t need meds! I definitely am not going to see a freaking psychiatrist!
So I go see the psychiatrist. She was more straightforward, not harsh, but to the point. She asked me a bunch of medical questions and a lot of other things pertaining to my behavior. At the end of the session, she told me that I was not crazy on any level, but that I did suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder—all the night terrors,
the paranoia, the flashes and thoughts of possible danger, the explosions of anger, and blah, blah, blah. She also told me that I was wasting time in my therapy with Dr. Grand by not being completely honest and open—and that medication could help me get through this difficult time.
“If you are diabetic, you need insulin. If you have cancer, you need chemotherapy. If you have PTSD, you need psychotherapy and sometimes meds.”
I took her advice and got on medication for a while and went back to Dr. Grand. Oh my goodness, how great therapy was for me. And how great the pills worked too. It helped me feel
normal
for the first time in my life. That underlying anxiety was the first thing to go and I was able to tell my story without an agenda in a safe environment without judgment or public scorn. I was able to see how PTSD was limiting me, and I learned ways to cope and deal. I really worked hard on myself even after therapy. It was one of the best things I have ever done for myself. Truly. Especially since this was around the time I was dealing with more drama and heartache from my mother.
I HAD the honor of being asked to be the Madrina in the Puerto Rican Day Parade! I believe it was around early 1995. The drama of the scandal, the nominations, and the ceremonies had passed. I was in a good place.
So, I was in the parade by myself in a small convertible, waving at folks, feeling proud as can be. My youngest half-sister, who I had not seen in years—I hadn’t seen any of them since the fight back at the duplex and all that horrible drama—broke from the crowd, ran up to the car, told me that Mom had contracted AIDS, shoved a telephone number in my hand, and then ran back into the sea of people, leaving me dumbfounded.
I knew I had to call, had to go see her. I just sat in my house speechless for the rest of the day. Seth tried his best to console me. I tried to pull it together. I called Carmen, and she came right over. I finally called Lydia. I honestly do not remember a word I said. All I knew was that I had agreed to go see her.
Seth went over with me because I was afraid, I didn’t know if I was entering a trap. You never know with my family. I knew I had to suck it up and put all that fear aside. And I was right. All of my half-brothers were there. One of them was trying to videotape the visit, and it wasn’t for sentimental reasons—trust me. I refused to come in until he put the camera away.
I expected her to be frail and thin, but she had put on some weight and was embarrassed that her hair wasn’t done. Even so, since I had spent so much time around AIDS patients, I could see
the beginnings of the terrible disease. I held back the tears. She did too. Weird thing too, she acted as if nothing had happened, no tabloids, no betrayal. I did the same. I told her that I had high connections in the AIDS community and I could get her the help and proper care she needed.
“No, I’m okay. I have the Medicaid, and I’m okay. I’m just happy to see you.”
I called my friends in the AIDS community on my cell anyway. They told me that when she was ready, they would make things happen. My mother still refused any extra help.
Seth and I took the whole clan out to lunch to a nearby restaurant. Lydia took forever getting ready—I mean like three hours just to leave the house. I was sitting across from her. Seth was seated next to me. She kept staring at me, it made me very uncomfortable.
“What, Ma?”
“Lòpez was right.”
“What?”
“Lòpez. You remember Lòpez. He said you had talent, just like me.”
I looked at Seth, confused.
“You don’t remember? When you wanted the whistle instead of the doll. I smacked you good, but you didn’t care. You wanted that damn whistle. Remember? And you went outside and everyone was watching you perform?… Lòpez was right.” She started laughing. “You had talent.”
I was exploding inside. That shit wasn’t funny. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Seth grabbed my hand under the table. I turned to him. He was crying, and then he directed me toward Lydia. She was still staring, but now there were tears streaming down her face. I took a deep breath and grabbed her hand. My heart opened up and began to break for her.
“You had talent, Rosie. Lòpez was right,” she kept repeating.
“It’s okay, Ma. It’s okay.”
Later that day, when I gave Lydia money and told her that I would send more through my account, one of my brothers took me aside and asked me for money too—I couldn’t believe it. Even though I had money, I didn’t have millions like they thought. And even if I did, they had a lot of nerve asking me. They were four grown men who had treated me like shit in the past, who lived off her in that tiny apartment, rent-free—four capable men who could have provided for her as well. I gave him the rest of the cash I had on me. Seth was disgusted and made some excuse for us to leave. As we left, I was scared that two out of the four of them would follow me and hurt me in some way. I know that sounds ridiculous, but they were a violent bunch and they did have great resentment toward me. But then my thoughts quickly turned to Lydia. My goodness, this was horrible. I was so torn up about it. Why her? Why anyone? Man, this really got to me.
I called her, though not frequently, always asking if she needed anything, chatting with her cheerfully to brighten her day. I sent flowers on holidays and her birthday, but I rarely went over. I didn’t feel safe there, physically or emotionally. I also made good on my offer: I set it up with my accountant to send money whenever she needed it. Weird thing, it didn’t hurt so much that she never called me like it had done in the past. I guess now with her having AIDS, it wasn’t that important.
A couple of years later, I finally told Dad that she had contracted the disease. I’d tried to tell him before, but Lydia didn’t want me to, didn’t want me to tell anyone. Also, I didn’t have the nerve. I felt like he was still in love with her on some level. Man, he cried so much. He told me he wanted to go see her.
We brought four bags of groceries. I brought along a bunch of cash too. She was alone, in a small, cheap apartment. I was pissed that she was living like this because she could have moved, with the money I was sending. My four half-brothers had just gone out. (Yes, folks, they were still living there, still not helping her out.)
Her usual makeup-covered face was bare and tired-looking. Her good looks were gone. Still, she held on to an attractiveness that still compelled you to stare. And Dad couldn’t stop staring. He clearly hadn’t gotten over her—neither had I. I was all grown up, yet I still got nervous just being in her presence, but I wasn’t afraid of her anymore. I mean, I was cautious of her actions but no longer fearful. Sad. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me and kept fidgeting with an old portable tape player/radio.
“You’re still beautiful, Ma.”
She gave me that sly smirk and rolled her eyes. This time that look seemed heavy, sad. She popped in a worn cassette tape. An old-school, traditional Spanish ballad played.
“You remember this song, Ismael?”
Dad nodded. She began to sing softly, still a beautiful voice. She looked up at him like a shy schoolgirl, still wounded by their failed love. They both welled up with tears. It was as if I wasn’t even there, it didn’t matter that I was there. She was locked into him and he into her. Then it came.
“You sure you remember this song? No, you don’t. You don’t remember anything, but I remember everything. You had so many women. So many.”
“Never with you, Lydia. Never.”
“Hmph. Really?” She looked at me. “Do you know he left me? Oh yes, with you in my belly.”
“Lydia, don’t do this. Please. That was so long ago. Hey! Remember Santo? He and Ponchi got together! Oh man, he used to hate her! Hated her. God, that woman was so ugly, but she got him.”
He grabbed her hand and smiled warmly. She smiled back. Her bit of pride was hanging on the tears that were welling up.
“I’m gonna go to the store. Want anything, Ma?” I asked.
“No, thank you, baby,” she said.
Baby? Okay.
I was gone for like ten minutes. When I returned, they were
singing Spanish love songs to each other. When we left, my mother hugged me, tightly, told me she was going to call and come visit.
“You see, baby, everyone can change. You know, she has a lot of problems, but she loves you in her way. Make sure you look after her.”
“Sure, Pop.”
She never called, never wrote, never. This time I didn’t hold it against her. It was okay.