Jenicka got the most: Shaniqua, Shanisse, Chantilly Lace, and Ebatanisha Washington.
I tried my best to be a happy mother to my newborn girl and my older children. I pushed myself to continue being a devoted wife to my new husband. I still sold real estate and worked part-time at my father’s record label just as I did when I was pregnant. I cleaned the house and woke up at 4:00 a.m. to cook my husband’s breakfast and lunch for the day before he left for work at 5:00 a.m. I tended to my husband’s needs as best I could. I wanted him to be proud of me. I needed his love and support more than ever before, and I didn’t want to fail as a wife once again.
Unfortunately, by the time November came around, only a month after Jenicka was born, something did not feel right. Juan wasn’t as attentive or caring toward me. He seemed distant and began acting weird. He wasn’t as happy to spend time with me as he was before. Making our relationship work was no longer his priority and focus. At first, I wanted to shrug it off and act as if I hadn’t noticed the changes. I continued to be affectionate toward him although he wasn’t affectionate in return. I feared that he would stop loving me. I cried on my knees in desperation as I prayed to God every night: “Please, God, not that. I can’t go through this right now. Please make him love me like he did before.”
We began fighting about everything. Everything I did bothered him. From the words I said, to going to church, to the music I listened to. He didn’t like me playing Tupac or Biggie when he was around. I would change it to something more romantic, such as Sade or Kenny G, but that would only make things worse. We had to listen to the shit he wanted to play. The cooking wasn’t good enough anymore. The sink wasn’t clean enough. The kids weren’t quiet enough. I wasn’t good enough either.
One night the kids and I were sitting in the living room of our Compton home watching the Grammys. Juan wasn’t there. He had been spending a lot of time out of the house, and I had started to wonder whether he was cheating on me. He’d go to work early, nicely dressed and smelling good. But Juan has always taken care of himself, I told myself. And he loved me. And he knew how much I was going through. He wouldn’t dare put me through more. I was dealing with Trino and the girls. We had just had a baby, and we had gotten married to save him from deportation. All of these thoughts were going through my head as I was watching the winners walk to the podium to give their thank-you speeches.
“Mommy,” my eight-year-old, Jacqie, shouted. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“What? I am.”
“I just asked you why you don’t sing anymore. You can win a Gammy one day,” she said in her innocent little voice.
“Yeah, Mommy,” Chiquis seconded her. “Why don’t you sing again? You can win a Grammy, or at least be nominated for one.”
My poor babies, I thought. If they only knew how difficult and ugly the music industry was. How hard it was to be a female artist in my genre. More than that, if only they knew the real reason I had stopped singing was because my spirit had been so crushed the night I had been raped. I would never tell them the truth. They had more vision and belief in me than anyone else I had met during the time I was singing and recording. They had more vision than their own mother. My kids were dreamers. And that night their dreams lit a spark, a fire in my soul. A few days later, when my dad asked me to record another CD for him, I decided to give it another try. At the very least, as my father always said, I could just record the corrido album he so badly yearned for.
In June of 1998 my father called me into his office at La Musica delPueblo, one of our family record stores on Pacific Avenue in Huntington Park. But he didn’t want to talk music this time. He told me he had heard from someone that Juan was messing around with quite a few people
I tried my best to be a happy mother to my newborn girl and my older children. I pushed myself to continue being a devoted wife to my new husband. I still sold real estate and worked part-time at my father’s record label just as I did when I was pregnant. I cleaned the house and woke up at 4:00 a.m. to cook my husband’s breakfast and lunch for the day before he left for work at 5:00 a.m. I tended to my husband’s needs as best I could. I wanted him to be proud of me. I needed his love and support more than ever before, and I didn’t want to fail as a wife once again.
Unfortunately, by the time November came around, only a month after Jenicka was born, something did not feel right. Juan wasn’t as attentive or caring toward me. He seemed distant and began acting weird. He wasn’t as happy to spend time with me as he was before. Making our relationship work was no longer his priority and focus. At first, I wanted to shrug it off and act as if I hadn’t noticed the changes. I continued to be affectionate toward him although he wasn’t affectionate in return. I feared that he would stop loving me. I cried on my knees in desperation as I prayed to God every night: “Please, God, not that. I can’t go through this right now. Please make him love me like he did before.”
We began fighting about everything. Everything I did bothered him. From the words I said, to going to church, to the music I listened to. He didn’t like me playing Tupac or Biggie when he was around. I would change it to something more romantic, such as Sade or Kenny G, but that would only make things worse. We had to listen to the shit he wanted to play. The cooking wasn’t good enough anymore. The sink wasn’t clean enough. The kids weren’t quiet enough. I wasn’t good enough either.
One night the kids and I were sitting in the living room of our Compton home watching the Grammys. Juan wasn’t there. He had been spending a lot of time out of the house, and I had started to wonder whether he was cheating on me. He’d go to work early, nicely dressed and smelling good. But Juan has always taken care of himself, I told myself. And he loved me. And he knew how much I was going through. He wouldn’t dare put me through more. I was dealing with Trino and the girls. We had just had a baby, and we had gotten married to save him from deportation. All of these thoughts were going through my head as I was watching the winners walk to the podium to give their thank-you speeches.
“Mommy,” my eight-year-old, Jacqie, shouted. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“What? I am.”
“I just asked you why you don’t sing anymore. You can win a Gammy one day,” she said in her innocent little voice.
“Yeah, Mommy,” Chiquis seconded her. “Why don’t you sing again? You can win a Grammy, or at least be nominated for one.”
My poor babies, I thought. If they only knew how difficult and ugly the music industry was. How hard it was to be a female artist in my genre. More than that, if only they knew the real reason I had stopped singing was because my spirit had been so crushed the night I had been raped. I would never tell them the truth. They had more vision and belief in me than anyone else I had met during the time I was singing and recording. They had more vision than their own mother. My kids were dreamers. And that night their dreams lit a spark, a fire in my soul. A few days later, when my dad asked me to record another CD for him, I decided to give it another try. At the very least, as my father always said, I could just record the corrido album he so badly yearned for.
In June of 1998 my father called me into his office at La Musica delPueblo, one of our family record stores on Pacific Avenue in Huntington Park. But he didn’t want to talk music this time. He told me he had heard from someone that Juan was messing around with quite a few people
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