Unbreakable: My Story, My Way (9 page)

However, it wasn’t always so fine and dandy. Sure, it was great at the beginning, but things took a turn for the worse when I least expected it. During January 1996, with the funds I had saved after a few closed sales, I was able to put a down payment on an FHA loan for a house on Keene Avenue in Compton. Because I had filed for bankruptcy in 1995, I couldn’t purchase it under my name; therefore both the loan and the title were under Juan’s name. I paid for the house, but he was the legal owner. I trusted my man. What a dumbass.

Our fights were never as violent and physical as my fights with Trino, but we did have our mini-matches. There would be some pushing and shoving here and there. If I recall correctly, it was February 16, 1996, a weekend night. The kids were visiting with Trino and his new girlfriend, Dora, as they did every weekend. Juan and I had an argument about something so minor I can’t even remember what it was. To cool off, I went shopping at the Target in Carson for a couple of hours. When I came home, he was gone.

Our bedroom smelled of his cologne and I noticed the iron was out. That night we were supposed to go to his friend’s wedding together. I couldn’t believe he had left without me. I sat home and waited. Midnight came around. Then 1:00 a.m. Then 2:00 a.m. He still wasn’t back. I was furious and plotted a way to get back at him. Finally, at 2:30
in the morning, his car pulled into the driveway. I was hiding by the side of the house. As soon as I heard the motor turn off, I jumped out and screamed, “Surprise!” With all my strength I threw a brick straight toward the front windshield of his Grand Marquis. As soon as I saw it crack into pieces, I ran at top speed back into the house. I could hear him swearing up a storm as I ran from the front yard, through the living room, and toward our bedroom. I didn’t make it to my destination. My race to safety came to a stop on the floor in the hallway. We pushed, pulled, and shoved each other. I tore his trademark chain off his neck. That was like cutting off one of his balls! In the end, he pushed me a little too hard, and because I refused to ever again take any physical abuse from anyone, I called the Compton police.

When the cops arrived, I was sitting in the living room. By then Juan was a lot calmer and could reason better than I could. The police officers asked him to leave to make sure another confrontation would be avoided.

“I can’t,” Juan told him. “I’ve been drinking.”

“Then you leave me with no other option,” the officer said. “We will have to arrest you.”

“If you arrest me, you have to arrest her too,” Juan told him as he showed off the scratch marks I had left on his chest.

The officer turned to me. “Did you do that, ma’am?”

“I sure as hell did,” I answered, putting my wrists together so he could snap the handcuffs on me.

Juan looked at me. “Jenni, stop. We can still drop the charges. Be smart.”

“Naw, fool,” I responded. “We’re going to jail.”

They drove us in separate police cars. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. There I was in the back of a police car as the officers
stopped by the drive-through of the doughnut shop on Rosecrans and Central. Then they took me to the Compton jail. I sat on the cold, hard floor wondering what the hell I had been thinking. The cops interviewed us and tried to mediate the situation. That’s when I heard Juan say, “Well, the house is mine. It is not your house.” This was the first sign of his being a greedy asshole and was a red flag as to what was to come. I was so fucking pissed at him and even more pissed at myself.

I called my brother Juan from jail that night. Although I’d probably be released in the next few days, Juan begged my parents to bail me out. He couldn’t bear his sister spending time in jail. Since the O. J. Simpson case, a major change had occurred in the laws regarding domestic violence. Bail amounts were much higher. My parents had to come up with 10 percent of $50,000, plus they put up the title to their house as collateral. Of course I paid my parents the $5,000 back as soon as I could. That’s what I got for being a stupid shit.

Eventually, Juan and I dropped all charges against each other. I realized that, as in so many incidents before and after, I was at fault. I wasn’t perfect. One of the great things about Juan was that he would forgive and forget easily. We vowed to try harder and to make it work for the sake of our love and the kids. Juan told me that despite our differences and problems, he never wanted to see me with someone else.

Our efforts worked for a while, until he was arrested and convicted for immigrant smuggling on August 1 of that same year. During his seven months in prison he was transferred from El Centro, California, to Arizona, to Oklahoma, and finally to a correctional facility in Big Spring, Texas. I wanted to make sure I did whatever I could to make those seven months as bearable as possible for him. I loved him. I had to be his gangsta bitch and have his back. During Thanksgiving
weekend I bought a plane ticket and flew to Texas to see him. I rented a car, drove in the pouring rain, and got lost on my way to Big Spring. I didn’t care. The only thing on my mind was to surprise him and let him know how much I loved him. I rented a hotel room for the weekend and visited him each day. We talked about what we were going to do when he got out, how we both were going to be better for each other and for ourselves. I told him about how I drove around to the different radio stations to deliver a master copy of “La Chacalosa” to them, but none of them was playing it because I wouldn’t pay off the disc jockeys. He told me not to worry, that that I was going to be a big star one day. He was sure of it.

Fast-forward two months, to me sitting on the pavement on a street in Compton. Waiting for the three men in the white sports car to drive away. Feeling the pain and shame of what had just happened to me. Hearing the green-eyed monster hissing, “Aren’t you El Cinco’s lady?” and “Leave me the fuck alone,” over and over.

I sat on that pavement long after I saw their taillights disappear. I wanted to make sure they were really gone. Once I felt that they were never coming back, I lifted myself off the curb and walked over to my car to get myself home.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I sat there in the darkness, all alone, shattered inside. I didn’t feel like the same Jenni anymore. Ever since I was a little girl, I was a fighter. I could go toe-to-toe with any of the boys from the neighborhood. But my will had been taken away. I was no longer the tough, brave, invincible girl my father and brothers had raised. I had lost my first fight.

A mixture of fear, sadness, hatred, and deep shame took over me. I relived the trauma in my head over and over, wondering what I could have done differently. Why did I get out of the car? Why hadn’t I been smart enough to memorize their plates? Why didn’t I pull into the
gas station on Central Avenue and scream for help? Why didn’t I kick them in the balls as my brothers had taught me? I decided I wouldn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t call the cops. I wouldn’t worry my parents or any of my family members. I wouldn’t dare tell my kids. Instead, I kept it inside and fell into a deep depression, all on my own. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was no longer the intelligent warrior my father was so proud of. That Jenni was gone forever. She had disappeared in the back of that white sports car.

Juan was released three weeks later, on February 14, 1997. I picked him up around 8:00 p.m. at LAX. I tried my best to hide that I was going through a difficult time. I had been depressed and deeply suffering since the night of the rape. Juan would walk into our bedroom to find me crying inconsolably. “You don’t love me anymore, do you?” he’d say. “You don’t seem happy that I’m back home.”

“Please be patient with me right now, babe. I need you at this time. I do love you very much. More than you can imagine.”

What he couldn’t imagine was that I was not the same woman I had been when he first went to jail. He couldn’t imagine how weak my mind was or the trauma I had endured. Holding each other that night, we cried until we fell asleep.

After a few days, because I felt that it was driving me crazy, I told him what had happened. For years I never told anyone else. Confiding in Juan felt good inside. He embraced me and so badly wanted to help me feel better. I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew who I was talking about when I described the man with the green eyes who hissed, “Aren’t you El Cinco’s lady?” But Juan didn’t say a word.

Soon Juan began a job at Fairchild Fasteners in Torrance. My brother Gus worked there and recommended Juan for a high-paying position. However, since Juan was an alien resident who had committed a serious felony, proceedings for his deportation also began. After
analyzing every other option, the attorney we hired advised us that the only way for Juan to avoid deportation would be if he married a US citizen. So what did I do? Right.

We were married in a civil ceremony at Norwalk City Hall on June 9, 1997. I was with my groom, my three children, and four months pregnant with my fourth child. Juan was excited that we were having a baby. He thought a baby would keep us together. I was not as happy. I thought this would put a halt to the minimal underground success I had attained with my song “Las Malandrinas.” People in the industry assured me that it was a jumping-off point, but then there I went and got pregnant again. Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled about having another baby, I was happy that we were finally experiencing some stability in our relationship.

A major part of this newfound peace was due to our attending church regularly. We were growing both spiritually and emotionally. I felt that the bond between us was becoming stronger and stronger. I was happy I had married him, although it wasn’t for all the right reasons nor was it under the best of circumstances. I didn’t get the wedding I had always dreamed of, but we planned for one in the near future. Our love, we felt, deserved to be celebrated in a religious ceremony. We needed God’s blessing.

In the months after we married, we were faithful visitors at the Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday services at Ministerio Logos, a Baptist church where my brother Pete was assistant pastor. Pete and Pastor Mejias taught the Word in a way it had never been taught to me before. My reason for living was a lot clearer, as was my spirituality. I felt that for once in my life I had found peace. I was good. God was good. I learned that He works in mysterious ways to show us His goodness.

On an unbearably hot Sunday in August of that year, I was headed
down the 91 freeway toward our church. Pastor Tin Mejias had asked all the parishioners to make sure we attended on that particular Sunday. He had invited a prophet, Noe Sierra, to preach and deliver the Word of God. Many members of my family were there. My children and I sat in the pew, desperately wanting to hear the positive promises the Lord had for us. I was excited. Little did I know.

God spoke through him in a powerful and surprising way. He began calling members and visitors of the church up to the altar. He’d say a special prayer for everyone he called forward. He prophesied to many that afternoon. Some would find jobs, some would be healed of illnesses, some would grow spiritually, some would have to make changes to be happier in life . . . Suddenly, he saw Rosie, who was then sixteen, sitting quietly on one of the church pews. He looked at her, pointed her out, and asked her to come forward.

“The Lord has Word for you, young lady,” he said. “He wants me to tell you that you are special to Him. He loves you.” Rosie began to cry. He looked at her. “No more. It will be over right now, right here.” The prophet had a stern but tender look on his face. “At this moment all chains of sadness and depression shall be broken. You will no longer be tied down by those spirits. Spirit of sexual abuse, exit her life!” I stared in shock. “A spirit of sexual abuse has surrounded your life since you were a little girl. It has saddened and tormented you. You have not been able to be a normal little girl because of it. But God tells me to tell you that it ends here. Sadness, no more. Torment, no more.”

I was numb, but knew that it truly was the Lord who spoke through the prophet on that unforgettable Sunday morning.

I don’t know what the rest our family thought that day, but I didn’t want to put my sister in an uncomfortable position. I wouldn’t ask her about what the prophet had said. I knew that sooner or later whatever
she was dealing with would come to light. I prayed for her soul that night. I asked God to let me help in any way I could. I asked Him to bless the sister I loved so much. I repeated the prayer I had learned at the rehab center when I was younger: “Dear God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

God Never Gives Us More Than We Can Handle

Through many dangers, toils and snares,

I have already come;

’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

—from “Amazing Grace”

_{“He knows our weaknesses,}
but He also knows our strengths. If we are going through difficult experiences, trials, or tribulations, it is because God knows we are strong enough to deal with them. He knows we can learn from the experience and hopefully be able to help others who may be experiencing the same problem. God never gives us more than we can handle.” My pastor’s preaching was resounding in my mind on that gloomy September 23, 1997. Pastor Tin had taught me so much about the Word of God and how to apply His teachings to my own life.

God is good, I thought as I stood in front of the glass door at my brother’s office building on Market Street. I was seven months pregnant
and didn’t feel like getting all dressed up for work at the Century 21 office I was working out of in those days. At Pete’s office I could dress more kicked back and wait for the kids to get out of school, which was right down the street. God knows everything, I thought as I rubbed my tummy, feeling my baby kick. Just at that moment I saw Rosie walk down the street toward the office. My beautiful sister, I thought. I loved her so much. Her existence was such a blessing to my life. I could see her hair blowing in the wind as she squinted her eyes because of the sunlight. She looked to be deep in thought about something.