| Age: | 32 | |
| Tint of my eyes: | Misty green eyes | |
| Figure features: | My body type is quite thin | |
| Music: | Rap | |
| I have piercing: | None |
A s is proper in Texas, especially in Corpus Christi, our group gave thanks for the Whataburger.
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Just Selena, if you please. The legendary singer, who was murdered 20 years ago, on March 31,would have approved of our sacrament. Una artista del pueblo, they called her. There were seven of us, and we were feeling jovial and optimistic, unaware of the wrath that our devotion would soon incur.
That crisis was at least an hour away. We represented a near-perfect cross section of Selena admirers—majority female, diverse in ethnicity, national identity, age, and sexual orientation. Those at our table included a Stripes convenience store employee whom Sylvia D.
At the center sat Sylvia D. No detail was too small to mull, especially since it was to be the last time Sylvia D. Like so many others in Corpus Christi, she had been left reeling by the loss, particularly the grim details: the singer had been killed in a fit of pique by the president of her fan club, Yolanda Saldivar, who shot Selena in the back with a. For two decades, Sylvia D. Now she was calling it quits.
There were a couple of reasons for this last cumbia waltz. For one, Sylvia D. More important, Corpus Christi had finally decided to put on its own Selena-themed music festival, a shindig known as Fiesta de la Flor, to be held at North Bayfront Park, downtown. Though many in Corpus Christi had assumed the two events were one and the same, Sylvia D. It was officially titled the 20th Anniversary Sylvia D. Talent Showcase.
Nestled against Sylvia D. Monica had grown up dancing to Selena songs, and between bites of burger, she and Sylvia D. So I told her that I was going to bless her, but it was too powerful for me. So I took her to my pastors, and I let them pray for her and I assisted. I said, This is overwhelming, so I prayed for her. Because I had a fever and there was pain and then, after that, the pain went away. As they talked, Monica and Sylvia D. Like I said, a terrible thought, but the connection was hard to shake.
Her devotion to selena turned into a possessive attachment
Anyway, the prayers had had mixed. While the pain was exorcised by showtime, the fever remained. Since then, it had been the spirit of Selena moving Monica. And now, thanks to her enthusiasm and entrepreneurial efforts, her role would transcend that of mere performer. In about an hour, she planned to host a meet and greet, a scavenger hunt, and then a trivia contest, a haphazard medley of activities to be held in the Q Productions parking lot, the Quintanilla family studio that also houses the Selena Museum.
Sylvia D. When we reached our destination, it was Ethan real last name Walker and his friend, Brooke, who talked to the nearby parks-and-rec workers to ensure that the grass would be cut in time. It was Ethan whom Sylvia D. And as the convoy loaded up to head to the museum, it was Ethan who motioned for me to ride with him and Brooke. There were subtle hints that this was a good idea: the Stripes employee seemed to go wherever the spirit took her; the man from Georgia looked a little lost; Monica fidgeted in anticipation of her meet and greet; and from the sounds of it, Sylvia D.
I jumped in the car that had more physical and psychic space.
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Like Brooke, whose mother had worked at the Days Inn where Selena was shot, Ethan had several connections to the singer. His adulation made him a frequent source for Corpus Christi Caller-Times stories on the singer. When we pulled up to the museum, I marveled at the compound before us. Now there were tour buses outside, several professional studios inside—some with beautiful hardwood floors and space enough to fit a small orchestra—and, in the back of the complex, a massive state-of-the-art soundstage, with an overhead sound-and-lights room.
In an industrial part of an already industrial city, the family had built a castle.
Off to the side, I caught sight of Monica, gathering her fans and followers, along with a few stragglers who must have thought she was some sort of official tour guide. Ethan and Brooke quickly snaked past them, whispering to me to stay close.
The next hour is something of a blur. The words punched the air before their author came into focus. It was Suzette. Gone was the chubby shine of a twentysomething in nineties attire. Before us was a fully realized woman, fit and in command. She was as beautiful as she was terrifying.
Her eyes narrowed, and I found myself inching toward the exit, plastering myself as flat as I could against the wall. A disagreement ensued. She even had a flyer. Ethan told Suzette he had no idea what that was about. Had he told a few out-of-towners exactly where the museum was located? Had he promised a personal tour? Had he made any kind of flyer?
Absolutely not! Suzette drilled him, going back over facts, repeating allegations, like a police interrogation. Then, as the back and forth continued, a door toward the rear opened. There was no mistaking the man who walked through. It was Mr. Quintanilla, the archetype of a father, with an oak-solid head, a guayabera-ish shirt over a slight paunch, forearms dangling at his sides. Out he came, lumbering toward us dating a cuban Corpus Christi woman all the slow, smooth, unstoppable force of a steamroller.
His famous tinted glasses barely shaded his unblinking stare. Suzette had kept some personal distance with Ethan. Quintanilla, not so much. What few inches of space he did leave were filled by his reputation. To know Selena is to know Mr. Quintanilla, for they are, in many ways, one and the same.
Everyone has a hot take of the man. Quintanilla is not.
Saldívar started a fan club for the singer and managed her boutiques
Everyone who has ever reported on Selena has a story about his or her own frightening interaction with him. An editor at this magazine has one.
Are you with the group? Ethan feigned passable ignorance. Of course not!
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He was just coming in to show this Texas Monthly writer around! Until that moment, Mr. Quintanilla had all but ignored me and my pasty-white-wallflower impression. But now, suddenly, I was in Mr. You know how a traumatic experience can trigger a blackout?
There was some of that. All I remember is my heart. It was going bidi bidi bom bom.
Quintanilla had a few beefs. The first was Sylvia D. Some cross-arguing ensued—between Suzette and Ethan, between Ethan and Mr. That a group affiliated with this celebration, or deathiversary, had shown up at the museum to incorporate it into its event—with the trivia, the scavenger hunt—only added to the insult. It implied that the family supported the activities of some impersonator from California and of Sylvia D. Quintanilla called herwhich they most certainly did not. There could not have been a worse moment for a Selena impersonator—especially a Sylvia D.
This is exactly what Monica did.
Seeing her, all dark hair and red lips, Suzette and Ethan fell silent. I held my breath. Monica, bless her heart, was completely oblivious. This was her first visit to the museum. Her eyes went all saucery; she got fan-girl flutters.
