It was in the early 90's that a deity exploded onto the scene and along with her my ability to make reasonable choices disappeared. Her name was Alejandra Guzman. For those of us that have been faithful from the beginning she is simply Ale. Ale was a rich girl turned dancer turned singer for no other reason than she was the daughter of one of Mexico's most famous actresses, and her father was a teen sensation back in the 60's. My grandma still thinks he is hot.
The Guzmans were all kinds of fucked up. The youngest daughter committed suicide by driving her Porsche as fast as it would go straight into a concrete wall. The other sister was a failed actress with a drug problem, and became famous just because she tried but not because of her work. Ale was the crown jewel. She would make the rounds at the cities hottest spots with politician's sons as arm candy and pictures of her doing inexplicable amounts of cocaine were always on the pages of TV notas (the mexi Us Weekly). Clearly it was just a matter of time before she reached icon status in my life. Almost a mentor.
My father did not understand my obsession, but respected it nonetheless. Even when I would try to emulate her drunk poses as she was stumbling out of a club, my family would just look the other way and pretend that it didn't happen. Secretly they were just jealous that I did the poses so well. I learned every song and trained my voice to sound just like she did (which was a mix between rough-night-morning-after and 30 years of smoking cigs....possibly crack) In other words, I was ready to go to one of her concerts and showcase my hard work and commitment. As odd as it may sound, picking a cocaine addict party girl as a role model was one of the healthiest things I had done in a while and my father supported this by getting some much sought after Ale tickets. As soon as I got them in my hand I knew exactly who I was going to take with me. I ran straight to my room and rummaged through my sterling silver cigar box (a gift to my dad from one of his clients) where I kept trinkets and letters and early teen shit. There it was, a postcard I had received from my mother weeks before "Greetings from Richmond!" it read. I still do not know what my mother was doing in Virginia and out of respect I never asked. Her new number in the city was on it, no address however (I wonder where I get my fear of commitment and closed off nature from).
Mom, I have tickets to see Alejandra!! please come with me. "Okay, I will pick you up but I don't want to come in, just come out when I get there". What to wear? what to wear?!! Duh, acid wash denim with a rip right under the right ass cheek, black steel toe boots, white t-shirt, lots of bracelets. Its all in the accessories.
The concert was amazing. I had been to many concerts but this was the first time I was seeing someone I actually liked, and she did not disappoint. Most importantly, I saw a side of my mother I have not seen in a long time. During one of the slow sets, Ale sang a song she wrote while she was pregnant with her daughter (whom also tried to commit suicide a few years ago. She went to rehab and now lives in Miami). In the song, she sings about how she wondered what color her eyes would be and what her voice would sound like. Right there in the middle of the song, standing in a crowd of thousands, my mother began to cry. She hugged me and told me she loved me. She also apologized for not knowing all the songs but reassured me that she would sing if she knew the lyrics. I hugged her back and I said "today is Mother's day. I didn't forget".
And there in the middle of Auditorio Nacional, a coke head with a raspy voice dressed head to toe in leather brought my mother and I back together.
Happy mother's day, Mamma Cortes.
