Rosie Perez talks to Stephanie Sy

Stephanie Sy: The book starts out with your early years with your tía, your aunt, who took really good care of you. At some point your mother, who you didn't realize was your mother, comes and gets you from Tía's house and puts you in a Catholic children's home. That's when you first started experiencing abuse. The book is filled with so many painful stories. How difficult was it for you to go back mentally, and recount those stories, and put them on paper?

Rosie Perez: The good thing is that I have done the hard work in regards to going to get help, to seeking therapy. I had thought because I was successful, and I had a lot of money — had a great career — that I had risen above all the issues. I realized probably around my early 30s that I had not. Prior to writing the book, I had done extensive sessions of therapy because I didn't want my past to win. I wanted to reap and enjoy all the benefits of life, and all my efforts to have a great life.

So when I sat down to write it, was it difficult? Yes. There were days where there was a lot of crying. There were days where there was a lot of laughter. 

The abuse in the early years was really striking: abuse from your family, abuse from some of the nuns — in the convent you were sent to as a toddler, you were 3 years old. Did it feel sometimes like everyone that was supposed to be taking care of you was hurting you?

No. There were certain people that were supposed to be taking care of me that were hurting me. But as a child, everything was very clear to me. It was confusing at first: Who's my mother? Who's my aunt? Why am I here? Who are these people with the funny scarves on their heads?

The nuns?

The nuns. But once I started to assess the situation, I was like, "OK." It wasn't a place where everyone that worked there, all the nuns, all the priests, all the counselors, were bad and abusive. There were a handful of them.

But there were some really great, wonderful people. I don't view life like that. Plus, I still have my aunt in my life, and I had my cousins, who were wonderful, who I thought were my sisters. I think that those three years with my aunt helped me understand that there is good love out there. I was loved.  

Those times with your aunt are the real bright spots in this story of your childhood, but there are the times with Sister Renata. There was one day where she slams your head repeatedly against a locker. You call her evil incarnate in the book.  Was she just the prototypical strict nun at a convent? Or was she really as sadistic as she seems to be?

I think she was a little bit more sadistic than the standard strict nun. She went overboard.

Is there one particular incident besides the locker incident that stood out to you?

One time, me and the girl I call "Crazy Cindy," we were in trouble. So we had to clean the entire bathroom, at 6 years old. There are about six sinks, and there's three bathroom stalls, and three to four shower stalls, and then the entire floor. We were there for a good part of the day. We found the cough syrup. Back then, cough syrup was more for the alcohol. So we had gotten tipsy. We turned on the radio in the bathroom that we weren't supposed to turn on. I was Diana Ross, she was the Supremes. Then I was David Ruffin, and she was the Temptations. I was the Pips, and she took Gladys Knight.

And by that time, Sister Renata comes in, starts screaming and yelling at us, tells us to hold out our hands. We did. She proceeded to whack them, and then told us to turn them over, and whacked them again — to the point where it was cracking, and there was blood, and the stinging. It was so hard, and terrible, the pain.

Then she had the gall to say, "Now go back and finish cleaning." I said, "With what, our feet? Dah-duh-duh." And it was crack. She just smacked me across the face, and backhanded. It was, I think, about three or four slaps — so was adding insult to injury.

Then we had to go and clean the bathroom. The girl, Crazy Cindy, started cursing. Sister Renata thought it was me. So I had bloody hands. They're stinging. I'm trying not to touch the soap, because it's burning. She takes the soap out of my hands and sticks it into my mouth. Tells me I have a potty mouth.

And you were 6?

I was 6. But part [of] my personality is I couldn't stop laughing. Because while she's shoving it in my mouth, I'm snotting, and there's bubbles coming out of my nose. I couldn't stop laughing. I drove this woman crazy.

Even at 6, you always had a comeback?

The timing was impeccable.

You were always a ham?

I was a ham. No, I was not a ham. I was ham and cheese served on a platter. I was ridiculous.

Tell us who Crazy Cindy was.

She was my best friend, my confidante, my little angel.

She's a girl that in some ways you seem to look up to because she's brave.

She was very brave. I don't know if she understood how brave she was, because she was kooky. But she had an audacity to have fun, and to take chances and risk at a very high cost. We knew what the costs were, and she did it anyway.

You write about how she was institutionalized and went through electroshock therapy. 

That was a rumor. It was rumored that she did — [that] she went through that. But she came back, and she was not the same person. 

We should say that all the names were changed in the book to protect identities. Crazy Cindy had the moniker "Crazy," but so did your mother. You called your mother crazy many times in the book. You describe beatings from her as well, the verbal and the physical abuse.  Was she ever diagnosed as mentally ill?

She was diagnosed as mentally ill. Yet they still did not take her parental rights away because they viewed her as being responsible by putting me in a home, even though I was in a loving home, my father's sister. 

You mean in Tía's home?

In Tía's home, yes. Initially, I used to think that [my mom] was just extreme, that she had this extreme personality. Then by 8 or 9 years old, I was like, "No, she's crazy." I didn't know to call it mental illness. I just said, "She's crazy." And other people would confirm it to me, thinking it was funny. And there was nothing funny about it. There's nothing funny about mental illness.

When you were a child, did you feel, like, rejected by her? 

Yes, absolutely, from day one.

From the day you could remember her?

From the day I could remember her, I felt rejected by her. From her leaving me in the home. From her treating me differently from my other siblings. For her not taking me back. People would always ask me, "Why would you want to go back?"

That's the crazy dynamics that exist with the abuser and the person being abused — especially a child and their parent. You want your parent to love you. You want your parent to want you. Then after a while, after they beat you down so much, you want them even more. That's very, very difficult for people to understand. But it is what it is. And it was very true for me.

After you leave the convent, you go to a group home, and you're actually excited about that. You write about how you sort of got this moral code from that. Was there a silver lining to being in the system, as you describe it in the book?

Yes. You know, when you talk about the issues of child abuse, and the foster care system, and being a ward of the state, policy means everything.

What do you mean?

Policy means everything. There were policy changes that the nuns couldn't hit us anymore. There were policy changes that allowed us to get a job, because upstate there was so much prejudice. If I went to go get a job, the only job that I could get was, "Well, you could rake leaves in front [of] my lawn." The [Comprehensive Employment and Training Act] Program with President [Jimmy] Carter allowed me to have a real job, and get a real paycheck, at the age of 12, 13, 14. That's fantastic.

When we were going to the group home, they told us, "All of these things are going to be available to you." I was beyond excited. I was the most excited that there wasn't going to be a damn nun around. I was, "Yay! God bless America," three times, you know? And, you know, that was subsidized by the state of New York. 

And it worked for you?

And it worked. It gave me a fighting chance. Yes, I was a child of poverty. I was a child of the system. When I went to go live back with my family in Brooklyn, I was a child of welfare. I was a child, you know, of this or that. And certain policies allowed me to better myself, because I wanted better, and I knew I was better. It's not like we're like, "Oh, poor pity me. Can I have a handout?" It's like, "No, can you just help me a little bit? And I will do the hard work."

Right.

That's what I mean about policy is fantastic.

Do you think that there are enough social safety nets today, and those same things for children that might be in similar situations? Or do you think that's somewhat being disassembled?

It has somewhat been disassembled. I mean, here we are in a group home, upstate New York, right next to the IBM Country Club Estates. Not too shabby, you know? I am privy to the middle- to upper-middle-class lifestyle.

Is that here today? No. There's so many cutbacks. What child today can go get a job that's subsidized by the government — and they can have a paycheck and learn how to have their own bank account, and so on? It's not there.

What has gotten better is child protection laws. That has gotten better. What hasn't gotten better is certain rights of the child. For instance, I see so many children because of bad relationships, because of hurt feelings, and scorned lovers being ripped away from their parents, or one parent, you know, becoming vindictive towards the other, and the child is in the middle. Then they get thrown in the system, and then they're lost. That kind of thing has not gotten better. I think it actually has gotten a little bit worse.

You were really into watching television as a kid. Like, “The Jackie Gleason Show,” you liked old movies, you liked listening to all types of music, including the Beatles. Is that when your interest in entertainment began, as a young child?

My interest in entertainment began with music. My aunt said that I used to dance in my crib nonstop. I just loved when my cousins would clap for me. 

What shows do you like?

Actually, I watch a lot of boxing. It's a metaphor for life. Boxing, the sweet science, is to hit and not get hit. I was doing that from day one. 

Sometimes you would physically fight back?

Yes. Well, I had to physically fight back or else, you know, my ass was going to get kicked. And it did, a lot. And I got tired of it, so I learned how to box. I learned how to fight.

But you didn't just fight kids at school. You fought back against the nuns. Then you got into a fight with Don Cornelius when you were on “Soul Train.” Can you tell us that story?

That was a clue that I needed help. I thought, "I'm so together. I'm in college. I'm going for my major in biochemistry. I'm fantastic," you know? "I'm on 'Soul Train.'" And if you just pressed the wrong button, it was, like, just a nuclear explosion would occur in me.

That's what happened with Don Cornelius. He touched me, and pulled me, and yanked me inappropriately. I freaked out, and I just started swinging, and started grabbing things. The first thing I grabbed was a two-piece Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was a low point. I was beyond embarrassed. I was still walking out with this pathetic bravado like, "So? I don't care. I don't care." By the time I get in the car, I start crying. I felt like an idiot.

You threw a chicken wing at Don Cornelius' forehead.

Yes. It's embarrassing, and it was so wrong. I thank goodness that we were able to make up before his passing. But that's what I mean is like, "Am I really enjoying my life? If I am this person holding on to this anger from the past, am I really enjoying my life?" No.

You became a choreographer. You started by choreographing Bobby Brown, which is huge.

It's huge. I was so excited. I knew it was going to be big.

How did that even happen? Did you have formal dance training? Or was it just all those nights that you described clubbing with your cousins?

It's the nuns.

The nuns?

The nuns.

The nuns helped you with your choreography?

I have to give them credit because they put me in tap. They told me I had talent. I was the lead bunny in the Easter parade.

You proceeded to work with every major name in hip-hop at that time.  Were you easily accepted into that world? Or was it intimidating?

No. It wasn't intimidating to me, it was very frustrating. The misogyny was disgusting. The way they perceived women, treated women was appalling, and probably is still appalling. But I refused to be denied. I was like, "Excuse me, those are your issues. You got to get over it, because I want to get paid, and I want to do this dance number. And I want to work with this person, so I'm going to go for it."

What's interesting, I didn't know until I read your book, is that acting and choreographing sort of came by accident. You were in college, you were a biochemistry major. Do you ever look back and think you chose the wrong route? Or is this where you're supposed to be?

This is where I am supposed to be. This was supposed to happen. And yet I still have fantasies of finishing my degree. I'm still a nerd.

At the end of your memoir, it becomes really clear that another thing you want is to sort of set the record straight. This is your story.

Yes.

What else do you want this book to accomplish?

I want it to say many things. I think, first and foremost, to say that there's a certain group of people here in the United States that are thought [of] as less than, just because they were born into poverty. And it's not right, and it's not fair, and it's not true. I want those people to understand that they need to push through all of that, push through all their fears, and all their doubts, and step into their greatness and claim it. Because in this country, you have that right.  

This interview has been edited and condensed.