selena's diecicuatro
or, "pero me entiendes, verdad?"
In May of 1994, Selena was newly 23. She had released Amor Prohibido, her fourth studio album, earlier that year, had won her first Grammy, and celebrated her second year of marriage. In Tejano neighborhoods, she was already a household name, and in Mexico, she was becoming one.
That month, perhaps thanks to a growing international audience, Selena was a guest on El show de Cristina, a popular nightly newscast hosted by Cuban-American journalist Cristina Saralegui, in Spanish. There were about 70 people lucky enough to be in the live audience, and millions watching on television. Decades later, another half a million would watch the grainy recording on YouTube, as I did.
Though memories of Selena Quintanilla Pérez—la reina—are preserved and retold by her family, a museum, a movie starring J.Lo, and now a Netflix show, primary sources are more rare. Documented sit-down interviews, like this one, are rarer still.
In the clip, Selena and Cristina speak about childhood fame, parental pressure, values, and love. Prodding questions about dating and revealing outfits make the talk show feel like a conversation between aunt and niece, with unwritten power dynamics surfacing in nervous laughter. At times, I want to leap on stage, cut the cameras, and demand better questions—or at least more respect—but the uneasiness continues on until the end of the program, when they switch gears to formally discuss Selena’s foray into fashion and business. (1994 really was a big year—in January, the singer opened a salon-boutique in Corpus Christi, Texas, called Selena Etc., where she sold her original designs).
Cristina beckons, and three models strut on stage to pose in silk organza trousers and sleepwear, shoulders so far back that their arms hang behind them. The audience applauds enthusiastically as they turn, and seemingly satisfied, Saralegui asks the child prodigy-turned international sensation-turned designer about the line’s range of sizes, joking that even when labels say they’re her size, the clothing can be awfully difficult to get into. Selena responds: “casi todos los diseñadores ponen—si es un dieciséis, los ponen que es un diecicuatro.”1
“Catorce,” Saralegui interjects, correcting her Spanish. “Catorce, perdón!” Selena exclaims as she turns instinctually to face the audience, acknowledge her slip-up, smile, and stick her tongue out instead of biting it. “Disculpe!” she says, and before she can finish the word its syllables begin to bubble into laughter. “Así se habla Tex-Mex,” Saralegui teases. “Tex-Mex: diecicuatro.” Selena laughs, turns to the crowd again, and with her hand extended toward them says confidently, “pero me entiendes, verdad?”2
I do.
Two years ago, in November of 2020, when I first watched this interview, I wrote in my journal: “I feel a kind of pull to Selena that I can’t really explain. I think it’s because she lived and embodied that ‘in between,’ that borderlands, and she lived it so gracefully.” She apologized, but also gently forced the crowd to acknowledge that they understood her. She made a small mistake, and her reaction was big and beautiful.
When people ask why—or how—her music is as popular nearly thirty years after her death as it was during her prime, this interview clip is what I turn to. Selena is the proof that we can stumble in our native languages and be adored. That we can be “Tex-Mex,” or, in my case, Brazilian-American, and be whole. That Latine identity is more about collective care and connection than proximity to a projected ideal. Selena’s aura and music are timeless because so too are our communal aspirations to belong and be seen.
One day last month, at the Latinx newspaper I work at, my bosses were joking about Spanish language talk show hosts. I listened fondly to their teasing memories, but I was lost—until one of them brought up Cristina. “Oh my gosh! I know who that is!” I said, and stood up from my desk. (I had already started this essay, and was eager to talk about the video I had been obsessing over). They asked me how, and I stumbled through the explanation that I had only ever seen her once, in interview with Selena. My boss, Fátima, smiled. “Diecicuatro!” she exclaimed, and when I nodded she proceeded to quote the interview back to me, ending with pero me entiendes, verdad?
I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood staring back at her, nodding. I know how much Selena means, especially to Chicanxs, and to 1.5, or 2nd, or 3rd generation Latines. I’m writing about it. But I still feel surprised by moments like this, when people nod because they have already had the same thought, instead of nodding with curiosity.
It turns out, if you Google the word—or the not-word—“diecicuatro,” the first ten videos are edited snippets of that El Show de Cristina interview. “Selena’s Tex- Mex: ‘diecicuatro’” from 2018, “El diecicuatro de Selena <3” from earlier this year, “The ICONIC Diecicuatro” from last month…the list goes on and on for pages. The comments too. Maria wrote, “El diecicuatro más perfecto.” Ashley said, “Selena, eras tan preciosa y hermosa, que hasta tus equivocaciones las hacías ver tan bonitas y chistosas…siempre serás recordada aún en las nuevas generaciones…” Micaela commented, “mi sobrina le dijo diecicinco al 15 ayer, que tierno <3.”3
On August 26, Selena’s family released a posthumous album, Moonchild Mixes, on her behalf. My boss and I talked about it before we listened, skeptical about what the edited vocals would sound like, and whether the album was respectful in its immortalization or extractive in its distortion of time and grief.
Ultimately, though, we settled on the idea that with or without new music, Selena was timeless. How remarkable it was, we said, that Selena could be as relatable to me at 21 as she was to my boss in her early thirties as she was to my mom, who discovered her at seventeen and still cries watching videos of “Como La Flor,” as she was to the woman sitting next to me at the San Francisco Symphony’s Selena Tribute Concert this July, at least 50 and wearing a Selena barrette in her graying hair.
It’s with small moments like ‘diecicuatro’ that I realize I’m less unique than I thought, but in a good way. It feels good to belong.
“Como La Flor,” performed by Isabel Marie Sanchez and the San Francisco Symphony in an official tribute concert on July 9, 2022. Just before this, Isabel Marie looked up at the ceiling and asked the crowd to sing along, “so Selena can hear us.”
"Almost all designers—if something is a [size] 16—they put a 14." (Fourteen in Spanish is catorce, so Selena makes a mistake here when she says "diecicuatro.")
Cristina:"Fourteen [corrected]”; Selena: “Fourteen, excuse me! Sorry!" C: “That's how you speak Tex-Mex… Tex-Mex, ‘diecicuatro,’" S:"But you understand me, don't you?"
Maria wrote,"The most perfect fourteen."Ashley said, "Selena, you are so precious and beautiful, that you make even your mistakes beautiful and funny...you will always be remembered, even in the new generations." Micaela commented, "My niece said fifteen [incorrectly] instead of fifteen [correctly] yesterday, how tender."