I seem to start every post by setting the scene, so here we go. It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning. The breeze coming in through the open window is beckoning me to get outside. I see the sunshine dancing on the tree branches—it, too, is asking why I’m on a computer. It’s technically Fall but the heat and humidity are telling a different story. Even Mother Nature is having an identity crisis.

In this memoir experiment, I’m up to the part where I landed the role of Editor of Glam Belleza Latina. This quarterly beauty magazine was Glamour’s little sister. It was written in English with just a dash of Spanish (aka, Spanglish but never the cringey type). Every cover featured a major celebrity, and we conducted exclusive interviews with all of them.

There’s so much to unpack about this era of my life, when all of my sides came out to play. It was beautiful and challenging and exciting and stressful. I had to grow and learn some more. I had to advocate for my community while ensuring that the magazine was worthy of Condé Nast. That it was worthy of my own high standards. It was glorious. It was special. It is missed.

But like Marc Anthony, aka Héctor Lavoe, sings in El Cantante:

Todo tiene su final
Nada dura para siempre
Tenemos que recordar
Que no existe eternidad

What follows below is a chapter (essay?) on the day that I was laid off from Glam Belleza Latina, with a reflection on why I needed to get back to editorial. Re-reading this, even a decade later, it still stings.

***

CHAPTER: La Editora, 2015

I headed to work just like I’d been doing since I was 14 years old. I walked with purpose, zipping through the long, crowded NYC blocks between the subway and the office without grazing a single tourist. It was freezing, too freezing for mid-November. Thanksgiving was days away and soon, we’d be wrapping up the year. I couldn’t wait.

I had a busy day ahead, but I’d given myself a pep talk. Submit the Spring lineup a week ahead of schedule, tie up loose ends, and just do what you have to do. Future Patricia will thank you. I wanted to enjoy my Wednesday. And it was going to be a good one. At noon, a car was picking me up to take me to Salma Hayek’s beauty line launch, and later, I was one of a few editors invited to dinner and interviews with Mariah Carey in celebration of her M.A.C collaboration. I was dressed up. My hair was blown out and my makeup, always on point, had a tad more wepa.

I worked in One World Trade Center, that marvel that helped give a post-9/11 New York City its mojo back. Parts of the building and the surrounding grounds were still under construction, but the two memorial waterfalls at Ground Zero, framed by the oversize windows that I passed daily on my way to my editor’s office, had already been unveiled and visited by tourists, locals and me. Inside the expansive building, the main floor was stood up in marble in some spots, littered with sheetrock in others. Its future self, and all its glory, was a few years away but its promise peeked through. I smiled at the security guards as I swiped my ID. Condé Nast, spelled out in hot pink neon letters, radiated behind them. No matter what type of day I was having, that sign always made me want to salute like Papi at his American citizenship ceremony.

Once I’d waved hello to our assistant editor and entered my private office, I traded my commuting-from-New Jersey shoes for my fashion tacos, powered up my computer and cleared my desk. My office was in its usual state of organized chaos. Invitations, press releases, layouts, notes from my editor. A cluster of beauty company-branded paper bags sat in a corner, each holding beauty products and trinkets. Tufts of multicolor tissue paper peeking out from each. Baskets of makeup, all organized by category, lined the wall.

Out of habit, my eyes landed on the mini Glam Belleza Latina magazine covers pinned to the cushion board. I said a mental wassup to the famous Latina faces that said wassup right back. Among them, Zoe Saldana, Gina Rodriguez, Jessica Alba, Eva Mendez, Salma Hayek, y claro, JLo. All these beautiful, familiar faces—three years of magazine covers—resembling my daughter and sisters and nieces and friends. So proud. But enough of that, Patty. Let’s get this lineup ready because I needed to be sharp for Mariah. I was a fan and easily starstruck. My questions weren’t going to write themselves.

And that’s when I got the emails. One more cryptic than the next. A manager was talking to another manager about my schedule, not realizing that I was copied.

“Patricia’s leaving at noon so we need to meet asap,” said one email.

Confused, I replied. “Hey, I’m here. Do you need me?”

They clarified that I needed to head upstairs, their vague response putting an end to further questions. That first trickle of fear pricked my back. Why am I needed upstairs? I don’t interact with anyone upstairs. Wait, is HR upstairs?

I was the Editor of Glam Belleza Latina. The Editor, as in the jefa, of a magazine with the word Latina in it. We were published by Condé Nast and ran as a quarterly insert of “big” Glamour. I reported into Cindi Leive, publishing royalty who I’d long admired. Anna Wintour’s name was on the masthead, and I often spotted the icon on our floor. I had one of the few private offices in the sparkly new World Trade Center building. We were beloved by our Latina readers—and we still had so much to accomplish. This job was mine. Meant for me. And I loved it. Right now, I couldn’t stomach the idea that it might be taken away.

“Ok, I’ll be right up.” I checked my reflection in the mirror and grabbed a notebook and a pen, just in case the news wasn’t what I was dreading.

You know that feeling when you must have something? One minute you’re minding your business, and then BAM! That thing is all you can think about. If you don’t get this thing, you fear your life will never be the same. That feeling has overcome me several times in my life. I’ve desired big things and small things. That skinny double belt from Woolworth’s that I begged my parents to buy me when I was nine years old. I made such a fuss over that belt that eventually my father’s first wife, who was visiting with her husband for the night, handed me the five bucks. She probably wanted to get back to her bochinche session with Mami. Or the “Grease” soundtrack from the record store on Sherman Avenue. My father had bought it for my cousin Mercedita with the good hair who lived in D.R. I wouldn’t stand the injustice of Papi buying it for her and not for me—I knew every lyric of that soundtrack. And later, my babies. We waited seven years for our twins. Some of these things I got quickly, and others eluded me for years. Some things, I realize now, were never meant for me.

When I spotted the media card for a new magazine produced by Glamour called Glam Belleza Latina, that yearning hit me swiftly and abruptly. This project was the perfect storm of all my favorite things. Condé Nast. Glamour. Editing for Latinas. Getting back into editorial. Writing about the intersection of beauty and culture. I couldn’t believe that they had finally put it together. As one of the few Latina editors in the industry, my name had come up for this project. I wasn’t surprised, but it was it still a thrill to be considered. I’d walked on air after meeting with Cindi Leive in 2008, only to hear that the funding was pulled. No matter that the Latin population was booming and that every stat confirmed that there was no better beauty consumer than Latinas. But the project was back—and it seemed to have legs. A real project seeking real funding from beauty brands. I imagined myself there. Getting paid to think about Latin things. Showing mainstream America what we were all about. Maybe I could finally interview JLo.

I asked the head of marketing at Lancôme, whose office I was in, if I could take the card. Sure, she said with a distracted wave. I’d just finished prepping her for a CEW conference and she was done with me. Time to start planning my next move.

Oh, how I missed being an editor. I missed working in the creative and collaborative atmosphere of a magazine office. Not only could you gather to discuss the hair and makeup from last night’s Met Gala, but it was essential to your work. The adrenaline rush of trying to make a deadline and that jolt of magic when a story crystallized more perfectly than you’d imagined. Going to beauty events with my peers and knowing that I had buddies in every corner of the room because I was Mami’s daughter and could chat with anyone, from the high-fashion editors to the mommy editors, the Latina editors to the junior editors. I carried myself like a politician, maneuvering my way around a room, oblivious to cliques. I was just happy to be there. Making myself a plate from the delicious and beautifully curated catering, being complimented on my smart questions, enriching my bank of beauty knowledge, getting a little trinket at the end and being escorted to a waiting car to take you “as directed.” How was this work, I’d think. Papi had worked at a tire factory, my in-laws pressed suits and sewed doll clothing at other factories. Con que cara could I complain? I didn’t.

I needed to get back to that. I had accepted that maybe that chapter of my career, with nearly two decades of magazine editing, was closed. To a degree, it was. For me to come back to editing, it would have to be a special kind of job. I needed to write for Latinas.

I rode the elevator upstairs in a quiet panic. Several scenarios ran through my head. Maybe I’m getting promoted, I thought. But to what? That made no sense. Maybe HR is hiring more people. I’ve been asking for more people. Or what if I’m getting a big raise and they need to talk to me away from the other staffers? My editor had an enormous private office—we could’ve easily met there.

The doors opened with a ding. I felt like I was in Disney’s Tower of Terror ride, minus the happy thrill. The energy on this floor was entirely different than that on my floor. It was eerily silent. With dark, plush carpeting. Our editorial floor was bright and sunny. White floors and walls, with windows everywhere. From any position, you’d see something beautiful. You’d get daily visual updates from World Trade Center being built around us, bringing with it new life and the promise of new memories. Even working late, which I did often, paid off with a glorious sunset from across the Hudson River. Here, I felt like I was stepping into a coffin.

I walked to the reception area, positioned just like on my floor. A lady was waiting there. I told her that I had a meeting, but I didn’t know with who or for what. She stopped me as she was clearly more informed than me. She was a pivotal player in this creepy production.

“Go right,” she said, pointing to a conference room. “Second room, please.” My heart dropped a little lower. This didn’t look like the beginning of a conversation about promotions.

I had one foot in the room when I spotted my editor in chief, my idol, Cindi Leive, and the same HR rep who two years earlier had offered me the job with so much excitement and promise, positioned around a massive table. They weren’t speaking but I’m sure that they’d played out this moment in preparation of my arrival. (You’ll sit there, closer to her, and I’ll stay a little farther away, over here, I imagined them saying.) They motioned for me to sit. And yes, I was closer to Cindi. My heart was now in my throat. I spotted the box of tissues sitting within arm’s reach. My eyes were already welling up.

I was told that Glam Belleza Latina wasn’t doing well. That after much consideration, the company had decided to stop publishing it. I stared at my lap as they spoke. The words were said in soft tones that both comforted and horrified me. One part of me considered that maybe this hurt them as much as it hurt me. But how could it. They were the superstars behind Glamour. I was just the editor of its scrappy little sister.

Everyone wanted to attract the Latina consumer, but when it got too hard, too challenging to fully and wholly understand her, well, time to shut it down. Let’s just keep talking to the same consumer, over and over and over again.

I put my head in my hands but held back from sobbing. I also stopped talking before I burned a bridge. I reminded myself that while this was my whole world, for these executives, it was just a moment. All they’d remember was not my dedication and love of this project, but how I mouthed off. I thanked them for their time and headed outside. I needed to call my husband. And to cry. To really cry.

And to figure out my next move.