“No no no no no,” Papi replied, very quick to contradict him. “We’re not shooting footage for the PACs. We’re putting these on YouTube. Whatever anyone does with all the video is completely up to them.”
Mami glared at my father.
“What?”
“It’s too gray, Tonio. You know how I feel about shady tactics.”
“It’s common practice. All the other candidates do it.”
“That’s not the kind of reasoning I want to teach the—”
She was interrupted by one of the assistants asking us to take our seats at the dinner table.
Not that we actually ate dinner. It’s noon on a Saturday and we’ve been up since five in the morning for makeup and to catch what they call “good light.” Papi said grace twenty different ways over a meal we didn’t eat, then we played catch in the backyard. Correction: Papi and Ricky tossed a football back and forth while Mami and I sat on beach towels by the pool, laughing like we were in a 1950s toothpaste commercial. We walked around the neighborhood holding hands as a family, and now we’re here: all four of us on the couch in the living room. Mami sits next to Papi with Ricky to her right, and I sit to Papi’s left. He puts his arms over our shoulders and squeezes.
“I love you all so much.”
“Nice, that’s really nice,” the director says. “One more time?”
“Gladly,” Papi says. “I’m just so proud of my family.” We all look at him and smile, but his gaze remains steady on the camera until he finally catches my eye and says, “I love you, hijita.”
I smile back despite the awkwardness. Between the film crew and Papi’s campaign staff, there are at least fifteen people watching us. There will be who knows how many million more, once the videos are online.
I try not to think about it.
“Okay, now let’s try the approval a few more times, but this time the kids join in and say ‘we approve this message.’” The director takes off his Marlins cap and runs his hands through his hair. I can’t remember his name, just that Papi was really excited we got him for this shoot because he did a bunch of spots for a Mitt Romney PAC in 2012. When politics was still about honest men running, he always says.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mami says.
“¿Por qué no?” Papi lowers his voice even though we’re all wearing mikes.
“It’s tacky, dear. Leaning on the kids so much.”
“I think it’d be sweet. Ricky, what do you think?”
That’s messed up and my father knows it. Ricky’s only eight, which means he does anything Papi asks, no questions. He’ll figure out he has a choice in things eventually. For now, he nods enthusiastically.
“Mariana?”
I’m surprised Papi asks me. Has he forgotten the fifty-three hundred times I’ve begged him and Mami to leave me out of this? My father acts like I’m still eight years old and dreaming of being an actress. He caught me rehearsing my Oscar acceptance speech in front of the mirror with a hairbrush as a mike the one time and he’s just never been able to drop it. He put me in front of the cameras every chance he got, calling me his Best Supporting Actress. But back then his campaigns were different. For one, I had no lines. Mami was in charge of everything and she insisted it was for our own protection that Ricky and I should be “seen but not heard.” Besides, people weren’t exactly tuning in by the millions to watch footage of their local elections.
This, though. This is on a totally different level.
Before he announced he was running for president last fall, my father made a really big deal about getting me and my brother’s support, and of course I was excited for him—I still am. But guess who froze on camera during her first channel 39 appearance when the anchor asked the simplest question of all time? Turns out a mike is not the same as a brush. Turns out it makes “Are you excited for your father?” sound like “What is the square root of seven hundred forty-nine thousand?” Papi knows I can’t handle the public speaking thing. He knows that inside I panic Every. Single. Time. Still, he can’t accept the fact that I’m not a crowd-pleasing natural like him.
Mami cuts in before I can answer. “You don’t want to look like a local mattress store salesman, do you?”
She gives me a subtle wink. At least she remembers that Papi promised to use Ricky and me as little as possible. “Only when it’s absolutely necessary,” he’d said.
Except who gets to decide what’s necessary and what’s not?
“Don’t exaggerate, Juliana. It’s just a few simple words.” He smiles, but his dimple isn’t showing anymore. He taps me on the chin and says, “Right, chiquitica? It’s not like we’re live.”
I wave his hand away like it’s a mosquito that landed on my face. He’s making things so much worse. We may not be live, but everyone’s watching us. If I contradict him in front of the crew, I can already imagine what his assistant, Joe, will say when it’s over: every time you undermine your father, you make him look like less of a leader. But if I stand here another second, I’ll feel my throat turn into a giant suction cup, like in those nightmares I always have where I’ve lost my voice.
“Can we take a break?” I finally say. “I need to use the restroom.” I don’t wait for the director or my dad to say yes or no. I walk out before they have a chance to stop me.
* * *
I use the half bathroom downstairs because the camera crew is blocking the way to my bedroom and bathroom upstairs. It’s smaller than my closet but at least it’s quiet. I check my phone and see that Vivi texted me a bunch of screenshots and links to articles in support of my father.
See? It’s not so bad. She adds a bunch of smileys and the lady-dancing-in-red-dress emoji. That’s her trademark.
Thanks, I text back. Still trending, tho.
Last week, during the primary debate, Papi messed up bad. I could tell by the way Mami, who sat in between me and Ricky in the front row, squeezed my hand like she was making orange juice.
The moderator had asked my father about climate change, about why the party is so averse to using those two words when Miami Beach is already being affected by sea level rise.
“That’s not entirely accurate,” Papi said, in this vague, could-mean-anything way that I’m starting to realize is probably the point. He added that the weather patterns are not necessarily manmade and that what’s happening on the beach shouldn’t be blown out of proportion.
“When a hurricane blows our way, do the other forty-nine states duck for cover? No, because we’re talking about Miami, not the whole country,” he said. Then, maybe out of nerves, or maybe thinking it’d be funny, he chuckled and added, “We can be our own Latin American bubble sometimes.”
By the end of the debate, #BubbleBoyRuiz was trending and people from both political parties were saying that comments like my dad’s are what enable our government to abandon its own people in times of crisis, like they did Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria. Others were calling his Latin America sound bite controversial and insensitive, which everyone knows is code for racist. Joe started freaking out that my dad’s campaign would have to go into crisis mode. Jesus. He just made all of South Florida think he doesn’t think they count, is what he kept repeating, over and over. The primary elections are less than a month away; other states like Arizona and Illinois are voting on the same day, but my father’s team is hyperfocused on Florida because for him, it’s make or break. He can’t win the GOP presidential nomination without winning his home state; it’s worth way more votes than most. Pissing off the city with his highest number of supporters was a really stupid move.