At the time of her death, at the age of 23, Selena Quintanilla Perez was many things to many people: cultural icon, role model, sex symbol. Above all, she was a study in contradictions. The Queen of Tejano Music was a third-generation Texan who initially struggled to speak Spanish, even as her Spanish-language songs, which she had learned to sing phonetically, climbed the charts. She was the third-highest-earning Latino performer in the U.S. but remained a down-home girl even after winning a Grammy. (Her one concession to stardom, a red Porsche, was often parked just beyond the chain-link fence outside her unassuming Corpus Christi home.) Her final concert at the Astrodome broke all previous attendance records, and yet to many Anglos, she was a complete unknown.
That changed on the morning of March 31, 1995, when Selena was murdered at a Corpus Christi motel, shot once in the back by Yolanda Saldivar, the president of her fan club. News of her death was greeted with the sort of widespread mourning usually reserved for a political assassination. For Selena’s fans, writes ethnomusicologist Manuel Peña, “it was as if their collective aspirations, embodied in this sultry, yet down-to-earth, barrio-bred hermana (sister), had been punctured just as surely as the bullet-shattered artery that killed the young diva.” When her first English-language album, Dreaming of You, was released posthumously that summer, it sold 175,000 copies in a single day. Selena became a crossover star only in death.
Since then, Selena has been canonized, sanctified, and resurrected. There has been a glossy Hollywood biopic, a touring musical, and talk of featuring her on a postage stamp. In South Texas and beyond, she has been elevated from popular singer to something more ethereal: cult hero, martyr, patron saint. Thousands of her fans still travel each year to Corpus Christi, where her family’s recording studio—as well as her home, former boutique, grave, and memorial—has become Texas’s own Graceland.
Fifteen years after her death, texas monthly asked those who knew Selena best to look back and reflect on her life, her music, and her legacy. Here, for the first time, all the prominent players in her journey from obscurity to fame—her family, her husband, her bandmates, her childhood friends, the fashion designer with whom she collaborated, and the record executives who recognized her talent early on—tell her story in their own words, and consider what might have been.
“Selena Quintanilla Perez … is presumed dead.”
As reports of Selena’s death broke on the afternoon of Friday, March 31, 1995, South Texas was consumed by grief. Anguished fans gathered at the Days Inn where she had been shot; at her clothing boutiques in Corpus Christi and San Antonio, which were hastily transformed into shrines; and at impromptu vigils around the country. Outside Selena’s home, mourners paid tribute with flowers and photographs; the line of waiting cars measured five blocks long. Around-the-clock news coverage on Spanish-language television and radio stations was followed by front-page stories in the New York Times and other major newspapers, which compared her killing to the shooting of John Lennon.
LUIS “BIRD” RODRIGUEZ, whose voice-over begins Selena’s hit “La Carcacha,” is a deejay at Z-93 in Laredo. I was on the air when a deputy sheriff friend of mine called to tell me the news. I was in a state of shock. I kept thinking, “This can’t be happening. Please, God, this can’t be happening.” I stopped the song I was playing and said, “Selena Quintanilla Perez was shot in Corpus Christi this morning and is presumed dead.” The phones lit up; no one could believe what I was saying. The mood was very somber. I played Selena all afternoon, nothing but Selena.
DANNY NOYOLA was the principal of West Oso High School, in the Corpus Christi neighborhood of Molina, where Selena lived. He is now the assistant principal at Foy H. Moody High School. I went on the school’s PA system and announced that our great Selena Quintanilla Perez had died. I said that we had lost one of the greats and that we would never, ever forget her. I managed to keep my composure, but as soon as I was done, I went into my office, closed the door, and cried.
RAMIRO BURR was a San Antonio Express-News music writer for fifteen years. He is the author of The Billboard Guide to Tejano and Regional Mexican Music and lives in San Antonio. I was driving down to Corpus the day after she was killed when I noticed that a lot of cars on the highway had their headlights on. I remember thinking, “That’s weird. Is it a holiday?” And then it slowly dawned on me: This is for Selena.
CARLOS VALDEZ has been the district attorney of Nueces County for seventeen years. In late 1995 he prosecuted Yolanda Saldivar for Selena’s murder. He lives in Corpus Christi. No one could believe how many mourners showed up to Selena’s public viewing at the convention center on Sunday. The police estimated that over 50,000 people came to pay their respects, but I believe it was closer to 100,000. The line went on forever—I have never seen anything like it. Reporters were calling my office from all over the world—Europe, South America, Australia, Japan.
RUBEN CUBILLOS was an associate creative director at Sosa, Bromley, Aguilar & Associates, where he worked on Selena’s Coca-Cola advertisements. He is now the president and executive creative director of A Big Chihuahua, a San Antonio advertising agency. The line was already four blocks long by the time I got there. The whole scene was in the realm of the surreal, like Elvis had just died. People had written messages on their car windows in white shoe polish: “We love you, Selena!” “We’ll never forget you!” Seeing her was mesmerizing. She was surrounded by roses, thousands of white roses.
YVONNE “BONNIE” GARCÍA is the former director of Hispanic marketing for Coca-Cola North America and signed Selena to her first contract to