A Tale Of Love And Hate In The Dominican Republic

This is a tale of love and hate in the Dominican Republic. The year 1492 marked the birth of hatred and weakness with the arrival of Columbus on our island. Again from 1822 to 1844, my ancestors were forced to face and resist the Haitians efforts to replace our Spanish heritage with their French culture during their slave revolution. Blinded by our optimism, we were proud Hispanos; we were all Santana’s, ready to join our father--Spain. Once more from 1916 to 1924, American Marine occupation taught us how to be civilized, how to be an American. For 432 years, we were never in control; we were never Dominicans, we were always someone else. Our hatred stemmed from our lack of sovereignty. However the year 1930 offered a glimmer of hope and
After the Hurricane, our whole neighborhood laid resting peacefully in what remained of the cobblestone streets. As I walked along with my neighbors to find somewhere my three daughters, two sons, wife, and I could rest for the night and dream away this horror; the whirling winds forced me to realize the hopeless and desperate reality that we as Dominicans would have to rebuild our lives. The park we made our temporary home was filled with twisted trees, face down bodies, howling dogs that ran around the cardboard tents and fearful squealing children. Because both rich and poor united under the stars in the park, I had hope that together as Dominicans we could rewrite our destiny. Once the sun had awoken, Trujillo declared martial law and began what seemed the recovery process. Immediately after the hurricane, Trujillo sent food and water to the barrios where I lived while the construction of apartments began. After this hurricane, Spain was no longer our father but Trujillo. Still, we should have known that the hurricane was a symbol of something greater, but the Dominican Republic needed a hero. We wanted Trujillo to be our
After work and dinner on Fridays, a couple of coworkers and I would drink a beer or two and watch a cockfight. If I had a good week at work, I would bet a couple of pesos on a chicken--I never actually did win, but I was addicted to the possibility of wealth. While on the first Saturday of every month, my family and I would go to the cinema and watch a new Charlie Chaplin movie. The other Saturdays, I spent at home listening to the merengue tunes of “Era Gloriosa” and “Que viva el Jefe” on the radio while reading La Naciόn Trujillo newspaper on the patio of my home. The highlights of the newspaper were always Angelita’s coronation, the Free World Fair of Peace, Flor de Oro’s adventures in New York. One Saturday after another, as I sat on my patio, I noticed several of my Haitian neighbors were slowly whisked away by Trujillo’s soldiers to become a memory of the past. From the machetes the soldiers were carrying, I knew it was better to turn the volume up on my radio and not ask any questions of my neighbors. Meanwhile, Sunday morning’s, my family and I in our best clothes went to Church and prayed to God and Trujillo. In the afternoon, my wife, daughters and I would sit in the rusty wooden park bleachers while cheering on our sons as they played in