I was born in the twenty-fifth year of Rafael Trujillo’s dictatorship in the Dominican Republic, a period marked by the imprisonment, torture and murder of over 50,000 individuals. During this time, more than 20,000 unarmed Haitian men, women, and children, were brutally slaughtered in the notorious Haitian Massacre of 1937, carried out under Trujillo’s direct orders and, as some claim, masterminded my Trujillo’s kingpin Joaquin Balaguer, who would later become president of the republic. Although more horror was yet to come—such as the assassination of the Mirabal sisters in November 1960, and my father’s near-fatal-encounter with the secret police—a birth is always an auspicious and hopeful event. Furthermore, my father was particularly delighted because, unlike my older brother who resembled our mother, I bore a striking resemblance to him.
Even when the circumstances surrounding them might be saddening, my memories of my father are filled with joy, simply because he was present. He was a peasant who at fourteen years of age left the family farm to pursue a better life in the city. He only completed elementary school and never read a book on parenting, yet, he succeeded in being an outstanding father—better than I have been, despite all my college education.
I loved my mother (who has passed away), but sometimes it's easy to take mothers for granted. After all, they carry their babies inside their wombs for nine months, and nurse them once they are born. Their children are truly a part of them. Thus, it is instinctive for mothers to care for their kids, and be willing to do anything for them, even if it means risking their own lives. Fathers, in contrast, can be quite different; they tend to be more unpredictable and don’t always take on the same level of responsibility for their begotten. Nevertheless, my father remained a constant and significant presence throughout my life.
I have a vague recollection of a day when my mother and I were leaving the doctor’s office. As we stepped onto the street, I spotted my father, who had returned after what felt like a long time away. I rushed to him, filled with joy. Although I can’t recall the specifics of that moment, since I was just four years old, my mother later explained that he had been out of work, and travelled to the capital city for a while in search of a job. Following his departure, I fell into a state of ongoing illness, and the doctors couldn’t determine the cause. One of them suggested that my sickness might have resulted from missing my father. Unfortunately for him and the entire family, he wasn’t able to find employment in the capital and came back home. This situation was difficult for all of us since he remained unemployed, but it was a relief for me; my mother said that after that day, I never felt sick again.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2015
