The only possibly comforting thought I had this year when thinking about this moment in America is that at least my dad is not having to witness it. I lost him last December weeks before the inauguration. I cried myself to sleep and was in bed by 10:00 pm on New Year’s Eve 2024, protesting the start of a new year without him and terrified of the impending doom of Trump 2.0. My heart was broken because it felt like I was grieving for both my Papi and my country.
But while that thought gives me some comfort, the more accurate thought is: at least my dad is not having to witness this moment in history, again. That’s because both my parents were born in the Dominican Republic during the dictatorship of Rafael Leonidas Trujillo. He was in power for 31 years, so my parents and my grandparents knew what it was to live under a petty, narcissistic dictator. Trujillo was also known as El Jeje, the Benefactor of the country and El Generalissimo. He plastered his image everywhere, renamed the streets and the capital city, Santo Domingo to Ciudad Trujillo. His bootlickers wanted him to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, which of course was impossible since he was, after all, a murderer.
My mom remembers how everyone was afraid when they saw the cepillos on the street, wondering if someone they knew was getting taken to jail. The cepillos were the VW beetles that Trujillo’s police force drove which terrorized the population rounding up anyone who opposed him. Courage they say is contagious, but dictators know that fear is our default mode.
A young man in my mom’s neighborhood, named Hugo, was one of the thousands of Dominicans that was jailed, tortured and killed by Trujillo. My mom says she saw his picture everywhere, including at the hospital where the slogan on the signs read, “Agradezca su salud a Trujillo”, reminding Dominicans that they should thank Trujillo for their health, not just their healthcare.
The resistance movement to Trujillo’s dictatorship began as soon as he took power but it would take decades and the help of the CIA to end one of the longest and most brutal dictatorships. He was assassinated in 1961. Following the assassination despite the instability that ensued for years, my dad completed his training as an auto mechanic and was able to secure a job working for the national airline. In 1963 he also got to vote in the country’s first free and fair election in 30 years. He was training to become a certified aircraft technician, but he was fired in 1965 for his “political affiliations”. My dad never talked about this, but he was involved in the 1965 civil war, the months-long battle to return the democratically elected government to power after a military coup d’etat. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough participation to get him killed but just enough to get him fired, lose his training opportunity and have no prospects in the career he wanted to have working on airplanes.
He came to New York when he was 24 years old thanks to having a visa and was able to get a green card because he benefited from the changes to immigration enacted in 1965. My dad felt profound love for this country that offered him a refuge and a second chance at life. He would say that this country was blessed because it was a blessing to the world. He only had to look at the miracle of his own life, blessed to have work, a family and buy a home, while the family in the Dominican Republic was able to thrive as well, in part, because of the monthly remittances he and other relatives sent back for decades. He marveled at the impact of this giant country, radiating opportunities, the ripple effects lifting people out of poverty, improving health, giving humanity hope for freedom and prosperity. I don’t think any disappointment in this country’s leaders could overcome his gratitude for America. My father even loved the idea that he would be buried in the USA.
My mom tells us that one of the happiest days of his life was when he made the final payment for their cemetery plot. They went to visit the plot, since he figured he wouldn’t get to see it if he waited too long.
I don’t want to stop believing in the country that my father loved. It’s hard to hold on but it’s called hope because we just don’t know how any of this is going to turn out. Hope as I’ve seen from my father’s life is unyielding and powerful. It’s what made him take the risks, stand up for his convictions and live out his values. While the thought that my dad is now and forever immune from petty tyrants is on some level comforting, the bigger picture of history and my father’s life is far more comforting. My dad’s life, a single point of light in the darkness that continues to shine, guides and reassures me that this history has a special rubbish bin for men like Trujillo.