by Laurel Jacketti Funk
On May 30th, 1961, President Rafael Trujillo was ambushed and killed by seven assassins. I was seven years old, living in a neighborhood in Santo Domingo called Sanche La Paz. In the city where I was born, endless beaches blanketed with soft white sand lined the coast. Nevertheless, I was very aware of serious changes afoot. Trujillo was a dictator, but life under his rule was bearable, and my family never went without food. However, with President Trujillo’s death, everything changed.
My family starved. Once a day we would eat, with the meals usually consisting of rice and bean—and maybe a small piece of meat. Over the decades, the neighborhood fell into disrepair—ordinary people resorted to crime for survival, and every little thing became dangerous. There were brief periods of optimism; President Antonio Guzman brought hope to the people, but his term was short. He died in office of natural causes. Only those who had connections to the government made decent wages. President Trujillo had respected professionals, but now, doctors, lawyers, and even police officers went hungry under the corrupt politicians that followed his fall from power.
In the Dominican Republic, my husband was an accountant, and I was a photographer, taking photos of ships’ contents for different businesses at the port. For a while, we were doing well—these connections led to some prosperity, but that did not last—and these periods of struggle sparked our desire to move to America.
To survive, to live a better, fuller life, I decided to move to America with my husband Bernardo—a journey that would take nineteen years. We applied for citizenship, with my brother acting as our sponsor. He had settled successfully, with his family, in Orange, New Jersey. Typically, the process of obtaining citizenship takes about ten years; however, my brother, suffering from complications of diabetes, became very ill, lost his job as a professional photographer, and was not approved to sponsor us. This was a huge setback, and we believed that escaping the prison of our homeland had become and would remain, a dream. My husband and I would have to start the process of immigration all over again, and Bernardo was losing hope, but I would not give up.
I told my husband I would go without him if I had to, but of course, he could not live without me. My country was precious, but was far from perfect, and getting worse every day. To help my daughters, my husband, and myself, the only option was to move to America, so I could send money back to my loved ones in Santo Domingo.
But try to imagine my reality. Try to conceive of living in a tropical paradise and yet always being hungry. Imagine being next to the ocean and all its bounty, and not being able to taste its treasures. There was always abundant food, yet the politicians could only control us by using food as a weapon. The senators and higher ups in government hoarded money and resources to benefit themselves and advance their agendas. We were always taught that hard work and education would set us free, but even though we pursued this good and noble road, and became professionals, we were just as poor as the majority of people around us. Only the power elite tasted those delicious fruits that should have gone to everyone.
In 1998, my brother returned to Santo Domingo, as a United States citizen, to be with his family and recover from his illness. However, my niece who was living in the United States encouraged him to come back to America, so we could restart the process of gaining citizenship in the United States. He returned, and after many years, my brother recovered and got a job working in a slaughterhouse; later, he became a school bus driver. Finally, he was stable enough to sponsor us, and we could begin our journey to America, which would end, happily, on Alter Street in Hazleton where we now own a double home with the hope that our daughters will one day emigrate from the Dominican Republic and live next door to us.
Alter Street is often thought of as a very bad street, but we have not had any big problems during our years there. My greatest scare turned out to be caused by squirrels that had invaded our chimney. I thought our house had been invaded by hoodlums and called the police. Perhaps there were people in our basement? But it wasn’t true. They used one of their dogs to sniff out the criminals, and they turned out to be very small ones, despite the tremendous noises that they made. So, even though I may live on the worst street in Hazleton, I have only had to worry about a gangs of squirrels. And for me, that is no worry at all.
Bernardo and I now work as meat packers at a pork slaughterhouse called Cargill in Hazleton. We haul pig carcasses and tramp through puddles of blood, enduring the stench of the unsavory, brutal place. We no longer work as professionals; yet, Bernardo and I experience a better quality of life in Hazleton. With such an abundant Dominican population in Hazleton, I feel accepted in the community. Moreover, this town is a very respectful place. My life is peaceful; we no longer starve; I can sleep easily at night.
I miss the warmth of the Dominican Republic, the beauty, the sunshine, and my family that I have left behind, but the life I live in Hazleton is safer, more abundant, and tranquil. My husband and I were poor in Santo Domingo, and we are not the richest in America, but being able to support, feed, and send money to my family makes me the richest person on earth—and for that, I am grateful.