That early morning in May, the air seemed a little warmer than usual for that time of the day as my father sitting on his brown, rustic mecedora (rocking chair) sipping the freshly-brewed coffee my mother had just made. He had in his hand El Periodico Nacional, reading it from cover to cover as he did every morning before he went to tend his own business. He would hold the long pages of the newspaper opened, occasionally peering from one side to watch us play. The morning was otherwise perfect, with the early vendedores calling out their goods and the consumers anxiously waiting to get “fresh pick” of the fruits and vegetables he had available that day. Dońa Carlita was already outside sweeping the sidewalk while Dońa Pura could be heard fussing with her husband Don Lucas over one thing or another. Dońa Luz (Diego and Roxanita's mom), had already set the table outside to display the freshly baked Arepas (sweet loaves of corn bread) in preparation for the usual early morning rush of passers by whom over the years became her loyal customers. The familiar sweet smell of corn, molasses, cinnamon, and brown sugar (main ingredients in Arepas) would draw people from beyond la Calle Catorce. She'll be up early before the rooster would crow to prepare the cornmeal mixture for the Arepas to be baked in the makeshift oven. This was no ordinary oven, necessitating a great deal of skill to control the heat. The oven, which was made up of a charcoal base called Anafe, a large aluminum pot which served as the chamber, and a cookie sheet-like plank to cover the pot and hold more coals to distribute heat evenly. There were no timers, heat levels, or space for baking multiple meals in this oven. However, everything that came out of this amazing apparatus was cooked to perfection.
The normalcy of this morning was broken by a familiar voice broken by sobs, then getting louder as it neared our home. From a distance, dark clothing and round figure approaching looked like our neighbor, but how can she be home from mass so early; service normally ends 7:30 am sharp? Dońa Ana clutching a rosary in her hands, almost collapsed in front of our home. Mataron a mi compadre! Mataron a mi compadre! (the Godfather was killed, the Godfather was killed!) She kept saying over and over again, her voice filling every home on our otherwise quiet street. My father immediately called us to come away from the street and into our home, while Dońa Ana continued to wail over the death of Leonidas Trujillo, then president of the Dominican Republic. A mixture of screams, shouts, and doors opening letting out neighbors awaken by the unusual conglomeration, filled the air. I was shocked and confused by the strange behavior appearing before me. By 8:00 am most people who heard the news had gone, and others replaced them. Dońa Ana now crying and praying feeling every bead of her rosary as she said a prayer for her beloved compadre. She remained there till her daughters and neighbors pull her up and brought her inside her home, where you could still hear her sobbing uncontrollably over the dictator's death.
Within an hour, the official news from the government came and father turned on the volume high on the big Phillips radio my father had. Neighbors came closer to hear the official news of the tragic event and where it had happened. Suddenly, people began to rejoice while others just stood motionless, as if they did not understand what has just happened. Like a wild fire, the jubilant mob took to the streets shouting, saying things about the president they could never say before. My father, realizing the potential for riots and the violence that can flicker by the lack of security force, immediately closed the front door and windows and insisted we stayed inside.
While the mood outside continued to change drastically from confusion to sadness to joy, followed by more screams, the local radio stations carried the news in detail while the anti government stations began to openly express their views over the airwaves without control. Their joy over such tragedy created confusion and resentment in the people who apparently wept over the death of the “Dictator.” Through the cracks of our home, my sister Rosa and I could see the crowd jumping, moving fast, and being in a euphoric state of mind over the event. From our point of view it was exciting to see so much movement and so many people up and out so early in the day. This type of gathering was normally seen during Las Navidades (Christmas) or Nuevo Ańo (New Year), when the entire neighborhood gets together to form a giant block party. No one missed or was interested on the early morning vendors who usually parade our street. All was changed in our small town and the trust we shared with our neighbors on Toledo street has been forever broken. Towards the evening, a few vendors ventured out to sell their goods or to give it away. The crowd, somewhat subdued and deeply concerned about the future of the country now that the dictator was dead, gathered outside the corner bodega to catch the latest news from the evening papers.
