Fiction
Prologue – Sonja Killebrew
These chapters of historical fiction stem from the 1937 genocide in The Dominican Republic sanctioned by the government against Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans.
The Dominican dictator El Terrible Trujillo terrorized the people of La República Dominicana from 1930 until 1961. According to Pulitzer Prize winning author Junot Díaz, Trujillo was a
portly, sadistic, pig-eyed mulato who bleached his skin, wore platform shoes, and had a fondness for Napoleon-era haberdashery, Trujillo (also known as El Jefe, the Failed Cattle Thief, and Fuckface) came to control every aspect of the D.R.’s political, cultural, social, and economic life through a potent (and familiar) mixture of violence, intimidation, massacre, rape, co-optation, and terror; treated the country like it was a plantation and he was the master.[1]
Historian Bernardo Vega estimated that the death toll of the 1937 massacre was as high as 35,000 dead Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans.[2] According to The New York Amsterdam News, as of November 13, 1937, 5,000 Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans were slaughter on the border of The Dominican Republic and Haiti.[3] Pretty much anyone who was dark-skinned and found himself or herself near the Dominican-Haitian border was liable to be murdered by Trujillo’s hired killers.[4]
According to Vega, the 1937 mass murder became known as the Parsley Massacre.[5] Vega documented that the skin-bleaching dictator hired henchmen and SIM soldiers (Servicio de Inteligencia Militar) and not-so Secret Police to execute any dark-skinned person who failed to answer one question correctly.[6] Vega wrote that the fate of hundreds or thousands of Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans rested on the answer to one question.[7] The story goes that a soldier held up a sprig of parsley and he asked a dark-skinned person-of-interest, “What’s this?” If the dark-skinned person-of-interest said “perejil” with a French-Creole accent, then the soldier killed him or her. Maybe the soldier threw in a robbery or rape for good-old-time Imperialism’s sake. If the dark-skinned person-of-interest said “perejil” with a Spanish accent, then he or she lived to sharecrop another day. The Castilian Spanish accent was passed down like a genetic defect or a curse like Díaz’s “Fukú americanus or more colloquially, fukú—generally a curse or a doom of some kind; specifically the Curse and the Doom of the New World.”[8] The Spanish accent that was passed down from the Conquistadores who killed thousands of Taínos, indigenous people of the Caribbean islands, ironically saved some dark-skinned persons-of-interest from death over those six dark days in 1937.
Less lucky victims of the government-sanctioned murders died or drowned in the Massacre River, originally called the Dajabón River. Oral history has it that in 1728 el Río Dajabón was christened le Rivière Massacre by the French when Spanish imperialists killed 30 French pirates planning to rape and pillage the indigenous people who the notorious Admiral had already raped and pillaged with his pirates in 1492.[9] The nefarious Admiral shall remain nameless in this paper, because “to say his name aloud or even to hear it is to invite calamity on the heads of you and yours,”[10] according to Díaz.
The Massacre River became the definitive border dividing the island in two: Haiti to the west, the Dominican Republic to the east. These two countries occupy the Taíno territory called Hispaniola. Le Rivière Massacre named for the blood shed by the French in 1728 was rechristened by the blood of Black Haitians and Dominicans in 1937.[11] Whether the death toll was 547 or 8,000 or 20,000 or 30,000, whether the Napoleon-obsessed Dominican dictator hired henchmen to hold up a piece of parsley and murder any person who said “perejil” with a French-Creole accent or not, the facts remain that the sadistic dictator intended to kill Haitians in the D.R. Proof?
On October 2nd 1937, on day 2 of the government sanctioned mass-murders, the tyrant made an announcement in Dajabón at a dance where he probably procured several maidens to debase and deflower. The Dominican dictator declared: “Three hundred Haitians are now dead in Bánica. This remedy will continue.”[12]
This story stems from the ethnic cleansing that Trujillo unleashed on Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans over the course of six days that year. Dajabón might be the Ground Zero of Dominican government sanctioned hatred of Haitians. “Santo Domingo might be fukú’s Kilometer Zero, its port of entry, but we are all of us its children, whether we know it or not.”[13]
The short story you’re about to read is fiction. The facts are historical. The outcome is magical. The genre: magical realism?
Author Matthew Strecher defines magical realism as “what happens when a highly detailed realistic setting is invaded by something too strange to believe.”[14] The following short story stems from the 1937 genocide on the Massacre River. The characters and the outcome flow from my imagination.
Dear Reader: You’re about to enter another dimension. A dimension not only of unsightly sights, and unseemly sounds, but a dimension of psyche. A brief journey into a wondrous land, a journey whose boundaries are that of the imagination, a journey into a land that is the border between light-skin and dark-skin, between The New Negro[15] and the old Negro, between non-fiction and speculative fiction, between people’s fears and their knowledge. It’s a dimension of my imagination. It’s an area that I call The Massacre Zone.
The Massacre Zone
Sweat beads gathered on Rey’s forehead. He wiped the sweat away with a cotton handkerchief initialed CMC. He aired out his white linen shirt to cool the sweat dampening his underarms because of the unusually hot evening for a town near the Cordillera Central mountain range.
“Primo, this is ridiculous.” Rey said. He watched the stout, pale man with a wide nose and full lips at the gymnasium door open it and let in a light-skinned couple. The sound of trumpets playing in a salsa band greeted the couple on a wave of cool air. The pale man closed the door.
“Quizás, we should try another dance.” Rey said.
He was visiting his cousin Pedro in Dajabón, a city located on the northern border between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Pedro had taken Rey to two other high school dances that Friday night in the market town where he grew up, but no one would let them in. Pedro lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, and shook his head.
“I go to school here. They should let us in.” Pedro said.
Rey was annoyed. Back in the capital formerly known as Santo Domingo, before General Trujillo renamed the city Ciudad Trujillo in 1936, Rey could get into any high school dance because everyone knew his father was a famous Yankee baseball player.
Pedro wore a mask of indifference. He believed that if he remained polite and if he persisted, then the doorman would let them in, despite their dark-skin color. His plan was to get inside, meet some pretty girls, leave with them, go for a ride to the Dajabón River, have some drinks in his dad’s car, and then maybe even make out a little.
“It’s almost midnight. What time does this dance end?” Rey asked. He wiped sweat off his neck. He shifted from his left foot to his right foot, uncomfortable in his dark brown dressy shoes.
“I just want to dance and meet some girls… Oye, amigo,” Pedro said to the pale man guarding the door, “ why don’t you let us in before it ends?” His tone was bordering on whining. “There’s maybe 30 minutes left.” Rey doubted the pale man would be swayed by Pedro’s plea.
“Está lleno.” The pale man said.
“What do you mean, it’s full?” Pedro asked. He saw inside when the couple went in that there was plenty of room to let in more people.
“Está lleno.” The pale man repeated.
“Not this again.” Rey said. They were turned away from the other two dances for the same excuse. Neither of those dances were full. Rey’s dad warned him that in certain parts of the D.R. he wouldn’t be allowed into certain places because of his dark skin color. But he should remain calm and walk away, because fighting could get him killed. Rey turned and walked away from the pale man.
“I don’t understand.” Pedro said. “I come here all the time.”
“Está lleno.” The pale man said.
Pedro stepped off line. A group of four light-skinned, slender teenaged girls got on line. The pale man let them in the school dance.
“Bueno, what’s the plan, man?” Rey asked.
“We wait until the dance ends. Meet two pretty chicas. Invite them to go for a ride. Cruise down to the river. And whatever happens, happens.” Pedro and Rey laughed. Pedro took out another cigarette, lit it, and blew smoke towards the midnight blue sky dotted with shining stars and illuminated by a bright, white moon.
Three cigarettes and thirty minutes later the dance ended. A crowd of Dominican teenagers with varying shades of light-brown skin exited the school gymnasium.
“Rosa!” Pedro called. A tall, slender light-skinned girl wearing a sequined black dress that barely reached her knees waved to him. She linked arms with her pretty tan friend and led her towards Pedro and Rey.
“Pedro! Where were you?” Rosa pouted. Her full pink lips pursed.
“I was waiting out here for you. Want to go for a ride?” Pedro asked.
Rey marveled at how his cousin was able to save face and not mention the insulting treatment by three different pale gatekeepers.
“Chicas, this is my cousin, Rey, from Santo—”
“Ciudad Trujillo.” Rey interrupted. “It’s 1937, primo. Times are changing.”
“El capital.” Pedro said.
“Nice to meet you.” Rosa said.
“Encantada.” Marisol said. She extended her hand to Rey and he kissed the back of it. She giggled. He smiled shyly at her. A high school senior at age sixteen, Rey had only kissed two girls and had gotten as far as touching their breasts over their dresses.
“I wanted to show mi primo the view from the el Río Dajabón.”
“Got any drinks?” Rosa asked.
“Sí!” Pedro said.
He took Rosa’s hand and led her down the street to his dad’s 1930 black Chevrolet Six. There was room for three in the front and three in the back. He opened the passenger door for Rosa. She got in the front. Rey opened the back door for Marisol and then stepped in behind her.
They drove along Main Street. Traffic slowed to a stop.
“Why’s there so much traffic?” Rey asked.
“No sé.” Pedro said. “This is unusual for a Friday night.”
Seven cars were ahead of them. The police barricaded the road. They were shining flashlights into cars and questioning the occupants.
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Rey said.
The police waved a car by. Six cars were ahead of their black Chevrolet.
“Don’t worry.” Marisol said. “They’re always looking for some thief. Yesterday in the newspaper there was an article about Haitian migrants stealing chickens and cows from the local farmers.”
Another car passed police inspection. The cars inched forward. Five cars were ahead of them.
“They’re probably just looking for illegal Haitian immigrants.” Rosa said. “A lot of them cross the border and stay without becoming citizens. They don’t even send their children to school.” Rosa shook her long straight hair. The four sat silently.
The police waved by two cars quickly. Three cars stood between the teenagers and the road to the Dajabón River and drinking and necking.
“Illegal Haitian immigrants?” Rey echoed.
“Poor migrants working like slaves is more like it.” Pedro said. “They chop down sugar cane from sun up to sun down.”
“Hmmmm.” Marisol said. She gazed out the window and reclined in the back seat. Rosa was equally unfazed by the police barrier.
“We won’t have that long to drink after this. My parents said I can’t stay out too late.” Rosa said.
“We’ll have plenty of time for drinks.” Pedro said. He patted Rosa’s knee. She put her hand on top of his and kept it on her leg.
15 hot minutes went by. No breeze blew. The teenagers perspired and wiped the sweat from their skin. The police inspected the last three cars ahead of the black Chevrolet. Rey felt uneasy. He wiped more sweat from his brow. He remembered his dad’s advice about interacting with the police: remain calm, be respectful, no sudden movements, keep your hands visible at all times.
“Papeles?” The SIM (el Servicio de Inteligencia Militar) officers peered into the car. The officer with an eye patch took Pedro’s papers and looked over them. The tall handsome one walked around the car to the passenger side and looked over Rosa.
“Adónde van ustedes?” The handsome officer asked Rosa.
“El Río Dajabón.” She said. She looked into his eyes and then looked away from his lascivious leer.
“Be careful.” The handsome officer said. “El virus is killing everyone.”
“Todo está bien?” The one-eyed officer asked.
“Un momento.” The handsome officer said. “Papeles?” He asked Rey.
Rey took out his identification papers and handed them to the SIM officer. He read them, grunted, and gave them back. Rey wondered why they didn’t ask Rosa and Marisol for identification.
“His papers check out.” The handsome officer looked across Rey to Marisol and said, “How did you two negroes catch these two pretty chicas?”
Rey stiffened. Pedro smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The SIM officers appeared to be in their early twenties.
“Lucky, I guess.” Pedro said. The handsome SIM officer snorted.
“You kids get home safely.” The one-eyed officer said. “If I were you, I’d avoid Look Out Point at Dajabón River tonight. There’s shallow water there. Lots of mosquitoes. The new flu is spreading from the Haitians to the Dominicans. El General ordered us to get all Haitians out of the D.R.”
“I thought it was because they were stealing cattle and chickens.” Marisol said.
“Where’d you hear that?” The one-eye officer asked.
“I heard my neighbors talking about it.” Marisol said.
“Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.” The one-eyed officer said. Then he waved Pedro by and waited for the next car. Pedro drove off.
“Should we call it a night?” Rey asked no one in particular.
“And waste the drinks?” Rosa asked.
“Forget those officers.” Marisol said. “They’re just jealous.” She slid over beside Rey and smiled shyly. He smiled and took her hand. They laced their fingers. The teenagers drove silently to Look Out Point.
The moon rose over the market town dotted with houses, schools, markets, parks, a hospital, a police station, and a cemetery. The moonlight shone down on many parked cars facing Haiti. At Look Out Point the river was nearly all dried out. The Caribbean heat settled over the cars like a picnic blanket on the grass. Pedro passed a bottle of white rum around the 1930 Chevrolet Six. The four teenagers sipped 100-proof Dominican rum. Rey and Marisol got out of the car and leaned against the back. Pedro and Rosa moved to the back seat and began heavy petting: kissing, embracing, groping outside of their clothes.
Leaning against the Chevy, Rey and Marisol chatted about their future plans. Rey planned to study biology, become a scientist, and cure diseases. Marisol dreamed of becoming a nurse and taking care of the sick. Mosquitoes swarmed around their ankles. Rey fanned the bugs away.
“I’m bit.” Marisol said.
“Me too.” Rey said. “What are the odds that these mosquitoes are carrying the new flu?”
“I don’t know. You’re the scientist.” She poked him. He pulled her into an embrace. They stood torso to torso. They looked into each other’s eyes.
“I should go home.” Marisol said so close to Rey’s mouth that he felt her warm breath against his mouth. He thought about leaning forward and kissing her lips. He wondered what she tasted like. But, she said she should go home. Did that mean that she didn’t want him to kiss her? He hesitated. She stepped back. Took his hand. Led him to the passenger door.
“Oye! Times up lovebirds!” She knocked on the door, even though she could clearly see Rosa and Pedro laying down in the backseat kissing and feeling each other up.
“Venga!” Marisol said.
Rosa wiggled out from underneath Pedro and managed to sit up. She fixed her hair. He grunted. They fixed their clothes. Pedro stepped out of the back seat from the driver’s side. Rosa followed him. Everyone got back into their previous seats. The teenagers drove back into town. Sweat from the tropical heat glued their clothes to their bodies. Rey and Marisol scratched the mosquito bites around their ankles. Pedro and Rosa scratched mosquito bites on their arms. The bites turned red.
***
The Virus
The next morning the sun god, Helios, climbed the nautical blue sky. His fire breathing horses painted the sea blue sky in swathes of oranges, reds, and violets. Rey and Pedro felt chills, aches, and fatigue. They were unable to get up. Pedro’s grandmother told the cousins to rest. She had grey hair combed into two braids that hung to her ankles. They called her Abuela. She took their temperature. She worried that they caught the new virus. The two cousins shivered and sweated through the day. Helios carried the sun to the southern hemisphere. The moon rose. Pedro tried to sit up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Abuela asked him.
“Tonight there’s a big dance at the school. Everyone will be there. Rumor has it El General will be there too.” Pedro said. He swayed from side to side trying to get the strength to stand up. Sweat dripped down his pallid skin.
“You’re not going anywhere! You need to rest.” Abuela gently guided him back to lie down. She had all the windows and doors open to let in fresh air. The Caribbean heat wave continued.
“Mi piel!” Rey said. “It’s on fire.” He shivered.
“They said this flu is worse than the others.” Abuela said. “Abuelo went out to get medicine from la farmacia.”
Two hours later Abuelo returned.
“What took you so long?” Abuela asked.
“The lines were very long. They required proof of Dominican citizenship to buy the medicine.”
“Why?”
“They weren’t selling the cure to the Haitians.” Abuelo shook his head.
“What? They’re just gonna let them die?” She threw her hands up.
“Nobody knows if the new flu causes death.”
“Then why are there so many dead Haitians in the fields? Why are the SIM burning bodies?”
“Mujer!” He looked out the window to see if anyone was passing by. “We don’t speak about these things.”
“Everyone sees the smoke and smells the burning flesh. Yesterday I saw two SIM officers shoot a line of Haitians in the head. You’re telling me that all of those able-bodied migrant workers had the new flu?”
“Amor, por favor! It’s not our place to question the SIM. You remember what happened to Pedro’s parents when they supported Trujillo’s opposing party. Where are they now?”
Abuela sat down on the couch and covered her face. No tears flowed. She was all cried out from years of waiting for her daughter and son-in-law to come home.
“I’ll check on the boys.” She said. She went into the room and frowned. Sweat glistened on their skin. All color was drained from them. She touched the back of her hand to Rey’s forehead. It was hot. Pedro’s was too. She walked back to the living room.
“La medicina?” She asked her husband.
He took out a dark brown glass bottle from a paper bag. There was one syringe, a bottle of cleaning alcohol, and cotton balls. Abuelo filled the syringe up with medicine, walked into the bedroom, and inserted the needle into the crook of Pedro’s arm. He didn’t stir from his tightly balled fetal position. Abuelo cleaned the syringe with alcohol and then injected Rey with the medicine. Both boys remained passed out.
That Saturday night beneath a full moon El General visited Dajabón on October 2nd 1937. Word about his speech spread among the town and then to other towns across the D.R. The next day his speech was printed in the local newspaper:
For some months, I have traveled and traversed the border in every sense of the word. I have seen, investigated, and inquired about the needs of the population. To the Dominicans who were complaining of the depredations of Haitians living among them, thefts of cattle, provisions, fruits, etc., and were thus prevented from enjoying in peace the products of their labor, I have responded, ‘I will fix this.’ And we have already begun to remedy the situation. Three hundred Haitians are now dead in Bánica. This remedy will continue.[16]
After reading the speech Abuela slumped into the living room sofa. Abuelo frowned and wrung his hands. He wondered if la medicina was working on his grandson and grand-nephew. He saw two pale teenagers shivering, teeth clattering, sweating, laying in the fetal position. He wondered if they were dying.
By Sunday night the fever broke. The teenaged boys sipped chicken soup. Abuela frowned when she checked on them. Moonlight and candlelight lit the bedroom.
“How do you feel?” Rey asked Pedro.
“Better. My head is killing me. I’m really tired. How do you feel?”
“The same.” He sipped water from a glass on the night table between their twin beds. They didn’t bother looking at each other in the dimly lit room.
“You think we can go to school tomorrow?” Pedro asked.
“I hope so. It’s senior year.” Rey wanted to try for the lead in Romeo & Juliet.
The two reclined into their beds and fell asleep.
***
On Monday morning, October 4th 1937 roosters crowed, dogs barked, and the town bell struck six times. Abuelo rose at dawn. Abuela cooked him breakfast and drank black coffee. She and her husband were a reddish pale skin color. They didn’t catch the new flu. They never got sick. Abuelo walked to the high school where he taught history.
Rey was well enough to get up and go home. He stared at the back of his hands. Abuela walked into the sunlit bedroom. She stared at the teenagers.
“Incredible.” She said.
“Abuela?” Rey said. “My skin is weird.”
Pedro stirred. He rolled over, opened his eyes, looked at Rey, and jumped up.
“Primo! You’re white!” Rey said.
“So are you!” They jumped back away from each other. They backed up to the walls on opposite sides of the room.
“Ave maria santísima!” Abuela said. She crossed herself.
The three stood in silence.
“What’s wrong with us?” Pedro asked.
“God help us.” Abuela said.
“I need to go home.” Rey said. “I want to see my padres.” What would his parents say if he missed school? What would they do when they saw him?
Abuela packed a lunch for Rey. Pedro got dressed for school. They left the house together. They hugged and said, “Vaya con Dios.”
Rey walked to the bus stop. The cobrador took his money, gave him a ticket, and guided him to sit in the front. Rey was surprised. This was the first time he didn’t have to argue that he could sit in the front, because he was, in fact, a Dominican and not Haitian. He settled in for the four-hour 190-mile trip to el capital.
Leaving Dajabón, Rey saw lines of dark-skinned men, maybe Haitian, maybe Haitian-Dominican, dressed in beige or black khakis and white or brown cotton shirts. They marched in single file along the dusty road into the sugar cane fields and cornfields on the Dominican-Haitian border. Rey leaned his forehead against the window. In the distance he saw sun shining on the glint of machetes chopping down rail-thin dark-skinned men. He saw SIM whipping dark-skinned men running away from the machetes. He saw SIM stabbing dark-skinned men with bayonets and swords. He saw SIM shooting running Haitians in the backs as they ran away.
Rey pressed his ear against the window. He heard screams. He heard gunshots. Popping sounds like fuses going out on streetlights. Light dimming from brown men’s brown eyes. He heard SIM barking orders. He heard dogs barking. He heard screams as whips ripped through men’s faces and necks releasing red blood, pink flesh, white bones.
Rey felt nauseous. Sweat beads gathered on his hairline. His empty stomach churned. Goosebumps rose on his arms. He yelled at the cobrador standing in the doorway:
“Oye! Voy a vomitar! Pull over!”
The cobrador signaled to the chofer who slammed on the brakes. Bus passengers lurched backward. Dirt billowed behind the grey bus and dusted the windows brown.
Rey jumped off the bus into the tropical heat burning his pale skin. He leaned over the side of the dusty road and vomited clear liquid. Exhaust from the bus enveloped him. Sounds of violence pierced him: screams, gunshots, breaking bones, screams.
“Señor, We need to go now!” The cobrador said and nodded towards the killing fields.
Señor? When did men start calling Rey “Señor”? They used to call him “boy” or “muchacho.” He used to grin and bear it. But, Señor? He wiped his mouth with the monogrammed handkerchief, wiped the sweat from the sweltering heat, boarded the bus, sat in the front seat, and watched the SIM officers mutilate and murder dark-skinned figures in the fields. The killing fields receded in the distance behind the bus. Rey could not sleep.
Four hours later the bus pulled into el capital. It was noon. Restless from the long ride and distressed from the violence, Rey ran to his two-story white stucco house.
“Mamá! Papá!” He called when he entered the front door. His mom and dad went to hug him.
“M’ijo!” His mom greeted him with a hug.
“My son!” His dad hugged him.
“Mamá! Papá! Your skin!” Rey stared at his mom and dad’s pale white skin. He saw blue veins in the arms. He saw red freckles dotting their faces. “You caught el virus?”
Elena and Narcisco Nordic exchanged looks.
“Sit down, m’ijo.” His mom said. She lead him to living room couch.
“What’s happening? Are we dying?” Rey asked. His parents laughed.
“No, m’ijo.” His dad said. “You know how I work at the pharmacy filling medications for the sick?” Narcisco asked his son. Rey nodded. “Well, El General hired me to create a medication to inoculate Dominicans from the new flu.”
“He recognized your papá’s hard work.” Elena said.
“I concocted a medication that would cure people of the new flu by mixing the antibiotics with a strand of Vitiligo.”
“Viti-what?” Rey asked.
“Vitiligo. It’s a virus that removes skin pigmentation.” Narcisco pauses to admire his son’s pale skin. “Your great-grand father had it. [Pause] I mixed el Vitiligo with the new flu vaccine.”
“Why?” Rey asked.
“Remember how people were complaining about Haitians stealing from them?” Elena asked. Rey nodded. “Well, the SIM were accidentally arresting Dominicans who appeared Haitian and that was causing a big problem with Dominican landowners.”
“El General wanted a way to distinguish Dominicans from Haitians. He asked me to give the Vitiligo vaccine only to Dominicans.”
“So what happens to the Haitians with the new flu?” Rey asked.
Narcisco and Elena looked at each other.
“There’s a saying: ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’” Narcisco said. “We’re doing this for the future our the D.R. [Pause] Now that President Franklin D. Roosevelt has withdrawn his forces from Haiti, the Dominican Republic can focus on uniting the island into one country. One D.R.” Narcisco said.
“What about Haiti?” Rey asked
“They will join the D.R. or catch the new flu.” Elena said.
“And die?” Rey’s voice went shrill. Narcisco reached out to Rey.
“Son, it’s what’s best.” Narcisco said.
“It’s Dios first. Trujillo second. Patria third.” Elena said.
Rey leaned away from his new parents who resembled his old parents in facial features but not in political attitudes. Who were these new people before him? Why did they think it was right to let Haitians die from the new flu? Why did they think it was right to change Dominicans’ skin color to white?
“There’s got to be a better way!” Rey said.
“Lower your voice.” Narcisco said. He looked towards the windows. “You never know who’s listening.”
“They should question the Haitians first.” Rey said.
“Like what: Say, are you a thief? Did you steal my cows?”
“No, ask them a question. You know how Haitians are always talking with an accent? Maybe ask them to say word. Like ‘perejil.’ Haitians are always saying it with a French accent. Maybe that will stop SIM from accidentally killing Dominicans and then you can make a new cure for the new flu and give it to everyone… even the Haitians.” Rey said. “Ask El General. [Pause] Please, papá. They’re killing innocent people.”
“It’s worth a try.” Elena said.
“I’ll float the idea to El General.” Narcisco said. “At the end of the day remember: It’s God first. Trujillo second. County third.”
Four days later on Friday, October 8th 1937 the ethnic cleansing of Haitians in the Dominican Republic ended. Rumors spread of a Parsley test. There were no witnesses.
Rey wondered what he could do to stop El Terrible Trujillo from killing Haitians because of the color of their skin. Rey wondered how he could convince his parents to help him. He wondered how he could find other Dominicans willing to fight their military government.
Would Rey find others to join forces with him and fight El Terrible Trujillo?
The answer lies in that nebulous zone between truth and fiction, between non-fiction and speculative fiction, between The New Negro and the old negro, between fear and fact. The answer lies in my imagination and an area I call The Massacre Zone.
Bibliography
Chancy, Myriam J.A. From Sugar to Revolution: Women’s Visions of Haiti, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic. Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2012. Project MUSE.
Danticat, Edwidge, 1969-. The Farming of Bones: a Novel. New York, NY: Soho Press, 1998.
Danticat, Edwidge, 1969-. Krik? Krak! New York, NY: Soho Press, 1995.
December 19, 1937. “Dominicans Agree to Peace Meeting: Trujillo Approves Mediation Plan for Settlement of the Dispute With Haiti.” The New York Times.
Locke, Alain, ed., The New Negro (New York: Touchstone, 1997), p.5.
Lyon, Thomas E. “Borges and the (Somewhat) Personal Narrator.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 19, no. 3, pp. 363-372, 1973.
November 13, 1937. “5,000 Slaughtered in San Domingo.” The New York Amsterdam News.
Turits, Richard L. Foundations of Despotism: Peasants, the Trujillo Regime, and Modernity in Dominican History. Stanford, Calif: Stanford University Press, 2003. Print.
Wucker, Michele. Why the Cocks Fight: Dominicans, Haitians, and the Struggle for Hispaniola. New York: Hill and Wang, 1999. Print.
Endnotes
[1] Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (Riverhead Books, 2007), 2.
[2] Wucker, Michele. Why the Cocks Fight: Dominicans, Haitians, and the Struggle for Hispaniola. New York: Hill and Wang, 1999. Print.
[3] Raymon LaFontaine M., “5,000 Slaughtered in San Domingo,” The New York Amsterdam News, November 13, 1937.
[4] Turits, Richard L. Foundations of Despotism: Peasants, the Trujillo Regime, and Modernity in Dominican History. Stanford, Calif: Stanford University Press, 2003. Print.
[5] Wucker, Michele, 51.
[6] Wucker, Michele, 51.
[7] Wucker, Michele, 51.
[8] Díaz, Oscar Wao, 1.
[9] Wucker, Michele, 52.
[10] Díaz, Oscar Wao, 1.
[11] Wucker, Michele 52.
[12] Palash Ghosh, “Parsley Massacre: The Genocide That Still Haunts Haiti-Dominican Relations,” The International Business times, October 15, 2012.
[13] Díaz, Oscar Wao, 2.
[14] Díaz, Oscar Wao, 2.
[15] Locke, Alain, ed., The New Negro (New York: Touchstone, 1997), p.5.
[16] Turits, Richard L, 82.
