As promised, here’s the true begining of “Historia de un Adolescente “ ( A Teenager’s Tale). As told in the first person. This time I’ll reserve my comments and let you read, however, it is depending on “your comments” whether or not I continue to do this or to simply continue on my own to do the translation until it is a finished. If you care, let me know.

“A Teenager’s Tale”

It came to my mind suddenly. Throughout her life she had always insisted that our lives had been like a novel and it was worth writing and in a spontaneous moment, after her departure from this world, I told my mind. "Before your days end write it down. The real story; That of happiness and moments of anguish and pain; the one of truths and lies. "

I always thought my imagination, apart from my feelings for my family, and the god whom I, without idolizing believe in, would be my redemption and that such emancipation was waiting in front of the computer, in  the new study room that I had recently built, to isolated me from rest of the home and liberate me to concentrate on writing every memory and consequently hers and my family. But now, amid smoke puffs of cancer sticks, and the reverberating sound of Celia Cruz’s "Latin-American Passport,” bouncing of the walls I finally concluded that there was no need to implement the imagination, I simply had to adopt the right words to describe it and the time to meditate about the past. The story was not just hers and the family, it was mine as well and, regardless of the format involved in which I disclosed its context, I’m sure someone will find something of value or perhaps similar to their own life. Anyway, without giving importance to symbolic clarifications, someone will imagine the concept through my words and how, most of all, my mind grabbed and pictured what my mother and some of my uncles revealed to me. There are some family members that tell the story their way and some that will not welcome what I write and will debate and discuss how I describe it, but since she didn't tell the story to any of them, since nobody else but me will devoted the probable endless time to write it and since is through my eyes that the reader imagination will see it, I shall title it "A Teenager’s Tales."

“Trujillo City”

My story doesn't start here. To be precise it starts in the middle of 1944 but in order to proceed

I need to continue to tell you where and when I was born. When the time came for me

to leave the comfort of my mother's womb, she, along with my father, were residing in the oldest city

in America, Santo Domingo de Guzman, in the neighborhood of San Carlos.

I was born on Sunday, December thirty first, in the year of our lord of 1950. I wish I could describe the

kind of day it was when I was born, whether it was a sunny or a rainy one, but unfortunately in that era

right smack  in the middle of the twentieth century, such data were not of great importance in the island

of Hispaniola and as such not archived, so I will assume that it was a, bright sunny day, the breeze from

the south Caribbean was cool and cruising north across the land  and the diversity of tropical birds

were in unison giving a concert on behalf of the occasion. 

Upon my arrival to this world, the city of Santo Domingo’s name  had been changed to that of  Ciudad

Trujillo in forced tribute to the colossal ego of the "Jefe," Generalissimo, Doctor Rafael Leonidas

Trujillo Molina, who, when the change was suggested, did not hesitate one second to agree to it.

According to those that were adults when it happened, within a day, it  had been made and confirmed

by acclamation by his sycophants senators. The next morning the citizens suddenly awoke to a city

with a new name. This inconceivable act was one that was not even considered by any of the many

Latin America dictators of the time. Even Anastasio Somoza, one of the most despicable one among

them, did not  think of the imprudence to name a city in Nicaragua in his name.

Amongst his many titles Trujillo was proclaimed protector and father of the new country and, over the

mute objection of the archdioceses of the church, the benefactor of the disciples of the Roman catholic

church throughout the island. He overcame their underlying objection to the title by having his secret

service planting and detonating bombs in a few churches and blaming it on the communist. Once they

agreed to openly  name him “benefactor” of the church, the bombing miraculously ceased. 

Trujillo was arguably the most bloodthirsty murderer among the dictators of South and Central America

and I was born and raised for thirteen years in the middle of his city and, in one of those unforeseen

circumstances of life, he directly played a part in my life.

Had it not been for the libidinous ritual practiced by Trujillo every Wednesday night at his San

Cristobal Mahogany ranch, perhaps my parents would never have met and, for reason that even I don't

know, I would not be telling this story.

There are people who claim that they could recall the early days of their childhood, including the day

they were born. I do not have that gift and therefore I cannot make such testimony. To write this I

relied on my mother's words, my father, uncles and family members who were present and told me 

of the late hour of the day when I finally decide to get out of my mother’s womb.

According to them, I was a twelve pounds bundle of joy, that was greeted by the outside world just as

the sound of the fire department's alarm announced midnight and the beginning of the New Year. It was

The last Sunday of 1950 and I was recorded as the last child, born in a hospital, in the half century.

That factor has significance. I do not know what nor have I been able to decipher it yet but I hope

to know before I hear my last bolero.

For some reason all women, regardless of personal beauty, are radiant after giving birth.  They told me

that, even after twenty four hours of labor with me, her beauty was almost, in the religious term, 

virginal. Those hours of labor in which I procrastinated on whether or not to come out of the

warm, comfortable belly of our mother, also had its effects on me. By Uncle Plinio's, account, I was so 

big and swollen that he took off his wrist watch and slid it on my left wrist and it fit me perfectly.

Either my good uncle was exaggerating or his wrist during that time was very skinny. It does not

usually takes me long to make up my mind, although I've had my days in which I don't know whether

to take a  step or stand still. When I was nine, Doctor Capellan, a very close friend of my father and

who had the privilege of  introducing my naked butt to the universe, told me just a few minutes before

he removed my tonsils, that I was screaming at full volume when I slid out which deprived him of the

obligatory slap in my brand new ass.  To me it makes perfect sense. I've never had much of a

threshold for pain. I guess I must have sensed that a total stranger was getting ready to spank me just

for being born.  Or who knows? Maybe I felt comfortable in my mother's womb and was not quite

ready to face the world yet.

"The Vampire Penis”

It turns out that in his mid-life Trujillo developed an affinity for young virgin girls.  Like every

man he admired the beauty of the opposite sex  and  as his absolute power grew, like a vampire, his

imperial penis developed the pleasure of being tangled only in the blood of virgins and after that  never

entered any vagina that was before him deflowered. El Jefe had a troop of spies whose sole function

was that of finding beautiful young virgins  who were worthy of his ego, to be ceremoniously

deflowered by his vampire penis. Every week these spies collected between 10 and 15 girls and took

them to the mahogany ranch house in  San Cristobal. There, Trujillo chose among them the

one or two that most pleased him to give them the privilege of being made into a woman by him or,  

 when his manhood failed, by his index finger. Of course if they were to his liking, his victims and 

their families would be favored with privileges and riches.

In mid-1944, one of the nefarious spies, as he was riding amongst the coffee hills in the high mountains of

San José de Ocoa, saw a beautiful black-haired girl who cheerfully sang as she gathered the red

beans from the coffee plants. The tall and slender brunette that his lecherous eyes had discovered years

later was to become our mother.  

"Where can I find the family of the young dark hair girl collecting the coffee?"

The spy asked Maria, her sister and the wife of Asdrubal Guerrero the owner of the coffee

plantation.  "If I may be allowed, who wants to know?" Maria cautiously and cordially asked.

"El Jefef” the man condescendingly answered her. Aware of what the man's job was and what the

question implied  Maria  lied.

 "To tell the truth, I don’t know. My husband gave her employment a few days ago. He could tell you

but he is in Bani and won’t return for couple of days. You can come back then if you want.“  The man

looked at her suspiciously and answered. “I will.”Maria returned to her routine and waited for the man to

go disappear. She quickly called her sister, took her immediately to their parents’ house and, while the rest

of the eleven brothers and sisters gathered to curiously listen, told them what happened. Contemplating what

to do and what were the alternatives, Ramon, the family's clown, sarcastically hinted.

-"You know what, Gloria. He only uses it once and then, as I have been told, his victims become rich.

If so, give it to him. You're going to lose it anyway and then the rest of us can leave this one bedroom

mansion and move to the city. "

- "Uh, uh." She said as he playfully pretended to hit her clowning brother. "He will not get it. No

matter what you say he has done after. I'm saving it for the father of my children. "

- "And who is that if I may know?" Asked Ramón.

- "I do not know." She replied. "But as soon as I see him I will tell you."

Her parents decided to hide her in Ciudad Trujillo, right under the noses of Trujillo's spies and where

virginity was less likely to be found  that in the humble hills of the country side.

She stayed at her brother's house, Manuel Urbano, whose name - since there are no other Manuel's in

the family - was eventually given to me, and whom they called "Tito," who like their  father was

a humble barber and yet, unlike his grumpy father, was a happy go lucky barber.

Six months later our mother to be was sitting in her brother's  barber chair while talking to Tito and 

her teasing brother Ramón. She spotted the tall, mulatto, who was impeccably dressed and asked:

-"Tito, who is that handsome man dressed in the white linen suit and wearing the Panama hat? "

Glancing over to where the man was leisurely approaching, Tito recognized the man and replied;

- "That is Luis Emilio Simo. The coconut man and don't even look at him because he is the biggest

womanizer in all of San Carlos. "

 Tito was not exaggerating. By the time our parents met, he already had Nilka, our oldest sister, with

Doña Maria, our second sister Haydee Mercedes with Doña Gabriela and had Doña Carmen, pregnant

 with our older brother Luis Emilio. That of course is not counting those other ladies which he

did not have any children with before each one of them and in between all of our mothers.

Luis Emilio Simo, our future father, was only 37 years old and our future mother had just turned 20.

According to what she later told me, when our father passed in front of her brother's barber shop;

 "He looked up at me and, ever so briefly, his eyes focused on my eyes and mine in his” At the same

time she said she touched Ramon's shoulders and reminded him.

 "Remember when I told you that when I saw the future father of my children I would know? “

Ramon looked at her incredulous and answered.

"Yes.” Then, as he realized whom she was referring to, emphatically told her.

“Gloria, get out of here! Please don't tell me this is him?” She confirmed it with her head.

"That's the one.  For the past few weeks I have seen him slowly walking across the street. Always

well dressed but always with an seeming loneliness that ran to my insides and  touched my heart. "Of course, unbeknownst to her, the subtle and well-dressed rounds of the coconut man were

premeditated. Our father had a habit of sitting in a chair leaning against the third door of the business

and as Diogenes, who in those days was his lackey and right hand man, told me on one occasion  when

she walked by  the store he immediately went to find out  where the lady that he began to call “La

Doña,“ lived  Six months later, he separated from Luis Emilio’s mother, Doña Carmen and moved

together in the same place where the store was located.  When Trujillo’s spies finally managed to

find her again it was too late, she had already lost her virginity to our father, the coconut man, and

regardless of how beautiful a woman was, Trujillo never inserted his manhood where other men had

been. Not even that of our mother. After I was born, the last of his four boys, for the first time in his

life, our future father, married our future mother.