Fathering A Child In The Dominican Republic (4)

The first time I entered that world was in August of 2001. My daughter, born in the Dominican Republic to a Dominican woman, was 10 months old. Simply put, I wanted to make sure she was officially recognized as my daughter, and that took legal action.

My daughter had been born, without me being present, in a public hospital. I was not informed about the birth nor told where she would be living. So I had to do some digging.

It took me many months to locate my daughter. Without editorial comment, I found her living in a barrio called 24 de Avril. It was located kitty-corner to probably the most notorious and dangerous barrio in Santo Domingo, called Capotillo.

Links:
(http://www.aaronhuey.com/pages/VICE/viceset2.html)
(http://www.latinamericanstudies.org/dominican-republic/capotillo.htm)

Most Dominicans in the know would say it was foolhardy for a foreigner to even set foot in 24 de Avril. Over time, I ventured inside to visit my daughter on many occasions. But going there when the sun went down was never an option.

She was living in squalor, in unsafe and unsanitary conditions. Everyone who lived there, however, were oblivious to those realities. It was home and it was the way you lived. Period.

The dwelling itself was a cement block structure, linked to others on either side. There was garbage on the street in front, with pools of stagnant water in the gutter. The street was a mixture of dirt, tar and cement, interspersed with huge potholes. A few cement steps took you up to the front door.

You stepped inside a 8 x10-foot room that had a couch, armchair, television, small kitchen table, and chairs, and not much room for anything else. Right behind that was another room, slightly larger, with two beds, dressers and side tables. That was the common bedroom.