I write this in memory of my mother, Estela, who died 41 years ago this month. This is the only picture I have of us together.
I was born in the Dominican Republic in Santo Domingo City. I was primarily raised by my paternal grandmother, Doña Maria. My mother, Estella, died when I was only 1 years old. For most of my life, I was told by my family (on both sides) that my mother had died from a cerebral hemorrhage (or a stroke). However, I recently found out that my mother did not die from a stroke as I was led to believe but instead she bled to death from having an illegal abortion. (My father still to this day doesn’t know that I am aware of this tragedy.) Shortly after my parents were married, my father Luis, left the Dominican Republic and went in search of a better life in the US. My mother, who came from a very poor family, felt abandoned and alone. She lived in a 1 room house and relied on my paternal grandparents for financial support. Her older sister, my aunt Elida, was a domestic worker in my grandparents house. As the story goes, my mother had an affair with a man and became pregnant. Then, a few months later, when my mother was already 3 months pregnant, my father called to say that he had secured visas for my mother and I. In fear that my father was going to leave her, my mother went to a “curandera” (witch doctor) and had an illegal abortion performed. A day later she bled to death. She was only 21 years old. It was a big scandal at the time because abortions were illegal in DR and because my father’s family was well known. It was even headline news in the national newspaper.
No one ever dared mention this to me but I always had the sense that there was more to my mother’s story. It was present in the way people would look away when I was introduced as Estela’s daughter. I never paid too much attention because both of my grandmothers and my dear aunt Elida made sure that I grew up knowing that I was loved and wanted. They made me the center of their life and gave me attention and unconditional love. They never allowed anyone to speak ill of my mother. Even after I moved to the US and lived with my Aunt Magaly no one ever spoke of how my mother had died. I have to say that I was very lucky. I lost 1 mother but gained 4 amazing women who helped to mold me into the super woman I am today.
Nowadays when I think about my mother, I think of how scared she must have been. She took a great risk and lost. Access to health care and a woman’s right to choose are things that we take for granted. I had an abortion in college and I had it because it was my choice! I went to a doctor and had the procedure done and that was it. My mother did not have the luxury of choice or access and she paid the ultimate price.
A Trail of Glitter 