Ana shares memories of her childhood, the political climate during the Trujillo dictatorship, and the challenges she faced as a young mother in New York. She also reflects on the importance of her religious faith, the joys of grandparenting, and her passion for travel and exploration in her retirement. Throughout the conversation, Ana emphasizes the values of love, responsibility, and perseverance that have guided her life and that she hopes to pass on to her children and grandchildren.
My name is Ana Geralda Fernández. I was born in Santiago, Dominican Republic, in a well-known neighborhood called Pueblo Nuevo.
The first nine years of my life were filled with happiness. I lived with my mother, stepfather, grandmother, and an aunt who had a son. There were always people around me, and for me, that made life beautiful. I spent all my time playing with my little friends, with nothing to worry about except going to school. My home was full of love, especially from my mother and grandmother. My grandmother was a guiding force, showering me with kindness. From her, I learned the true meaning of love. We didn’t have much—we were poor—but we were happy.
I was born during the Trujillo era, a time of terror and fear. People didn’t dare to speak freely, always afraid of being overheard and reported by informants, Los Calieses. One word in the wrong place could mean death.
In our home, instead of family portraits, we had framed photos of Trujillo and his family—because if you didn’t, you could get into serious trouble. But everything changed when Trujillo was assassinated. What followed was the *De-Trujillamiento*, the process of removing his influence from Dominican life. I still remember the day my mother took down those portraits, carried them to the backyard, and set them on fire. She was overjoyed, nearly dancing with happiness as the flames consumed those symbols of oppression. That moment is burned into my memory—we were finally free after 31 years of dictatorship.
The first nine years of my life were filled with happiness. I lived with my mother, stepfather, grandmother, and an aunt who had a son. There were always people around me, and for me, that made life beautiful. I spent all my time playing with my little friends, with nothing to worry about except going to school. My home was full of love, especially from my mother and grandmother. My grandmother was a guiding force, showering me with kindness. From her, I learned the true meaning of love. We didn’t have much—we were poor—but we were happy.
I was born during the Trujillo era, a time of terror and fear. People didn’t dare to speak freely, always afraid of being overheard and reported by informants, Los Calieses. One word in the wrong place could mean death.
In our home, instead of family portraits, we had framed photos of Trujillo and his family—because if you didn’t, you could get into serious trouble. But everything changed when Trujillo was assassinated. What followed was the *De-Trujillamiento*, the process of removing his influence from Dominican life. I still remember the day my mother took down those portraits, carried them to the backyard, and set them on fire. She was overjoyed, nearly dancing with happiness as the flames consumed those symbols of oppression. That moment is burned into my memory—we were finally free after 31 years of dictatorship.
I graduated from a Catholic school, the Women's Polytechnic, where Spanish nuns taught and guided us. Then, in 1974, I emigrated. I was 20 years old when I arrived in New York, in the middle of a sweltering July. At first, I didn’t like it. The heat, the noise—it was overwhelming. My first job was in a factory, but soon I started studying English. I took a secretarial typing course, but two years wasn’t enough to truly master the language. It was a challenge, but that’s why I came—because New York was supposed to be the land of opportunity.
During this time, I was in a long-distance romance, what we Dominicans call *having love*. My future husband and I wrote letters to each other, always waiting for the next one to arrive. Sometimes it took a week, sometimes two. That was how our relationship grew—through words on paper. But he was affectionate, devoted. In 1976, I returned to the Dominican Republic to marry him, arriving ready with my trousseau.
During this time, I was in a long-distance romance, what we Dominicans call *having love*. My future husband and I wrote letters to each other, always waiting for the next one to arrive. Sometimes it took a week, sometimes two. That was how our relationship grew—through words on paper. But he was affectionate, devoted. In 1976, I returned to the Dominican Republic to marry him, arriving ready with my trousseau.
I was born during the Trujillo era, a time of terror and fear. People didn’t dare to speak freely, always afraid of being overheard and reported by informants, Los Calieses. One word in the wrong place could mean death.
We stayed for seven months, and by the time we returned to New York, I was seven months pregnant. My daughter was born in the Bronx, marking a new chapter in my life. Everything felt different—the culture, the language, the climate. The adjustment was difficult. The noise, the subway, the fast-paced life. I still remember a song that was everywhere at that time—Feelings. Whenever I hear it, I think of those first years in New York.
I had three children: my eldest, Julie; then Bolívar Ernesto, who now lives with me; and my youngest, Samuel, who is in Boston. We celebrated Julie’s first birthday in New York, but soon after, in October 1978, we moved to Rhode Island. My other two children were born here, at Saint Joseph’s Hospital.
Raising three children so close in age was challenging. Those early years were tough—my marriage was strained, and life was difficult. But we made it through. By the grace of God, we succeeded. My children grew up well, and for that, I am grateful.
