Day 27: The Day My World Cracked Open

A lot of my childhood is blurry. Survival trauma does that. Your brain learns what to keep and what to lock away, and for a long time I thought I had lost more memories than I kept. But there is one moment that never left me. One memory that feels so alive, so sensory, so magical, that when I return to it, I swear I can still smell it.

This was the day my world cracked open.

I was sitting on my grandmother’s lap, her bosom soft beneath my cheek like a pillow made of safety. We were in her rocking chair, the slow, steady motion moving us back and forth, back and forth. The Libro de Nacho was spread open across my lap, its pages worn, familiar, waiting.

Outside, life was loud.

We lived on a busy carretera in the Dominican Republic, with a bakery right across the street. Traffic moved in a way that only makes sense in memory: motorcycles weaving past cars, buggies rolling by, horses clopping along like they belonged there too. The air was thick with contradiction. Smoke from engines. Horse dung baking in the heat. Fresh bread drifting out of the panadería, warm and yeasty and comforting. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. It was chaos and rhythm and life all tangled together.

And inside that noise, I felt calm.

Mamá held me. That alone mattered. But there was also this quiet apprehension buzzing in my chest. How was I going to learn all these words? The page felt overwhelming. Letters stacked together, sounds I didn’t yet own. The book was open, but the world inside it felt far away.

And then she began.

Her finger moved slowly, deliberately, pointing at each letter, each syllable, each word. She pronounced the sounds softly into my ear, her voice patient, rhythmic, sure. I mimicked her. Again. And again. And again. The rocking chair kept time, my body learning alongside my brain. When I got it wrong, she corrected me without frustration. When I got it right, we moved on.

That’s how I learned to read.

Not with pressure. Not with fear. With motion. With repetition. With warmth. With someone believing I could do it before I believed it myself.

That moment feels magical to me now because I didn’t know what was being born. I didn’t know that reading would become my saving grace. That books would become my refuge, my rebellion, my home. I didn’t know that stories would teach me language for feelings I didn’t yet have names for. I didn’t know that one day I would be a writer.

But that was the beginning.

When I think back on it now, what strikes me most is how held I felt. Even surrounded by noise, even unsure of myself, I wasn’t alone. Mamá was there, anchoring me. The world outside was messy and loud and real, but in that rocking chair, there was focus. There was intention. There was love.

It’s wild to think about where that moment led.

Now I write stories that get read by parents sitting with their children. I write books that people turn to because they want to see themselves reflected, or because they want to step into a world different from their own. I write stories that hold people the way I was held. Stories that say, you belong here.

And every time I think about that, I circle back to her.

To my grandmother.
To that rocking chair.
To the Libro de Nacho.
To the smell of shit and pan mingling in the air.

There’s something deeply poetic about that contrast. Beauty and mess existing at the same time. Learning unfolding in the middle of noise. Magic not being clean or quiet or curated, but real and grounded and human.

That’s probably why this memory survived when so many others didn’t. It wasn’t just a moment. It was a doorway.

That was the day my world opened.
That was the day stories found me.

And everything I’ve written since traces back to that small girl, on her grandmother’s lap, sounding out words she didn’t yet know would one day shape her entire life.

The Rhythm of Prayer: A Throwback to the Magic I Didn’t Know I Was Witnessing

When I think back to my childhood, some of my clearest memories aren’t of toys or school — they’re of prayers.

The sound of women’s voices moving through rosaries in a rhythm so fast it felt almost impossible to keep up. Their lips moving like a current — one long, synchronized murmur of faith.

Even as a child, I knew there was something otherworldly about it.

The Enchantment in Faith

Back then, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I just knew it felt powerful — the way sound could transform a room. How grief and devotion could share the same breath.

These women — my grandmother, her friends, the neighbors who filled our home for novenas — would rock back and forth, beads clutched tight, voices thick with longing. I’d watch from a corner, mesmerized, trying to catch the rhythm, to understand how they could recite the prayers so quickly and never lose their place.

It felt like spellwork.

And maybe it was, in its own way.

I grew up seeing Catholicism and La Regla — the Afro-Caribbean spiritual tradition rooted in Yoruba beliefs — practiced side by side, seamlessly intertwined. One moment we’d be saying the Ave María, and the next, someone would whisper a prayer to an orisha. No one saw contradiction in it. It was just life.

Where Faith Meets Magic

It wasn’t until years later that I realized how those experiences shaped how I see the world — and how I write it.

To me, faith and magic have always been two sides of the same coin. Both are about belief, energy, and reverence. Both ask you to trust something unseen.

When I write stories like The Ordinary Bruja, I’m not inventing magic out of nowhere. I’m pulling from those real-life rituals — from the hum of rosary beads, from the cadence of prayer circles, from the quiet moments when grief and hope braided themselves together through sound.

That was my first introduction to magic — not from books or fantasy, but from the mouths of women who prayed like their words could open doors between worlds.

Why I Cherish Those Memories

Now, when I look back, I understand why I was so captivated. Those novenas were my first lessons in storytelling — collective rhythm, repetition, call and response.

And they taught me something sacred:
that belief doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.
That language — whether it’s a chant, a spell, or a whispered Amén — carries energy.

I think that’s why my writing always finds its way back to that same heartbeat.

Want to See How it all Came Out?

The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – Johanny Ortega

Marisol Espinal has spent her life trying to disappear from her family’s whispers of magic, from the shame of not belonging, from the truth she refuses to face. She’s always wanted to be someone else: confident, capable, extraordinary.

But when strange visions, flickering shadows, and warnings written in her mother’s hand begin to stalk her, Marisol is forced to confront her deepest fear: what if she isn’t extraordinary at all? What if she’s painfully ordinary?

Yet Hallowthorn Hill doesn’t call to just anyone. And the more Marisol resists, the stronger its pull becomes. The past she’s buried claws its way back, and something in the mist is watching—waiting for her to remember.

If Marisol cannot face the truth about who she is and where she comes from, the same darkness that destroyed her ancestors will claim her, too.

Somewhere in the shadows, something knows her name.

And it’s time for Marisol to learn why.

Shadows in the Sugarcane: Dominican Folklore and the Mythic Beings That Still Haunt Us

Dominican folklore is a tangled web of myth, caution, and ancestral memory. It whispers through the mountains, lingers in the campos, and curls under the beds of children who still won’t go to sleep. Our island’s stories are not just bedtime tales or scary campfire anecdotes—they’re reflections of our colonial past, spiritual resistance, and the thin line between fear and reverence.

Let’s dive into four of the most iconic (and spine-tingling) figures in Dominican mythology and unpack their origins, meaning, and why they still live rent-free in our cultural psyche.

1. Ciguapa: The Enchantress with Backward Feet

Origin: Taino legend, later adapted into Dominican rural mythology

The Ciguapa is a wild, beautiful woman with flowing hair, deep eyes, and feet that point backward—a haunting detail meant to confuse anyone who tries to track her. Some say she lures men into the mountains only for them to vanish forever. Others argue she’s a protector of nature, misunderstood and demonized, especially by colonizers who feared Indigenous resistance.

Whether she’s femme fatale or forest guardian, the Ciguapa reminds us that not all wild women are wicked—sometimes, they’re just free.

Reference:

• Cuentos y leyendas dominicanas, Comisión Permanente de Efemérides Patrias
• [Dominican Folktales, Smithsonian Latino Center Archive]

2. El Bacá: The Demonic Deal-Maker

Origin: Afro-Dominican spiritual traditions mixed with Catholic superstition

If someone in the campo suddenly gets rich, locals might whisper: “Ese tiene un Bacá.”

The Bacá is a demonic entity someone summons to gain wealth, land, or power. But every deal has a price. Sometimes it’s your soul. Sometimes it’s your child. And once summoned, the Bacá must be fed—usually with blood, animals, or worse.

This myth speaks to the deep colonial scars left by exploitation and land theft, reminding us how wealth in the wrong hands often has bloody roots.

Reference:

• Cimarrón Spirits: Popular Magic in the Dominican Republic by José Guerrero
• Oral histories from La Vega and Santiago communities

3. El Galipote: The Shapeshifter of San Juan

Origin: Colonial-era Dominican myth with African and European influences

El Galipote (also known as Zángano or Lugarú) is a shapeshifting being—sometimes cursed, sometimes a powerful witch or warlock. Said to come from the San Juan region, stories describe him transforming into dogs, birds, or even trees and rocks to evade capture. He possesses superhuman strength, cannot be harmed by bullets, and allegedly drinks the blood of children to prolong his life.

To protect newborns, Dominicans still tie red strings around their wrists—a gesture of spiritual protection that predates even Christianity on the island.

Reference:

• El folklore en Santo Domingo by Franklin J. Franco
• [Museo del Hombre Dominicano archives]

4. El Cuco: The Sack-Wielding Boogeyman

Origin: Iberian Peninsula (Spain), brought over during colonization and merged with Dominican oral traditions

El Cuco is the nightmare fuel of childhood. He’s the creature that snatches kids who refuse to sleep or are caught wandering after dark. Parents don’t just threaten him—they invoke him:

“Duérmete ya, o El Cuco te va a llevar.”

With his sack and silent steps, El Cuco is less about evil and more about discipline and survival in communities where letting a child roam late could mean danger or disappearance.

Reference:

• La tradición oral infantil dominicana by Delia Blanco
• Spanish folklore origins from Galicia and Castilla, merged into Dominican usage

Why These Myths Still Matter

Dominican folklore holds power because it lives between the real and the imagined. These stories reveal how our people have coped with colonization, poverty, survival, and spiritual battles—often by giving form to fear. Today, they shape how we parent, protect, and pass down cultural knowledge.

So the next time you hear branches snap in the forest, or feel a chill near the crib, maybe ask yourself: is it just the wind—or something older, watching?

Dominican folklore holds power because it lives between the real and the imagined. These stories reveal how our people have coped with colonization, poverty, survival, and spiritual battles—often by giving form to fear.

And trust me—I lived it.

As a kid, El Cuco had me scared almost every single night. That whisper from a dark hallway? Cuco. That creak under the bed? Cuco.

And El Galipote? I’ve seen babies with red strings tied around their tiny wrists to protect them from his hunger—because no one was taking chances with that shapeshifter roaming the hills.

Even the Chupacabra, originally from our neighbors in Puerto Rico, made its way into Dominican campo lore. Eventually, folks on the island started claiming sightings too. Whether it was real or not didn’t matter—we believed, because belief itself became protection.

Today, these stories shape how we parent, protect, and pass down cultural knowledge. They’re not just old tales. They’re ancestral alarms.

So the next time you hear branches snap in the forest, or feel a chill near the crib, maybe ask yourself: is it just the wind—or something older, watching?

#AfroTainoTraditions #ancestralWisdom #CaribbeanMythology #CiguapaLegend #DominicanCulture #DominicanFolklore #ElBacá #ElCuco #ElGalipote #oralStorytelling #spookyStoriesLatineEdition

Jean-Pierre Boyer Dominican History: A New Perspective

https://youtu.be/ULLqxtdapFI

When most Dominicans hear about the Haitian occupation of 1822, they’ve already been taught what to think: that it was an invasion, a forced erasure of Dominican identity, a dark chapter we were lucky to survive.

But what if that story is incomplete?
What if Jean-Pierre Boyer, the Haitian president who unified the island, wasn’t a villain—but a flawed liberator whose actions still echo today?

This post breaks down what really happened in 1822, who resisted and why, and how the line between freedom and control gets dangerously blurry—especially when power isn’t shared.

Who was Jean-Pierre Boyer

Boyer was president of Haiti from 1818 to 1843, known for unifying the island of Hispaniola and abolishing slavery in the eastern part (now the Dominican Republic). His rule began with revolutionary ideals but became increasingly authoritarian.

He freed people—but didn’t ask them what kind of freedom they wanted.

His Mission: Liberation or Occupation?

• Abolished slavery in the Dominican east, where it was still legal under Spanish colonial holdovers.
• Unification was strategic: Boyer feared Spain or France would use Santo Domingo as a launching pad to recolonize Haiti.
• Pan-African vision: He dreamed of a unified, Black-led island free of European control.

But…

• He imposed Haitian law without local input.
• He dismantled the Catholic Church’s influence without replacing the cultural void.
• He governed from a distance—centralized, top-down, and unaccountable.

Boyer wasn’t just driven by idealism—he was playing defense.

At the time, the eastern side of the island (Santo Domingo) was weaker, under-resourced, and vulnerable. Boyer feared that Spain or France would use it as a base to re-enter and recolonize the western side (Haiti), which had only recently won its independence through revolution.

So for Boyer, liberating the eastern side was also strategic—a preemptive move to keep all of Hispaniola free and out of European hands.

But here’s where he miscalculated:
Boyer failed to see how entrenched Spanish culture and colonial identity already were in the east.
His reforms didn’t come with cultural integration or local autonomy—they came with control. And as a result, many Dominicans saw his actions not as liberation, but as replacement.

That legacy echoes today in Dominican identity, where any mention of African or Taíno heritage is often met with resistance—while Spanish ancestry is exalted.
It’s a colonial mindset that Boyer tried to disrupt—but his approach lacked the cultural sensitivity to truly shift it.

Why Did Dominican Elites Revolt?

Let’s be honest: it wasn’t just about national pride. You need to dig deeper than the textbooks to understand who had the most to loose off this revolution.

Dominican elites—mostly light-skinned, wealthy, and tied to the Church—lost power, land, and control under Haitian rule.

• Slavery ended = they lost free labor.
• Church lands seized = they lost spiritual and economic power.
• Spanish cultural dominance threatened = they lost their status.

So, the 1844 “independence” was as much about reclaiming elite dominance as it was about self-rule. So in essence this was a ‘twofer.’ The Dominican Republic came to be its own country AND the elite held on to their power.

The Bigger Problem: Historical Erasure

The occupation gets framed as “colonization,” but it wasn’t extraction. It was revolutionary authoritarianism—not empire, but control without consent.

Boyer was afraid that Spain or France were going to use the eastern side (which was the weaker side at that time) to over power the western side. So for him liberating the eastern side was also strategic to keep the entire island free and away from the hands of Spain and France. But he failed to see how entrenched the Spanish culture had been then. This solidified entrechment shows today in the already cemented identity of the Dominican person who finds tremendous offense when anyone calls them out for forgetting their Taino and African heritage while boasting their Spaniard.

And just like that overprotective parent who wants the best for you but doesn’t trust you to choose it yourself…
Boyer liberated those who would soon call themselves Dominicans, but didn’t have enough cultural sensitivity to empower them.

So, What Do We Do With This History?

We stop repeating what textbooks told us.

I remind myself often that what we were taught come from the memories of the ones who won, because the ones who lost and died didn’t get a chance to tell their side.
We recognize both the liberation and the damage.
We hold space for complexity, and we center the stories that got erased by nationalism and anti-Blackness.

Because history isn’t just about what happened.
It’s about who gets to tell it—and who gets left out.

Watch the Full Breakdown

I dive into all of this and more in my latest YouTube video

Sources Cited:

• The Dominican Republic: A National History by Frank Moya Pons
• Avengers of the New World by Laurent Dubois
• Haiti: State Against Nation by Michel-Rolph Trouillot
• Black Behind the Ears by Ginetta E. B. Candelario
• Why the Cocks Fight by Michele Wucker

📣 Want More?

Subscribe to my newsletter, follow me on Threads (@haveacupofjohanny), or explore more history and magic on my site.

#antiBlackness #decolonizedHistory #DominicanCulture #DominicanIdentity

The Observations From an IG Engagement

Si te pica, arráscate.

This is coming from another Dominican. Recently, I replied to someone on Instagram, sharing my personal experience of working with Spaniards while living in Europe. I mentioned how, despite how strongly some Dominicans align themselves with their Spanish roots, Spaniards don’t necessarily view us the same way. Instead, they see us, the colonized, as a “lesser” or “uncultured” version of them.

You’d think I declared the end of the world with how many Dominican accounts came for me, as if I were some cucaracha trespassing in their house. Their reaction says more about the aferranza—the clinging—to white culture that exists within our community than it does about me.

The vitriol I received for this simple observation was insane. If my mental health were fragile, I could see how this level of rejection would have pushed me into a digital and real-life hermit mode. But thankfully, I’m in a good place and want to dissect this phenomenon because it’s something I’ve experienced my entire life—within my family, with Dominican folk, and even with non-Dominican Latines.

Any critique of Spanish or European culture always seems to hit Dominicans like I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain.

The Fallout

All I did was share my experience. My comment theorized that Spaniards don’t ride for Dominicans the way Dominicans ride for them. Then I went back to cleaning my house, completely unaware of the storm I’d unleashed.

When I checked Instagram later, my comment had 200 likes and a flood of replies. My first thought was, “WTF, what did I say?” I re-read it. Nope—nothing offensive. Yet, to Dominican accounts, it was as if I’d insulted their mother.

I replied to a few disingenuous comments filled with logical fallacies, but most I let go. I’m not in the business of arguing with ghosts and internet randos. Still, this digital altercation solidified some observations for me about Dominicans:

1. Criticism of Spain hurts deeply because many Dominicans see themselves reflected in Spaniards.

2. Centering Dominican African heritage triggers attacks because it threatens their sense of identity.

For these accounts, it seems acknowledging our African roots feels like a threat to their European ones. It’s as if being Dominican means you can only choose one or the other. Many would rather uplift the European side while letting the African and Taino heritage fade into the background—silent, like the H in Spanish.

Where This Comes From

This mindset is the legacy of brutal colonization. For centuries, centering whiteness was a matter of survival. To do otherwise often meant violence or death. I get that this history shaped us. I understand that confronting these truths is uncomfortable and can take generations. But it’s 2025.

We have access to endless resources and tools to unlearn these harmful mindsets. There’s no excuse to remain this obtuse.

Love thought-provoking stories that explore identity, culture, and personal growth? Start with The Alvarez Girls, I Love You So Much and finish with the family read: Mrs. Franchy’s Evil Ring

Be on the lookout for:

The Ordinary Bruja

Under The Flamboyant Tree

The Devil That Haunts Me

#DominicanCulture #HaveACupOfJohanny #internetFeuds #LatinxReads #MentalHealth #PersonalGrowth #toxicCulture #UnderTheFlamboyantTree

Punta Cana, Dominican Republic 🏖️🌴

#puntacana #dominicanrepublic #travel #explore #adventure #beach #tropical #puntacanatravel #visitpuntacana #puntacanalove #puntacanaexplore #puntacanaphotography #puntacanavacation #puntacanatourism #dominicanlife #caribbean #ocean #sand #palmtrees #dominicantravel #puntacanabeach #dominicanbeaches #puntacanasunset #dominicanadventure #dominicanculture