- Thread starter SantiagueroRD
- Start date
Graphic Photographs
I once saw a foto of a Dominican woman shot to death by her husband as his dead body laid next to hers. He shot her in the head and you could see the hole ,his body was faced down so couldn't really see his gunshot wound.
Another time saw a foto of dead Dominicans bodies piled in the back of a pickup truck as if they were dead cattle.
Do you really think a 11 yr old child should have access to these type of images? What gain does a Dominican have opening up a newspaper seeing a woman with her head blown off. This is SICK!!!
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~Have a friend who's twin boys died shortly after birth, we arrived at the funeral home to find two open caskets, one which upon our early arrival was empty. The mother had placed the two infants in one casket to photograph them together one last time....the cemetary would NOT allow them to be buried in one casket and one plot..."Such BS and a money scheme BTW"....to make matters worse, weeks after the funeral we arrived at their home to find a photo of the deceased infants hanging on the living room wall along with their other children that were alive....needless to say the mother to this day has not fully recovered from this, and the twins photo will forever hang on that wall!!! For me it was all too unsettling and will forever be fused in my memory...
a child perceives death differently than an adult. i do not think an 11 year old would be grossed out by the image of a corpse, it has already been seen many times in movies and computer games. some may cry. but others will stare. you'd be surprised how many teens visit page rotten.com.
personally I am in favour of the real photographs, I see no need to protect the public from the reality of gunshot wounds, drink driving, drug abuse etc etc, IMO if people in my country (UK) saw these images growing up, they may have a more realistic view of life, and the consequenses of danger/abuse. (Especially car/motorbike accidents.)
LIfe can be snuffed out in one second. Live it while you can.
LIfe can be snuffed out in one second. Live it while you can.
It's worked a treat here, hasn't it?
There's realism, which I'm all for, but then there's also ghoulish voyeurism, which I'm not.
When my Mother died, my Father insisted on taking photos and videos of her in casket. Myself, I didn`t like that at all, but there was nothing at all I could do about it. I am of ukranian decent.
OMG...I don't even know where to start with this macabre story. No doubt, many people here will not believe this story. That’s ok. Unless you are from Bonao and know my family, then you will probably find this story hard to believe. For the people who know me, and know my family, then you are already very familiar with this story. Some people from Bonao will have heard it second-hand from other people.
My father passed away on May 16th, 2004. The date may seem meaningless, but it was the date of the presidential elections here in the DR. my father had cancer and I had been taking care of him for the last 6 months of his life. Initially, he was able to get out of bed with some help. He would come out into the kitchen and play poker with his friends until the wee hours of the morning. But then slowly, he got more and more weak and tired, until eventually I had to carry him back and forth to the poker table and help him hold his cards up. He would go "All in" and repeatedly bluff, using his condition as an Ace-in-the hole against others. He also liked to drink beer while he played poker, so I always poured him his beer and then put a large straw in it so that he could drink it. He was too weak to lift the heavy glass.
Anyway, as he got weaker and weaker, we had religious relatives stopping by at all hours of the day and night. First came the Evangelists (Every Dominican family has Evangelist relatives--they came in groups of 6 and 7 and were trying to commandeer their way into his life and make him convert over to Evangelism. This attempt, I’m happy to report, was in vain. My grandfather was a religious fanatic preacher from Bonao; he held daily Bible study sessions. This had the unfortunate consequence of making two of his three sons—my father was the youngest—projectile vomit whenever they heard people quoting from the bible.
I have to give the Evangelist some credit though; they came by daily and never gave up trying to convert him. After they left, as if it was perfectly timed on purpose—our Jehovah Witness relatives—every Dominican family has Jehovah Witnesses—stopped by in groups of between, oh, I don’t know--10 and 1000—they were very persistent—they carried their Watchtower magazines like a "Get out of Hell free card." They paraded around the poker table and were very polite, but they didn't like me feeding my father beer through a straw. Sometimes I fed him gin & tonic, but this knocked him out of his game and stripped him of his bluffing abilities. I tried to stick to beer because he did his best bluffing under the influence of beer.
Anyway, after the Jehovah Witnesses left, the Seventh Day Adventists would stop by—every Dominican family have a few 7th day Adventist—but they never stopped by if they saw my father playing poker. They strongly disliked gambling. Instead, they waited until the poker game was over, and the dogs were locked up, then they would storm down the driveway like they were in a 100 meter hurdle race, sprinting up to the front door and knocking loudly and waking up the whole neighborhood. This sent the dogs into a frenzy. Naturally, many of these people were our cousins and distant relatives, so against my better judgment, I allowed them into the house for brief visits. They all knelt down at the foot of his bed and began rolling their eyes behind their heads and began speaking in tongues. This would drive the dogs crazy, and this compelled me to release the dogs on them. They would scurry around like rats, jumping up and down and screaming in terror to "save them." I know...I’m going to hell.
In-between all of this chaos, we had a catholic priest from the church in downtown Bonao, coming by every day and wanting to hear my father's last confession.
The cancer began to metastasis in his right leg so everyone was expecting him to be leaving for the last train to Clarksville any day now. I was still carrying him out to the poker table and sitting him up in his lazy boy chair and pouring his beer for him, and then handing him his straw. He slowly stopped eating, lost his appetite, but was drinking fresh fruit juices which I held up to his mouth and helped him drink throughout the day. I had him on a strict fresh juice and beer diet. He seemed quite happy with it.
I had several doctors—all related to me--cousins and uncles stopping by throughout the day and checking his blood pressure. I also had another doctor--my cousin Miguel--stopping by and playing poker with us every day as well. He kept a very close eye on my father, and when the end was nearing, he told me to start making arrangements.
I called my closest cousin—he is a well-known lawyer and owns banks here on the island--and asked him if i could "bury my father anywhere I wanted?" he misunderstood my question by meaning any “cemetery’ on the island. That’s not what I meant at all.
On very hot days, we played poker underneath an enormous mango tree that my grandfather had planted 60 years ago. I knew my father loved this tree and would want to be buried underneath it. That evening, under a full moon, and with what I thought was my cousin’s permission—I began digging; I dug a hole about 5 feet down and 6 feet in length. I was sweating profusely from all the digging. I was exhausted. My father’s three dogs helped me dig. You could say it was a joint effort. After we finished—about 2 am in the morning, I took a shower and then collapsed next to my father—we always slept together for the last 30 years. I collapsed from the sheer exhaustion from all the digging. Don’t believe any movie where they dig a 6 foot hole in the ground in one or two hours. That’s bullshiitt. It took me all night.
The next day, all the pokers players came by and we played poker as usual. I carried my father out to his normal position at the table and placed him in his lazy boy chair next to me and poured him his beer. No one saw the hole I dug. It was about 30 feet from the back of the house. When the poker game was finished I went into town and purchased a coffin for $35 us dollars. I brought it home and leaned it up against the side of the house. The next day, people came by to play poker and saw the coffin and though, “Shiit” Federico finally died! Wrong. I carried him out and set him in his chair and poured his beer for him. He smiled. He saw the coffin. He didn’t care.
This went on for about two weeks. Every time we thought my father was not going to make it through the night, the next day the poker players would show up and my father would be propped up next to me drinking his beer. It got to the point where it was so surreal that it was like the movie “Weekend at Bernies”—where they carry their dead friend everywhere they go. Meanwhile, the religious relatives—the Jehovahs, the Evangelists, the 7th day Adventists, and the catholic priest were all taking turns stopping by and trying to convert my father over to their denomination so that he could go to heaven. Only 144,000 seats are available!
Meanwhile, my father, myself, and his friends continued playing poker every day and drinking beer.
However, eventually I had to wheel my father’s bed outside to the kitchen where I placed him next to me at the table--with a bunch of pillows behind him so that he could sit up and see my hand. He really enjoyed this and it would make him smile. He was on morphine at this point. The cancer had metastasis in his right leg, making it uncomfortable for him to sit in his lazy boy chair, hence the bed at the poker table.
With my father next to me, I never bluffed so much in all my life. My poker game got better. He just smiled and took a sip of his beer as I handed him his straw after every hand was finished.
Finally, on the 16th of May, 2004, in the middle of the presidential elections, my father passed away. The cell phone lines were tied up all day and I couldn’t reach anyone. I brought my father’s body out to the kitchen where I bathed him with a Kercher’s power wash—he had gone to the bathroom when he died and made a mess, and there was no easy way to clean it up. After he was clean, I tried to put his clothes on him. His pants were not that difficult, however, his shirt was nearly impossible because it’s impossible to hold a dead body up and put arms through the sleeves. I had to lean his body up against the side of the house and, with a group of onlookers watching me, I tried to put his shirt on him. Eventually I got it on. Meanwhile, his shoes were impossible. The cancer had metastasis in his feet and they were too swollen.
My father had lost a lot of weight during the last 12 months, so he weighed next to nothing, however, once I placed him in his coffin, I could not get my arms around the coffin in order to pick it up and place it in the hole I had dug. I almost forgot. The hole had sat open for about 10 days, and with all the rain, it had about 2 feet of water at the bottom. It looked like chocolate milk.
The front gate was locked because I didn’t want any of the religious nutcases coming in and disturbing me while I buried my father. I considered this last moment with him a private father and son affair.
Because I couldn’t pick up the coffin with my father inside, I tied a rope around it, and slowly dragged it towards the hole. Meanwhile, a rather large group of onlookers had gather at the gate and was watching this unfold. I had to keep stopping and getting my breath as I dragged the coffin towards the mango tree. The dogs were barking like mad, and running up and down the perimeter of the fence, barking and jumping because of all of the people that were gathering around. I changed my mind and decided to bring him back up to the house and wait until my cousins got there.
One hour later, it was nightfall, but all the cell phone lines were still tied up as the election results were slowly coming in. Thankfully, the crowds had dispersed and all gone home. So I took the opportunity to take my father out of the coffin, and take the coffin and place it inside the hole empty. Then I went back to the house and retrieved my father’s body, and carried him down to the hole where I gently placed him inside his coffin. I waited around for the cell phone lines to free up so I could call family members and give them the chance to stop by. But at the same time, I didn’t want to go out on “Election night” and search for my cousins and leave my father’s dead body lying in the hole with his dogs running around the yard. So, after much internal debate, I decided I couldn’t wait all night for the phone lines to free up, so I filled the hole back up with soil and buried him.
Let me stop right here and tell you that my father was very specific—he did not want any kind of religious ceremony regarding his death—including a wake. He just wanted a simple burial with maybe a few close family members.
Remember, it was Election Day 2004, so none of the poker players had stopped by that day to play poker. These were all old people—my father’s age—between 70 to 78 years of age. These were his childhood friends whom he had grown up with. They’re all gone now. Again, I was unable to reach my cousins because of the cell phone lines being busy, so I went back inside the house and laid down from exhaustion. The front gate was locked so no one could stop in and wake me up. The dogs—all three of them--were roaming up and down the perimeter of the yard, barking all night at election revelers whom were out in the streets partying.
I was exhausted so I didn’t wake up until the next morning. The house felt empty—I mean really, really empty—my father was always inside the house and I never knew the house without my father inside the house lying next to me in bed. He watched TV in bed when we were not playing poker. It felt very odd to be alone in the house. It felt… uncomfortable. I started watching the news. I went down and unlocked the front gates just in case my cousins and other relatives stopped by. The poker players started showing up one by one, and we started playing poker. After the 5th or 6th poker hand, I told them the news. They were in shock, I mean like…complete and utter shock! Not the kind of oh well, surprise. I mean a ghastly, horror kind of shock. Not because my father had died. No, they were expecting that. They were in shock that I had buried him in the back yard.
Everyone jumped up and told me to get Michael on the phone right now. Immediately! They explained that it was illegal to bury anyone in your yard. I explained to them that I had already spoken to Michael about my plans. But they weren’t hearing any of it. They said, “Call him right now and tell him what you did.” I said, of course I will. I called him immediately and calmly explained to him what I did. The phone fell silent. Very silent. I couldn’t even hear him breathing. He was saying something to one of his lawyers but he had his hand over the phone so I couldn’t hear what he was saying? I asked him if he was still on the line? He said “yes.” And then he said he would call me right back. We waited. And then we waited some more. We started playing poker again, and then suddenly, Michael was at the front gate with some lawyers and other people. He came in and shook everyone’s hand and then sat down with his lawyers and calmly explained to me that I would have to immediately dig up dad’s body. He went into great detail about how it’s illegal to bury a body in your yard. Everyone fell silent and listened attentively. He had one of his lawyers with him. The lawyer explained the law to me. He was very patient. And then, suddenly, Michael and his lawyers began to laugh; they laughed so hard that tears were rolling down their faces. This made everyone at the poker table began to laugh. Then I thought, Ok, they’re pulling my leg. The joke is on me. It was a good joke. A very well executed joke. Very well timed as well.
But what my cousin and his lawyers were laughing at was that it was just a complete misunderstanding when I initially called Michael and asked him specifically, “can I bury Dad anywhere I want?” he said, “of course,” but he never realized in a million years that I meant outside a cemetery. This was preposterous. It completely unheard of in the DR. people do not bury their dead in their yards, within city limits.
So, after the poker game was finished, and people left, I went inside and got the shovel back out and dug up my father’s coffin and put him in the back of our Toyota pick-up. Then I drove him down to our family’s mausoleum. My cousins all met me there and we began laughing at the misunderstanding. It was absurd, but we still laugh about it 8 years later.
Frank
My father passed away on May 16th, 2004. The date may seem meaningless, but it was the date of the presidential elections here in the DR. my father had cancer and I had been taking care of him for the last 6 months of his life. Initially, he was able to get out of bed with some help. He would come out into the kitchen and play poker with his friends until the wee hours of the morning. But then slowly, he got more and more weak and tired, until eventually I had to carry him back and forth to the poker table and help him hold his cards up. He would go "All in" and repeatedly bluff, using his condition as an Ace-in-the hole against others. He also liked to drink beer while he played poker, so I always poured him his beer and then put a large straw in it so that he could drink it. He was too weak to lift the heavy glass.
Anyway, as he got weaker and weaker, we had religious relatives stopping by at all hours of the day and night. First came the Evangelists (Every Dominican family has Evangelist relatives--they came in groups of 6 and 7 and were trying to commandeer their way into his life and make him convert over to Evangelism. This attempt, I’m happy to report, was in vain. My grandfather was a religious fanatic preacher from Bonao; he held daily Bible study sessions. This had the unfortunate consequence of making two of his three sons—my father was the youngest—projectile vomit whenever they heard people quoting from the bible.
I have to give the Evangelist some credit though; they came by daily and never gave up trying to convert him. After they left, as if it was perfectly timed on purpose—our Jehovah Witness relatives—every Dominican family has Jehovah Witnesses—stopped by in groups of between, oh, I don’t know--10 and 1000—they were very persistent—they carried their Watchtower magazines like a "Get out of Hell free card." They paraded around the poker table and were very polite, but they didn't like me feeding my father beer through a straw. Sometimes I fed him gin & tonic, but this knocked him out of his game and stripped him of his bluffing abilities. I tried to stick to beer because he did his best bluffing under the influence of beer.
Anyway, after the Jehovah Witnesses left, the Seventh Day Adventists would stop by—every Dominican family have a few 7th day Adventist—but they never stopped by if they saw my father playing poker. They strongly disliked gambling. Instead, they waited until the poker game was over, and the dogs were locked up, then they would storm down the driveway like they were in a 100 meter hurdle race, sprinting up to the front door and knocking loudly and waking up the whole neighborhood. This sent the dogs into a frenzy. Naturally, many of these people were our cousins and distant relatives, so against my better judgment, I allowed them into the house for brief visits. They all knelt down at the foot of his bed and began rolling their eyes behind their heads and began speaking in tongues. This would drive the dogs crazy, and this compelled me to release the dogs on them. They would scurry around like rats, jumping up and down and screaming in terror to "save them." I know...I’m going to hell.
In-between all of this chaos, we had a catholic priest from the church in downtown Bonao, coming by every day and wanting to hear my father's last confession.
The cancer began to metastasis in his right leg so everyone was expecting him to be leaving for the last train to Clarksville any day now. I was still carrying him out to the poker table and sitting him up in his lazy boy chair and pouring his beer for him, and then handing him his straw. He slowly stopped eating, lost his appetite, but was drinking fresh fruit juices which I held up to his mouth and helped him drink throughout the day. I had him on a strict fresh juice and beer diet. He seemed quite happy with it.
I had several doctors—all related to me--cousins and uncles stopping by throughout the day and checking his blood pressure. I also had another doctor--my cousin Miguel--stopping by and playing poker with us every day as well. He kept a very close eye on my father, and when the end was nearing, he told me to start making arrangements.
I called my closest cousin—he is a well-known lawyer and owns banks here on the island--and asked him if i could "bury my father anywhere I wanted?" he misunderstood my question by meaning any “cemetery’ on the island. That’s not what I meant at all.
On very hot days, we played poker underneath an enormous mango tree that my grandfather had planted 60 years ago. I knew my father loved this tree and would want to be buried underneath it. That evening, under a full moon, and with what I thought was my cousin’s permission—I began digging; I dug a hole about 5 feet down and 6 feet in length. I was sweating profusely from all the digging. I was exhausted. My father’s three dogs helped me dig. You could say it was a joint effort. After we finished—about 2 am in the morning, I took a shower and then collapsed next to my father—we always slept together for the last 30 years. I collapsed from the sheer exhaustion from all the digging. Don’t believe any movie where they dig a 6 foot hole in the ground in one or two hours. That’s bullshiitt. It took me all night.
The next day, all the pokers players came by and we played poker as usual. I carried my father out to his normal position at the table and placed him in his lazy boy chair next to me and poured him his beer. No one saw the hole I dug. It was about 30 feet from the back of the house. When the poker game was finished I went into town and purchased a coffin for $35 us dollars. I brought it home and leaned it up against the side of the house. The next day, people came by to play poker and saw the coffin and though, “Shiit” Federico finally died! Wrong. I carried him out and set him in his chair and poured his beer for him. He smiled. He saw the coffin. He didn’t care.
This went on for about two weeks. Every time we thought my father was not going to make it through the night, the next day the poker players would show up and my father would be propped up next to me drinking his beer. It got to the point where it was so surreal that it was like the movie “Weekend at Bernies”—where they carry their dead friend everywhere they go. Meanwhile, the religious relatives—the Jehovahs, the Evangelists, the 7th day Adventists, and the catholic priest were all taking turns stopping by and trying to convert my father over to their denomination so that he could go to heaven. Only 144,000 seats are available!
Meanwhile, my father, myself, and his friends continued playing poker every day and drinking beer.
However, eventually I had to wheel my father’s bed outside to the kitchen where I placed him next to me at the table--with a bunch of pillows behind him so that he could sit up and see my hand. He really enjoyed this and it would make him smile. He was on morphine at this point. The cancer had metastasis in his right leg, making it uncomfortable for him to sit in his lazy boy chair, hence the bed at the poker table.
With my father next to me, I never bluffed so much in all my life. My poker game got better. He just smiled and took a sip of his beer as I handed him his straw after every hand was finished.
Finally, on the 16th of May, 2004, in the middle of the presidential elections, my father passed away. The cell phone lines were tied up all day and I couldn’t reach anyone. I brought my father’s body out to the kitchen where I bathed him with a Kercher’s power wash—he had gone to the bathroom when he died and made a mess, and there was no easy way to clean it up. After he was clean, I tried to put his clothes on him. His pants were not that difficult, however, his shirt was nearly impossible because it’s impossible to hold a dead body up and put arms through the sleeves. I had to lean his body up against the side of the house and, with a group of onlookers watching me, I tried to put his shirt on him. Eventually I got it on. Meanwhile, his shoes were impossible. The cancer had metastasis in his feet and they were too swollen.
My father had lost a lot of weight during the last 12 months, so he weighed next to nothing, however, once I placed him in his coffin, I could not get my arms around the coffin in order to pick it up and place it in the hole I had dug. I almost forgot. The hole had sat open for about 10 days, and with all the rain, it had about 2 feet of water at the bottom. It looked like chocolate milk.
The front gate was locked because I didn’t want any of the religious nutcases coming in and disturbing me while I buried my father. I considered this last moment with him a private father and son affair.
Because I couldn’t pick up the coffin with my father inside, I tied a rope around it, and slowly dragged it towards the hole. Meanwhile, a rather large group of onlookers had gather at the gate and was watching this unfold. I had to keep stopping and getting my breath as I dragged the coffin towards the mango tree. The dogs were barking like mad, and running up and down the perimeter of the fence, barking and jumping because of all of the people that were gathering around. I changed my mind and decided to bring him back up to the house and wait until my cousins got there.
One hour later, it was nightfall, but all the cell phone lines were still tied up as the election results were slowly coming in. Thankfully, the crowds had dispersed and all gone home. So I took the opportunity to take my father out of the coffin, and take the coffin and place it inside the hole empty. Then I went back to the house and retrieved my father’s body, and carried him down to the hole where I gently placed him inside his coffin. I waited around for the cell phone lines to free up so I could call family members and give them the chance to stop by. But at the same time, I didn’t want to go out on “Election night” and search for my cousins and leave my father’s dead body lying in the hole with his dogs running around the yard. So, after much internal debate, I decided I couldn’t wait all night for the phone lines to free up, so I filled the hole back up with soil and buried him.
Let me stop right here and tell you that my father was very specific—he did not want any kind of religious ceremony regarding his death—including a wake. He just wanted a simple burial with maybe a few close family members.
Remember, it was Election Day 2004, so none of the poker players had stopped by that day to play poker. These were all old people—my father’s age—between 70 to 78 years of age. These were his childhood friends whom he had grown up with. They’re all gone now. Again, I was unable to reach my cousins because of the cell phone lines being busy, so I went back inside the house and laid down from exhaustion. The front gate was locked so no one could stop in and wake me up. The dogs—all three of them--were roaming up and down the perimeter of the yard, barking all night at election revelers whom were out in the streets partying.
I was exhausted so I didn’t wake up until the next morning. The house felt empty—I mean really, really empty—my father was always inside the house and I never knew the house without my father inside the house lying next to me in bed. He watched TV in bed when we were not playing poker. It felt very odd to be alone in the house. It felt… uncomfortable. I started watching the news. I went down and unlocked the front gates just in case my cousins and other relatives stopped by. The poker players started showing up one by one, and we started playing poker. After the 5th or 6th poker hand, I told them the news. They were in shock, I mean like…complete and utter shock! Not the kind of oh well, surprise. I mean a ghastly, horror kind of shock. Not because my father had died. No, they were expecting that. They were in shock that I had buried him in the back yard.
Everyone jumped up and told me to get Michael on the phone right now. Immediately! They explained that it was illegal to bury anyone in your yard. I explained to them that I had already spoken to Michael about my plans. But they weren’t hearing any of it. They said, “Call him right now and tell him what you did.” I said, of course I will. I called him immediately and calmly explained to him what I did. The phone fell silent. Very silent. I couldn’t even hear him breathing. He was saying something to one of his lawyers but he had his hand over the phone so I couldn’t hear what he was saying? I asked him if he was still on the line? He said “yes.” And then he said he would call me right back. We waited. And then we waited some more. We started playing poker again, and then suddenly, Michael was at the front gate with some lawyers and other people. He came in and shook everyone’s hand and then sat down with his lawyers and calmly explained to me that I would have to immediately dig up dad’s body. He went into great detail about how it’s illegal to bury a body in your yard. Everyone fell silent and listened attentively. He had one of his lawyers with him. The lawyer explained the law to me. He was very patient. And then, suddenly, Michael and his lawyers began to laugh; they laughed so hard that tears were rolling down their faces. This made everyone at the poker table began to laugh. Then I thought, Ok, they’re pulling my leg. The joke is on me. It was a good joke. A very well executed joke. Very well timed as well.
But what my cousin and his lawyers were laughing at was that it was just a complete misunderstanding when I initially called Michael and asked him specifically, “can I bury Dad anywhere I want?” he said, “of course,” but he never realized in a million years that I meant outside a cemetery. This was preposterous. It completely unheard of in the DR. people do not bury their dead in their yards, within city limits.
So, after the poker game was finished, and people left, I went inside and got the shovel back out and dug up my father’s coffin and put him in the back of our Toyota pick-up. Then I drove him down to our family’s mausoleum. My cousins all met me there and we began laughing at the misunderstanding. It was absurd, but we still laugh about it 8 years later.
Frank
Ive always thought because people are buried so quickly here people want proof that it was x person that died.
Death is part of life. Sometimes it is gruesome but saying goodbye and giving respect is very important.
Frank your story is touching, I commend you and can tell you from personal experience that the experience with your Father will benefit you through your life.
I think its good to put gruesome pics in newspapers otherwise kids think life is like a movie.
Frank your story is touching, I commend you and can tell you from personal experience that the experience with your Father will benefit you through your life.
I think its good to put gruesome pics in newspapers otherwise kids think life is like a movie.
It is sometimes cold , really cold, like a girl i know was shot bij her lover on the beach, within minutes the detailed pictures were on facebook, and if you did not share them they think you did not like her, same evening playing domino with everybody that knew her, street was full of people, coffin open, having coffee , bread and other things to eat, next morning she was buried, but not before there was almost a complete "pleito" about in what direction the head should be.
It is a Dominican way of life , get used to it if you live here
and the fotos are mixed with the normal pictures, like here on this page Jimmy Santana | Facebook
It is a Dominican way of life , get used to it if you live here
and the fotos are mixed with the normal pictures, like here on this page Jimmy Santana | Facebook
Wow Frank, what a story. I'm sorry for your loss, and everybody's. You know, I hate that word or name.....Cancer. That thing tooked my grandmother;s life away in March of this year (2012). I even hate the word Metastasis as well. It built up inside my beloved grandma's lungs. I took a picture of the casket with her body in it as well before being buried. I was having issues of whether I should take a pic or not, because I wanted to remember her face for the rest of my life. I know we all are heading there,,but it still hurts and until this day, I still grieve my father's death as well and he died in 1986. T-T
Btw, talking about gruesome images, i used to by these magazines titled "Sucesos" here, in New York. it had some gruesome scenes on all pages, and it was from DR. That was few years ago, I havent seen them in bodegas ever since...