In dealing with loss, I come back to my parents, and losing my father at two.

We still lived in Cuba at the time, fearing la revolución that was invading our houses. My father was taken to a concentration camp for not wanting to submit his life to the government -"for the people," godless, without individuality - since it would mean the end of any life at all. And though he had wanted to take his life many times before, he wanted it to be by his own hand, rather than someone else's. In the end, that hand turned out to be his best friend, who, at gunpoint, was forced to bury him alive. That's what I was told.

After my father's death, my mother couldn't stand to be in Cuba anymore. She was able to fly us to Spain, as an educator, to escape the horrors that gripped her country. Spain wasn't her destination, but it was the only way she could meander across to the United States of America.

She had a dream. It would involve money, stature, family, Harvard, and the presidency.

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