When I was six years old in Cuba, our parents gave my younger brother George and me identical costumes. I remember being puzzled by this. I hadn’t asked for a new costume. My Superman one still fit me fine, and went with my attitude. And wearing the same costume as my kid brother was grounds for mockery in the neighborhood — a rich Havana suburb suitable for our mom’s Cuban royalty family, the Mestres. And this costume was drab — an olive shirt and pants, an ugly cap of the same color, and a stupid string black beard. I smelled a rat. And, boy, did history prove me right.
