My life is in many ways the classic American dream: poor immigrants come to the United States and work very hard; their children receive an excellent education and lead a better life. I was born just before the start of the Great Depression, in October 1929, in Westfield, New Jersey, where my Greek father and one of his brothers owned a shop that sold candy, ice cream, and snacks. In the next few years, times were hard for all of us, but we were cushioned from the worst effects of the economic crisis by our family. Children now grow up in a society less supportive than mine was even in the harshest days of the 1930s.

In elementary school I was a cutup who entertained the other students – but not of course the teachers. They were interested in teaching Pindaros Roy Vagelos (they wouldn't use my nickname, Pindo) to read and write in English, goals that seemed formidable to a first-grader who spoke only Greek at home. I was a slow learner. I wasn't interested in learning. It was much more fun to fool around and tease the other kids. Besides, I had recurrent ear infections that made it difficult for me to hear. Since my last name begins with a “V,” I sat in the back of the class, where it was hard to hear even when I was healthy.