My life has in many ways been 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. Like most such myths, the story has some truth to it, as it certainly does in my case.

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. Times were hard for all of us, but I grew up in a family that was extremely supportive, even in the harshest days of the 1930s.

I needed support because 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 just wasn't interested in learning. Since my last name begins with a “V,” I sat in the back of the class, where it was hard to hear. I got used to not paying attention to the lessons, although I pretended to work when the teacher was watching.

The year 1936, when I was in first grade, was an especially difficult one for my family.