It was about 1:00 a.m., Saturday night, when my wife woke me up to tell me of the passing of Fidel Castro. As I was still half-sleep, and in lieu of the fact that, in our wishful ways, we, the Cuban-Americans in exile, had killed Castro many times over in the past, the “Cry Wolf” syndrome kicked-in as a ‘defense mechanism’ to spare me the emotional roller coaster, which had made us, time and time again, go from exhilarating highs to lugubrious downs as we realized we were always dealing with grapevine rumors, if only to be incredibly disappointed at the end.
