Dream Big.
Work Hard.
Give Back.

Paul Leandro Cejas came to America alone at seventeen to escape Castro’s regime. He spoke no English, had not graduated from high school. He saved his money to bring his family to America and put himself through college. He built cultural bridges. He served on the fifth largest school board in America. He turned around a failing bank, a hospital, and an HMO, building generational wealth in the process. He became a trusted presidential advisor and later served as the US Ambassador to Belgium. Paul’s philosophy was simple. He worked hard, dreamed big, and gave back, ever gentle and honest with people along the way.

I was always more of a lover than a fighter. My grandmother had instilled in me a belief in being gentle and honest with people. Nothing about the revolutionaries was gentle or honest. I did not want to die in front of one of those firing squads. I wanted to go back to school, get my degree, and make my way in the world.

But when you see a new government destroying the country you love, any patriot would want to stop the destruction. I could not help my feelings of dread. One day, I told my family, “Castro’s forces want to recruit me. My friends want me to join the counterrevolutionaries. I don’t know what to do. If I stay here, I’m going to end dying at a young age.”

“I could go to Miami,” I blurted out.

My mother looked at me and said, “Yes, go. I trust you.” She helped me with the paperwork. My grandmother also gave me money for a roundtrip first-class airline ticket.

My grandfather gave me a handful of silver dollars. “These are collector items,” he said. “You can sell them in Miami for $10 each.”

I had to figure out a way to smuggle the silver dollars out of Cuba. I got a soft pack of cigarettes, emptied it out, and put the silver dollars in there. I then stuffed a few cigarettes in the pack, trying to disguise the coins.

My mother helped me pack as I made reservations with a travel agent for my tickets. On my way out the door, I hastily placed the cigarette pack in my shirt pocket. It was not until I was waving goodbye to my family at the airport that I realized how much the weight of the silver made my shirt pocket sag.

At seventeen, I walked toward my gate for Cubana flight 804 on October 17, 1960. With no high school diploma and only a few words of English, I was going to a new country. But I was not thinking about any of that. I was thinking about my shirt pocket drooping conspicuously. You could not take more than $250 in cash out of Cuba. I’m sure I looked guilty as hell. I kept waiting for one of the security guards to ask, “What’s in your pocket?” If they found my silver dollars, they could throw me in jail. At the very least, they would take my money, which I needed when I got to Miami.

With that money, I had to find a place to live until I could find work. I got on the plane, still worried that someone would pull me off. As the plane took off, Cuba disappeared from my window.

I thought I’d be returning to Cuba when the Americans got rid of Castro. It did not turn out that way.