I was a refugee from Europe after World War II. Today my green card reminds me that my success was never guaranteed.

This was my ticket to the match.

That’s what I think every time I see my green card (“Form I-151”), issued in New Orleans in 1950 when I was a 3-year-old refugee from post-World War II Europe. The “soup bowl” haircut was courtesy of a former Royal Yugoslav artillery officer; he answered my mother’s plea for a ‘hairdresser’ on board when she thought my long hair might have mistaken me for a girl. It is reminiscent of a platitude: there is always a solution to every problem, but not necessarily the best solution.