My mother is Cuban. She came to America as a refugee in 1969, at the age of 21, along with her parents and siblings, because she tried to start a labor union in a Communist country. She was divorced in 1974, shortly after I was born. She has a Ph.D. in archeology. She speaks better English than I do. But when she came to this country, she was just another spick. Her education didn't count for anything, nor did her breeding and she had to start at the bottom. Fine. She worked her ass off, and today she is a very accomplished paralegal. She can run circles around most lawyers.But she has never felt at home in America. She isn't happy here. She could never fit in, never be comfortable with the American way of life. But she tries. As a matter of fact, my mother loves America, very much.

To my mother, America is a place where her kids could be raised in relative peace, security and freedom. No air raid sirens jolting us out of a sound sleep, no pounding on the door, not having to watch your friends being dragged away or shot, or picking your way through body parts on the way to school. Not having to censor yourself out fear. She wanted us to have peace, and quiet. She wanted us to have our own lives. And so she came here, and gave us the best she could.

I spoke to her Tuesday night, and I couldn't believe how bitter and sad she sounded. And she started speaking to me, and I finally understood the magnitude of the decisions she had made in life, and the injustice that has truly been done. And I finally understand why my mother drinks, even if I don't excuse or condone it. I finally understand my mother.

I was born and raised here. I don't feel bitter, because I've pretty much taken life in America for granted. I have the luxury of being outraged, of saying "How dare these people. . ." God, I'm lucky. I see the people on the news with pictures, looking for their loved ones, and I feel sympathy. My mother sees them and feels sympath. . . and pity. And fear. And bitterness. She might as well have never left Cuba.

I wish I could apologize to all of the immigrants who believed in the American dream, and came here so that their future generations could have a better quality of life. I wish I could apologize to all of the grandparents out there who sacrificed and lived in fear and fought, so that we would never have to live in fear again. I wish I could apologize to all the families, then and now, for the loved ones who will never come home. I wish I could apologize to my mother.

Of course, that's ridiculous. I have nothing to apologize for. And neither does America. Whatever our past infractions, we did not provoke this. The only responsibility we have as a country and a government is to make every effort to make sure this doesn't happen again. To make sure that future generations don't have to endure these horrors. Nothing is certain in this life, but the best we can do is try.

Still, I can't help but feel sad for my mother. She never expected the streets to be paved with gold, but she never thought she'd see them paved with blood and bone, either.

E-mail: editor@corporatemofo.com.