On October 31st, 2009, Chinese famous scientist Qian Xuesen, died in Beijing when he was 98 years old. He is famous as “the country's father of space technology and king of rocketry”.

    Qian was born in 1911 in Hangzhou. He left for the United States after winning a scholarship to graduate school in 1936. He studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and later at the California Institute of Technology.

    Qian began his career in the US and was regarded as one of the brightest minds in the new field of aeronautics（航空学) before returning to China in 1955.

    After he returned, Qian set up the first missile（导弹）and rocket research institute（学院) of China. The institute later helped start Chinese space program. He led the development of China's first nuclear-armed ballistic missile (弹道导弹) and worked on its first satellite.

    He retired in the year before Chinese manned space program was launched in 1992. But his research formed the basis（形成基础）for the Long March CZ -2F rocket that carried astronaut Yang Liwei into orbit in 2003.

    In August, 2009, Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao visited Qian and praised him for devoting his life to Chinese defense technologies. Qian told him, “I'm trying to live to be 100 years old”.

    Life Is Beautiful is a 1997 Italian film directed by and starring Roberto Benigni. The film was a critical and financial success, winning Benigni the Academy Award for Best Actor as well as the Academy Award for Best Original Dramatic Score and the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film.

    In 1939 in the Kingdom of Italy, a bookstore keeper Guido, who is a Jew, falls in love with a local school teacher, Dora, who is to be engaged to a rich civil servant. Guido steals her from her engagement party on a horse. Soon they are married and have a son, Giosue.

    In 1945, Guido and his son are forced onto a train and taken to a concentration camp. Despite being a non-Jew, Dora demands to be on the same train to join her family. In the camp, Guido hides their true situation from his son, telling him that the camp is a complicated game in which Giosue must perform the tasks Guido gives him, earning him points；the first team to reach 1,000 points will win a tank.

    Guido uses this game to explain features of the concentration camp that would otherwise be scary for a young child. Despite being surrounded by the misery, sickness and death at the camp, Giosue does not question this fiction because of his father's convincing performance and his own innocence. Guido keeps the story right until the end when, in the chaos（混乱）of shutting down the camp as the Americans approach, he tells his son to stay in a small box until everybody has left, this being the final competition before the tank is his. Guido tries to find Dora, but is caught and killed by a Nazi soldier. As he is taken away to be shot, he maintains the fictions of the game by marching in a goose-step on purpose…

    A few weeks ago, I called an Uber to take me to the Boston airport for a flight home for the holidays. As I slid into the back seat of the car, the warm intonations（语调）of the driver's accent washed over me in a familiar way.

    I learned that he was a recent West African immigrant with a few young children, working hard to provide for his family. I could relate: I am the daughter of two Ethiopian immigrants who made their share of sacrifices to ensure my success. I told him I was on a college break and headed home to visit my parents. That's how he found out I go to Harvard. An approving eye glinted at me in the rearview window, and quickly, we crossed the boundaries of rider and driver. I became his daughter, all grown up — the product of his sacrifice.

And then came the fateful question: "What do you study?" I answered "history and literature" and the pride in his voice faded, as I knew it might. I didn't even get to add "and African-American studies" before he cut in, his voice thick with disappointment, "All that work to get into Harvard, and you study history?"

    Here I was, his daughter, squandering the biggest opportunity of her life. He went on to deliver the age-old lecture that all immigrant kids know. We are to become doctors (or lawyers, if our parents are being generous) — to make money and send money back home. The unspoken demand, made across generations, which my Uber driver laid out plainly, is simple: Fulfill your role in the narrative（故事）of upward mobility so your children can do the same.

I used to feel anxious and backed into a corner by the questioning, but now as a junior in college, I'm grateful for their support more than anything. This holiday season, I've promised myself I won't huff and get annoyed at their inquiries. I won't defensively respond with "but I plan to go to law school!" when I get unrequested advice. I'll just smile and nod, and enjoy the warmth of the occasion.

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    "Mum, what does it mean when someone tells you that they have a skeleton（骨骼）in the closet（衣橱）?" Jessica asked. "A skeleton in the closet?" her mother paused thoughtfully, "Well, it's something that you would rather not have anyone else know about. For example, if in the past, someone in Dad's family had been arrested for stealing a horse. It would be a skeleton in his family's closet'. He really wouldn't want any neighbor to know about it."

    "Why pick on my family?" Jessica's father said with anger. "Your family history isn't so good, you know. Wasn't your great-great-grandfather a prisoner who was transported to Australia for his crimes?" "Yes, but people these days say that you are not a real Australian unless your ancestors arrived as prisoners." Gosh, sorry I asked. I think I understand now," Jessica cut in before things grew worse.

    After dinner, the house was very quite. Jessica's parents were still quite angry with each other. Her mother was ironing clothes and every now and then she glared at her husband, who hid behind his newspaper pretending to read. When she finished, she gathered the freshly pressed clothes in her arms and walked to Jessica's closet. Just as she opened the door and reached in to hang a skirt, a bony arm stuck out from the dark depths and a bundle of white bones fell to the floor, Jessica's mother sank into a faint（晕倒）, walking only when Jessica put a cold, wet cloth on her forehead. She looked up to see the worried faces of her husband and daughter.

    "What happened? Where am I?" she asked. "You just destroyed the school's skeleton, Mum," explained Jessica, "I brought it home to help me with my health project. I meant to tell you, but it seemed that as soon as I mentioned skeletons and closets, it caused a problem between you and Dad." Jessica looked in amazement as her parents began to laugh madly. "They are both crazy," she thought.

    John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.

    His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.

    During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.

    When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting -- 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.

    I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened: A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, attractive smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.

    Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.

    And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her.

    This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant(中尉)John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"

    The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"

    It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive. "Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell you who you are."