John H. Johnson was born in a black family in Arkansas City in 1918. His father died in an accident when John was six. He was reaching high school age, but his hometown offered no high school for blacks.

Fortunately he had a strong-willed, caring mother. John remembers that his mother told him many times, “Son, you can be anything you really want to be if you just believe.” She told him not to be dependent on others, including his mother. “You have to earn success,” said she. “All the people who work hard don’t succeed, but the only people who do succeed are those who work hard.”

These words came from a woman less than a third grade education. She also knew that believing and hard work don’t mean everything. So she worked hard as a cook for two years to save enough to take her son — then 15 — to Chicago.

Chicago in 1933 was not the promised land that black southerners were looking for, John’s mother and stepfather could not find work. But there John could go to school, and there he learned the power of words — as editor of the newspaper and yearbook of Du Stable High School. His wish was to publish a magazine for blacks.

While others discouraged him, John’s mother offered him more words to live by: “Nothing beats a failure but a try.” She also let him pawn (典当) her furniture to get the $500 he needed to start the Negro magazine.

It is natural the difficulties and failures followed John closely until he became very successful. He always keeps his mother’s words in mind. “Son, failure is not in your vocabulary.”

Now John H. Johnson is one of the 400 richest people in America — worth $150 million.

Will I ever make a friend here? I thought, standing in the crowd waiting for the elevator at the end of a long workday. I had just recently moved to California to become an editor for a newspaper, but I hadn’t made any close connections at the office. Some days I wished I were still in Ohio. Never in my life had I lived so far from Mom and Dad, even in college. Adjusting to my new job 2,500 miles away was difficult. I missed having people I could depend on nearby.

The closest I’d come was trading friendly hellos with a middle-aged woman who always left around the same time as I did. Her West Coast style really stood out to me: bright-colored tops with long flowery skirts. Next to her, in my drab pantsuit, I looked as out of place as I felt.

In the crowded elevator, a mark on one man’s briefcase caught my eyes. Three letters: OSU. Ohio State University? I almost said something, but who talks in crowded elevators? “Is that for Ohio State?” another man asked. “Yep,” the man answered. A chain reaction followed. Everyone in the elevator shared their alma mater. “I went to Ohio University in Athens, my hometown,” I said timidly (胆怯地). The woman in the flowery skirt said immediately, “Me too. Of course, that was almost 25 years ago. My mother also went there 25 years ago,” I said. “My name’s Carol,” the woman said. “What is your mother’s maiden name?” “Marion Lavelle,” I answered. “Marion?

Marion and I were classmates. You look like her when she was younger, Carol said.

When my parents came to town for a visit, the old classmates were finally reunited. Carol looked after me during my years in California like my second mother, and before long I was dressing in a bit of West Coast style too.

My roommate and I sat very still and held our breath to watch the showdown between ice skaters Yuzuru Hanyu of Japan and Nathan Chen of the United States at the Beijing Winter Olympics. But when Mr Chen launched himself into the air, it wasn’t his movement that caught my eye—it was the empty seats in the audience behind him. They looked familiar. Those seats were where my parents had stood, my dad holding a video camera to record my daily practice sessions.

Born and raised in Beijing , I began skating at age 8. I’d seen Chinese pair skaters Shen Xue and Zhao Hongbo’s performance at the 2006 Winter Games in Turin, Italy. They inspired a wave of national pride and made figure skating(花样滑冰) a mainstream sport in China. I joined the rush.

I spent most of my time outside school at the rink (溜冰场). One day, two intense years later, I’d had enough. The pressure was too much. I told my parents I couldn’ t do it anymore. Thankfully, they understood and let me stop. But even after I quit, guilt and pressure stayed with me. My parents had sacrificed so much for me, and I felt I’d failed to meet their expectations. Then I started a new athletic attempt—cross-country running that I still pursue today. Even so, I still enjoyed watching figure skating on TV from time to time.

Right before COVID -19 lockdowns began, I returned home to Beijing over winter break from college in the US. In my cupboard, I was surprised to find a shiny new pair of figure skates(滑冰鞋) my dad had bought for me. Then I brought the skates back with me to Boston.

This winter, I put on the skates again. I carefully stepped onto the ice at a Boston rink. And this time skating felt the way it had when I fell in love with it for the first time. I danced on the ice realizing that one cannot learn without falling sometimes—or often.