Eunhae Han > Recent Status Updates

Offshoring → companies relocating production
Supply-chaining → global logistics (e.g., Walmart)
Insourcing → companies like UPS managing logistics
In-forming → search engines (like Google)
“The steroids” → mobile, digital, personal tech

Fall of the Berlin Wall → opened global markets
Netscape IPO → popularized the internet
Workflow software → seamless collaboration
Uploading → open-source (e.g., Wikipedia)
Outsourcing → jobs moving globally


👉 Lesson:
These forces collectively enabled global competition and collaboration.

CHAPTER 1: The World Is Flat

The core argument of the book.

Summary:
Technology + globalization = equalized opportunities
Individuals in places like India or China can compete globally

👉 Key idea:
Geography matters less than before.

CHAPTER 4: Cory Booker and Urban Politics

Focus: Cory Booker

Summary:
Booker’s rise in Newark politics
Emphasis on reform, innovation, and media savvy
Represents a new, highly educated, connected leader

👉 Lesson:
The new generation blends activism with technocratic governance.

CHAPTER 2: The New Black Politician

Focus on changing political style.

Summary:
New Black politicians:
Avoid being labeled “Black candidates only”
Build multiracial coalitions
Focus on universal issues (economy, education)

Examples include rising figures in major cities and states.

👉 Lesson:
Success often requires downplaying race without ignoring it.

CHAPTER 1: The Joshua Generation

The title comes from a phrase used by Obama.

Summary:
Contrasts:
Civil Rights leaders = “Moses generation” (fighters for equality)
New leaders = “Joshua generation” (beneficiaries of those gains)
This generation grew up after legal segregation ended

The neuroscientist David Eagleman recently wrote that the brain's cells are "connected to one another in a network of such staggering complexity that it bankrupts human language and necessitates new strains of mathematics.... there are as many connections in a single cubic centimeter of brain tissues as there are stars in the Milky Way galaxy."

But extended solitude was always a fickle thing. At first it soothed, swaddling me from the chaos and expectations of being human. Then, in an instant, it shifted from rejuvenation to numbing isolation.

The movement of her voluminous bouffant matched the rhythm of her purposetul gait and she clutched her polyester blazer with the air of importance.
The back of my neck tingled like an insect was scurrying over it, but when I brushed my hand against my skin, there was nothing there.

he day I learned that my parents were dead was the same day I learned that pigs roll in mud to protect themselves from sun-
burn.

egories: things they'd wish they'd done differently, things they'd learned along the way, or secrets they'd kept that they were finally ready to reveal. Collecting these words felt like my sacred duty, especially when I was the only other person in the room. And even when I wasn't, family members were usually too consumed with grief to think about writing down such things. My emotions, on the

The most important thing is never to look away from someone's pain. Not just the physical pain of their body shutting down, but the emotional pain of watching their life end while knowing they could have lived it better. Giving someone the chance to be seen at their most vulnerable is much more healing than any words. … look them in the eye and acknowledge their hurt, to let it exist undiluted

I speak Genesis

Magnolia watched from the hole in her sheet, wincing from the force of each word. If the woman had speech bubbles, they would've been spiky like sea urchins, jutting out like spears.

She poured blue liquid laundry detergent into a cup and called it alien saliva.

girl who insisted on insulting her home, but then Mister Pants trotted over and licked Iris's hand, and Iris did not say "Ew, she said, "Hello to you too," and Magnolia warmed up to her in that instant.

They made paper sailor hats and pretended they were in a submarine, staring into the washing machine window like it was a dark and stormy sea. She was even allowed to paint a fire-breathing dragon on the laundry delivery cart attached to his bicycle, but it came out looking like a lizard barfing orange juice.

Ten was a strong, two-digit number that looked like a sword and a shield that belonged to someone who was about to conquer the world.

Your tattoo of lovers and pilgrimages.
Your earrings of young murder and confetti.
Your belt of Lent and coming out parties.
You smell like a startled womb and healing rituals at midnight.

What Terrible Thing It Was by Eden Weijun Wanh

“Whose Heart I Long to Stop with the Click of a Revolver” by Rivers Solomon

“The Prairie Wife” by Curtis Sittenfeld

“Suburbia!” by Amy Silverberg

From where I crouched, he also looked smaller. I thought this was a funny thing, the way the past and the future could both shrink down to a manageable size, like a pill to be swallowed, or the head of a match.

“Everything Is Far from Here” by Cristina Henriquez

guards think: The smaller the box, the more we can control them. But everyone else knows:
The smaller the box, the more out of control people become.

“What Got Into Us” by Jacob Guajardo

me, "You don't have to be particularly brave. You just have to be a tiny, tiny bit more interested in something than you are frightened ofit?" You just have to be one percent more curious than afraid: This idea is powerful and transformative. When you're in a fearful place, the idea of charging forward without a trace of apprehension is intimidating,

resignation; the air between us finally frictionless. We didn't know how to fix this anymore.

ON VALENTINE'S DAY, MY CARDS WERE SECURELY packed, explanation and apology ready, spring-loaded on my tongue.

Puberty was like a combination between the words PU and liberty, a stinky type of freedom and autonomy. Girls leaked blood, boys grew like beanstalks, hair sprouted, voices cracked. We were in limbo, half baked, wedged in the in-between, and I needed to pay attention if I was going to keep up.

It's true I've never been anywhere without a pen. Once I saw a straw in a coconut and I understood; the coconut is my brain, the pen gets inserted into it and sucks out my thoughts. A pen puncturing my mind is graphic; what I mean is that if I can't write, my head is full of noise. When people don't write, where do their thoughts go? Aren't their heads constipated? I imagine their heads