A 100-Day Plan for Your First Job Out of College | How to Prepare to Live to 100 | The Parents Trying to Pass Down a Language They Hardly Speak

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A 100-Day Plan for Your First Job Out of College - Harvard Business Review

The transition from college to the corporate world isn’t always smooth sailing. The cultural shift can be overwhelming. This 100-day plan will guide you through this critical (and difficult) time.

You studied and worked hard, got your degree, and secured a full-time job. Congratulations! You’re onto the next stage of adulthood: building your career. But where do you even begin? Anyone who’s been there will tell you that the transition from college to corporate isn’t a smooth sail. The cultural shift can be overwhelming.

A college environment is far more relaxed — from the clothes you wear to choosing whether or not to go to class. You can even get away with turning in assignments a bit late.

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How to Prepare to Live to 100 - TIME

It’s a startling projection that conveys an astonishing new American reality: One in every two five-year-olds alive right now will live to 100. That’s according to researchers at Stanford University’s Center on Longevity, who believe a century-long life expectancy will be the norm for all newborns by 2050—less than three decades from now.

Not to mention, more than kindergarteners can anticipate a triple-digit life span. Propelled by aging baby boomers and continued medical advances, the number of centenarians worldwide is expected to increase eightfold. Twenty-five years from now, there will be 3.7 million of us aged 100 or older—roughly equivalent to everyone now living in Connecticut or Los Angeles.

The United Nations declares this a “longevity revolution,” and it’s going to challenge everything we thought we knew about health care, personal finance, retirement, politics, and more. If we get it right, our 100-year lives will hold the potential for far more brightness than bleakness. Imagine an extra decade or two (or more) to continue creating and contributing—think 101-year-old television producer Norman Lear or 102-year-old fashion icon Iris Apfel—or simply enjoying an extra 20 or 30 vibrant years spent in the company of those we love the most.

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The Parents Trying to Pass Down a Language They Hardly Speak - The Atlantic

Losing your family’s language can feel like an inevitable side effect of immigration—but it’s one I want to prevent.

My mother used to tell a certain story at family parties when trying to explain why my sisters and I didn’t really speak Cantonese, my parents’ primary language. It’s probably a familiar narrative, especially to kids of immigrants in America. Still, it stung every time I heard it.

When my oldest sister, Steph, was in her suburban-Connecticut kindergarten, she returned home one afternoon embarrassed and upset, and insisted that our parents talk to her only in English. Steph was young and doesn’t remember the specifics, though the scenario is easy to imagine: some kid, probably oblivious but still cruel. Our parents, who came to the United States separately from Guangzhou, China, in the late 1960s and early 1970s by way of Hong Kong, spoke mostly the Chinese dialects Cantonese and Taishanese to us, but also possessed fluent English from their education in colonial Hong Kong. They conceded to Steph’s request, my father told me, and we became a primarily English-speaking household. Although my sisters and I could understand and speak some Cantonese (mine was the most limited, because I was the youngest; I was born a few years after Steph’s kindergarten incident), the ability faded as we aged.

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The Meaning of Madonna - The New Yorker

It was a more physical world, though we thought it quite advanced. There seemed nothing “terrestrial” about twisting a radio knob to some eccentric decimal point, dialling static into song. In the summer of 1985, we all knew someone, usually an older sibling, who owned a portable, cassette-playing stereo. The rest of us remained stuck catching Top Forty countdowns on AM radio, or playing, on our parents’ imperial turntables, the one or two LPs in our possession. Increasingly, we listened to music by watching it on TV, our dance parties often overseen by a strutting, tattered sprite who wore bangles like opera gloves and held the camera’s gaze with her entire being, as though locked in a dare she was not going to lose.

I liked her best in motion: the jut of her chin as she spun to a stop, the drag of her foot through a grapevine step. Something important seemed bound up in this vision, beaconlike but elusive, forever disappearing around a corner up ahead. I prized the “Like a Virgin” LP I received for my birthday, the adults involved having apparently thought little of giving the record to a Catholic girl who was, if anything, overfamiliar with talk of virgins and of being like at least one of them. In regular living-room sessions, I twirled and stretched before the hi-fi altar, arching toward God knew what, flashing on how doing my best Madonna might resemble discovering a radical style of my own, the curious fission of moving in time.

That year, I delivered the “Madonna: Why She’s Hot” issue of Time to my father with the same air of triumph that swirled about him an hour later, as he quoted its comparison of her voice to “Minnie Mouse on helium,” a line he liked so much that he repeated it for decades. It was my own budding sensibilities, I understood then, that would require defending; Madonna could take care of herself.

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