The launch programming began with a service at Dixwell Avenue Congregational United Church of Christ on April 2 and concluded with a Residential College Tea at Pauli Murray College on April 6. On April 4, Barber called Yale College students to action at Dwight Hall Chapel, encouraging them to identify injustices and enact change.

Barber told the News that he hopes the Center will be a community that brings together theologians, publicists, economists, lawyers, scholars and impacted people to examine the intersection of religious moral values and social justice issues. 

“When you look at history in this country and look at all of the great transformational policies and moments, there’s always been underneath that, a group of people who look at these issues not through the puny lens of left versus right,” Barber said. “They look at it through the lens of, ‘How do our deepest constitutional values and how do our deepest religious and moral values inform us in how we both critique and develop public policy?’”

Barber encouraged undergraduates to engage with the Yale Divinity School and use the resources at the new center to inspire social justice movements.

Faith leaders, advocates, policy experts and scholars will also convene at the center to equip students with strategies on how to lead social movements. Research conducted at the center will focus on public ministry and the “possibility of a moral grounding of public policy in America,” according to the center’s website. 

Barber, who will serve as founding director of the newly-opened center, was president of the North Carolina NAACP from 2006 to 2017 as well as pastor of Greenleaf Christian Church in Goldsboro, North Carolina. 

“The idea is that these conversations with Reverend Barber are specifically geared toward young people in our generation,” Emily Zhang ’25, junior co-coordinator at Dwight Hall, told the News. 

Zhang added that she hoped Barber’s visit to Dwight Hall Chapel would be the first in a series of events for undergraduate students “to engage in meaningful dialogue about grassroots organizing, poverty, and racial justice.”

In a speech to his students, Divinity School dean Dean Greg Sterling underscored the importance of the new center to YDS as a place where scholars, leaders and activists can think through current challenges from an “ethical or moral perspective.”

Barber, Sterling said, is the “most important voice of moral conscience, speaking from a religious perspective, in this country.”

“Our contribution is to ensure that the moral dimensions of great problems are not lost in the fog of scientific and technical debate and are not [lost] in the political divide, but to remind all of us that there are moral dimensions that need to be addressed,” Sterling said.

The Divinity School was founded in 1822.

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Aria sported a new pair of printed spandex leggings every day, announced facts about her hamster and other rodents, always had her hair pulled back in three fluorescent scrunchies and hated chocolate. I knew Liam vaguely from the cornered stool he would sit on in art class and the disengaged tone he would use when called on. After lunch, the oval of skin surrounding Liam’s lips was a telltale sign that he had chowed on a cotton-candy Dum-Dum. Nick had a terrible peanut allergy, so during class birthday parties he only ever ate Oreos. I am certain that to them I was Zoë, the vegetarian with dark brown frizzy hair. 

We spent hours together crouched in our child-sized chairs, but were not keen on becoming friends. We were fifth graders and had our established friendships; we were nothing but tablemates.

But, when early February rolled around, I guess I decided I would tell my tablemates that I loved them. 

I grew up above a flower shop, and even the days leading up to Feb. 14 echoed with unbearable noise — people in disarray demanding their partner’s favorite flowers — I loved it. I was 10 and an unrealized romantic. Being part of my life meant you would receive a handmade Valentine. Whatever bulk candy I could buy would not encapsulate the minimal relationships I held with my classmates. 

On Feb. 14 Aria received a gumball machine of skittles, Liam some Dum-Dums and Nick a pack of double-stuffed Oreos. They thanked me and then we continued to only speak when we had to. 

Somewhere along the way, I fell off with my crafts — probably when I found people who show me exactly when it is “worth it” to love.  My English lecture buddy will not get a Valentine, nor the girl in my math class that I think is cool. But, there is always something to be said for innocent, superfluous, extravagance. 

Fifth grade was the last time I extended the spirit of Valentine’s Day. My teenage relationship with the holiday wavered between being too cool for romance and handing out chocolates to my best friends. The ideals of the non-believers invaded my willingness to show gratitude to my acquaintances, sucking out all the fun of the day. 

As I write this on the eve of Valentine’s Day, I’ll also include that I am a hypocrite. I have just sealed my sole Valentine’s card addressed to someone who surely knows they will receive it. I will not extend love to people who are not expecting it. 

There’s something so romantic about what’s left unsaid. And, what even is the point of a holiday dedicated to restating how you feel? Valentines is otherwise an excuse for romance — showcasing reluctance — an unfortunate symptom of a holiday dedicated to being vulnerable. So, next year, I hope to reconnect with my childish vulnerabilities and say I love you to everyone.

The post When I Say I Love You appeared first on Yale Daily News.

My life is defined by rituals. Where I stand in the elevator once I get off 168th street, Sol LeWitt murals in the lobby, cooking Annie’s mac and cheese on my baby brother’s bedroom floor. Optimism takes the form of peach jelly rings from the gift shop — something yummier than Wonder Bread from the cafeteria — and finding hobbies. 

My favorite extracurricular is going to Tower 6 of Columbia University Children’s Hospital, where my brother was a frequent resident for most of my childhood. Most would expect I was something of a vagabond. Instead, my health-shaped prosperity granted me the time and energy to construct a home and family in an objectively sullen space.

However, my outlets for this endeavor are mostly lacking. Until, one fortunate afternoon, I stumble upon a tea party in the Kosher kitchen. The smell of freshly baked goods almost masks the rubbing alcohol; this closet-like room in the corner of the hallway suddenly has royal allure. Dishes just like my grandmother’s best china are placed on every table, above a doily and a floral tablecloth. 

I then realize, at the ripe age of twelve, that I am not nearly the first inpatient wing habitué with the desire to make the hospital a home. The tea ladies, women who all have children with heart defects, soon adopt me as their token member of a new generation of tea women. 

I have only two facts in common with most of the women: the unique type of love I have with my brother, their children and the hospital; and the enjoyment of afternoon tea. That was evidently all that was needed to make a space that routinely takes bravery to enter suddenly feel comfortable. 

Once a month, the Tower 6 kitchen would turn into a beautiful tea parlor filled with delicious treats, support, warmth and community. 

My (not so) baby brother is fortunately healthy now. This is a gift I am grateful for every day. And still, my memories of my years at the hospital are largely ones of love, my favorite cake and hot mugs of earl gray tea — like artifacts of any home. 

In many ways, my college life is still defined by rituals. But I have never stopped turning to tea as a solace. My lovely suitemates engage in (very modest) tea parties in our common room, and I keep a stack of loose-leaf tea boxes on the mantle. No resolution for a tough day goes without boiling water. Though born in a dismal home, this tradition is a continuous reminder of the community and small triumphs that may be fixed by some tea.

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It is in front of this bathroom where I found myself at one in the morning, locked out from the inside, clutching my roommate’s pot that held the remains of a tragically undercooked ramen. In my dreams, I’ve always imagined myself as a slightly less attractive Alex Munday. But the harsh reality of my needing to use the bathroom had me realizing that no matter how many sewing needles, bobby pins and Yale ID cards I shoved into the various cracks and crevices, the lock would not unclick, and I would never be casted as a Charlie’s Angel. Eventually, I called my roommate and asked her to bring me a pair of scissors so I could cut open the screen covering our bathroom window (yes, I did climb over the gate and into the area right by our basement bathroom). But I found that the grate was made out of metal and that I probably couldn’t afford any damages that I would incur onto Yale property. But what would a Yale experience be without non-functioning room amenities? A better college experience, perhaps. 

-Ashley Choi

I was stuck in line for Hallowoads with hundreds of people in a chicken onesie last Halloween. I had been separated from my flock, dressed in the same onesie, as the current of the relentless crowd pulled me away from the main line. I tried to hop past the barricades to get back with my friends, but this girl started to cuss me out. Then, some guy had his arm on my neck for whatever reason, suffocating me while I was already struggling to breathe in this stupid chicken onesie. I told him to let go of his friend’s hand, but he said he “couldn’t lose his bestie.” I’m trying to seek help from a friend, but she’s getting hit on by a graduate student in a Hercules costume. 

Right that second, the crowd started to wobble again, the force strong enough this time to push one of the outer barricades off. I fell bluntly onto dozens of people, and after being helped up, I spent some time freeing other people stuck in the pile. I wasn’t going back to the line, so I just sneaked through the side door into the building, only to be welcomed by an unenergetic crowd swaying to some truly mediocre remixes. Safe to say, I didn’t bother ordering tickets to Hallowoads this time around. 

-Po Eic Quah

If you want to know how to wake yourself up in the morning, it seems that I have accidentally ascertained the secret. That is, if you don’t mind the condition of being four and a half feet deep, headfirst, stuck behind a twin XL bed frame. 

It’s 8:30 a.m., which means my phone is playing soft chimes to lure me out of my slumber. I recently discovered that to be woken by the sound of only soft chimes is a blessing — but if you do not possess that gift I might recommend you try this technique. However, I feel an unusual sensation of pressure in my skull. Something is off. I am unbalanced. I attempt to arch my spine to normalize my position on the mattress. I continue to slide until I realize my head is stuck behind my bed and the wall. I am about to collapse into a 3 foot by 1 foot crevice, adjacent to the place where a headboard is missing. My roommate, now known as my savior, screams as she hears my cries for help. Grabbing my legs, she pulls me up from the bed and back into elevated Twin XL safety. 

Besides the near head-to-floor calamity, this remains one of the few times where it took less than a few hours to feel awake in the morning. Despite this, I went straight to Amazon and purchased a headboard. Pick your poison, am I right?

-Zoe Halaban

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Finally, I made it to Aug. 21. My family and I overloaded our Subaru and pulled up to Phelps Gate. My suitcases, a cluttered curation of myself, were quickly unloaded into my L-shaped bedroom. I hung up an Edward Hopper poster that reminds me of my mom and loaded my rented mini fridge with hummus snack packs: my lifeline for late night study sessions.

As I made my room mine, it became clear to me that no decor or familiar taste of packaged preservatives would connect me to what I now understood as my “other life.” Something about entering the abundance of Yale felt permanent and grand. However, I had no definition for the feeling of pressure Yale’s distinct presence provided, until I stumbled upon William Blake.

My humanities seminar took a trip to the Yale Center for British Art to look at William Blake’s “Jerusalem.” One panel, in particular, portrayed a curious man under a gothic archway. It resembled plenty of the passages I have taken on campus, whether it be in the HQ courtyard or under the Davenport portico.

As I stared at the brilliant pieces, the docent explained that Blake believed that to enter the gothic was to enter truth. I imagined how Blake would’ve relished in young minds’ drunkenly skipping through the gothic wonderlands of Branford and JE –– at 2 a.m. on their way to GHeav –– presenting the most honest versions of themselves. But it also struck me that Yale is the blueprint for finding truth in the gothic; I finally had evidence for the pressure of veritas that has trailed me in my period of adjustment.

There is no other campus that, in my opinion, feels more like an enclosure than Yale. In our residential colleges, we are hugged by gothic architecture that is only accessible via swipe — unless you’re in Morse or Stiles, in which case I apologize for the FOMO. We struggle with outdated, extremely heavy doors that lead to stories of buildings that boast significance, creating boundaries and emphasizing the grandeur of knowledge that is offered to us. The extraordinary architecture is meant to inspire us and connect us to a history of thinkers that came before us; it contains Yale’s most extreme attributes within tight boundaries. We are somehow expected to feel as if it is ours alone to enjoy. 

As I experience many Yale firsts, this otherworldly, private place does feel inspiring. It impresses me most when I’m walking to the library late at night, while no one is on campus except for the people who are within the same enclosure. However, this explicit definition of place also means less fluidity for myself. I am here now. I am not going anywhere. 

As I settle in, I am acutely aware of the boundary that is naturally created between those who are “in” our Yale community and those who aren’t. I do not know if I have gotten used to the abundance of Yale, and I don’t know if I ever will. Yale will stay a separate place in my mind forever — just as it is architecturally intended to be. But, I have also begun to curate my own space within the sprawling campus. Though I do not yet understand the extent of Yale’s treasures, I have allowed some experiences to help. 

Only seven weeks in, my life at home feels more relevant than it will in a few months down the line. I am attempting to be conscious of Yale as an enclosure as I make space for myself here. Having the unique opportunity to make a home also comes with the decision to be flexible: hosting people in your suite, leaving campus to teach young kids. When I arrived late August, the gothic architecture presented a barrier to building anything new. However, as I grow into life at Yale, I continue to find places where truth transgresses the past. 

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“What brings you to this side of town?” I asked, alluding to the fact his Silliman home usually keeps him a few blocks away. 

“Rush meal. But they’re running a bit late,” he replied. He continued to sigh and look desperately towards the Old Campus gate. 

I was shocked by how serious Poe was about a cappella, but even more surprised to find out that this was a pretty normal thing at Yale. 

Before coming to Yale, I thought my understanding of a cappella was above average at worst. I was a devout “Pitch Perfect” stan. For my 11th birthday party, I brought a group of my best friends for a screening of “Pitch Perfect 2.” I had an Anna Kendrick autograph hanging in my bedroom. I viewed the spectacle as a comedy, a camp display of talent and sisterhood. I had no idea that anything even close to a Hollywood plot could happen at my university. But, the life engulfing commitment, the nerves, the competition — are all big screen scenes that I have seen unfold practically out my window. 

The a cappella process in so many ways is a microcosm of the Yale experience. In particular, the abundant assessment of personality during the process reflects an image of the Yale social and extracurricular scene. It is long, competitive, tiring, stressful, historic and extreme.

Though the process does include a ten-minute audition to show off singing abilities, it’s ironic that each student only auditions once — or twice, if they’re lucky enough to receive a callback — for each group. The rest of the rush period is spent by rushees attempting to woo the groups with non-singing abilities, highlighting desire for the perfectly well-rounded Yale student. Rushees show off their personality and commitment to the prospective group through attending events like meals and walks around campus — making not only for some perfect harmonies but also a planned campus social scene. 

“Some of the groups care more about the vibe even if you’re not that great of a singer. Some of them are like, your vibe can be fine but if you’re a really good singer they’ll still let you in … they definitely want to get a sense of who you are in addition to how you sing,” Poe told me. 

I couldn’t help but to think back to my love of “Pitch Perfect” as Poe was describing the judgment practices. In the movie, Brittany Snow and Anna Camp’s characters navigate how to assemble a winning team with no auditionees that fit their set image. With seventeen groups on Yale’s campus, there is naturally a broader realm of inclusivity. But, image perception can be incredibly nerve-racking for first-year students attempting to cultivate community. 

On Wednesday, the wait was over. Upwards of 200 students who enrolled in the rush process found out if their hard work paid off. At dinner time that evening, I counted three groups hosting meals with their new, fully formed cohort. The delighted energy and the wide smiles of the new members created an inviting energy and a place I wanted to be. 

The promise of new friends and community is thrilling and unique. Perhaps the exhilaration is only brought on by virtue of the intense audition practices. 

Regardless of whether they’re a soprano or an alto, most rushees find a group to join and end the process on a high note. 

Correction, Sept. 26: A previous version of this article quoted an email from Yale’s Singing Group Council without including the quote’s full context in the email. The quote has since been deleted. 

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