FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2021
WEEKEND
SEX ON THE WKND: Ghosts of Lovers Past
// MALIA KUO
Welcome back to Sex on the WKND! We’re an anonymous YDN column dedicated to answering your burning questions about sex, love and anything in between. Last year, we had one writer, but now we are a collective of students, each with our own unique sexual and romantic experiences. We’ve had straight sex, queer sex and long, long periods without sex. We’ve been in long-term relationships, we’ve walked twenty minutes to avoid former hookups on Cross Campus and we’ve done the whole FroCo-group-cest thing. We may be different this year, but we’re still sex-positive, we’re still anti-capitalist, and we sure as hell still support the Green New Deal. Obsessing over sex is a Yale tradition as old as the Oldest College Daily itself. Whether you’re fucking your roommate, still yearning for your first kiss, or dealing with an unsettling skin rash, Sex on the WKND is here for you. Nothing is too personal or silly. Ask us anything ;) Dear Sex on the WKND, My ex-boyfriend still wears my homemade gifts around campus. How am I supposed to go about my life when any walk to class could come with a glaring reminder of our relationship and breakup? Sincerely, Unhappy ex This summer I lived among ghosts. I shared a century-old home with other college students who reported all sorts of paranormal experiences, from mysterious patches of cold air to strange sounds in the night. I don’t consider myself superstitious, but there were times where even I admitted to experiencing an eerie feeling of being watched. I thought I had left behind the preternatural as I made my way back to New Haven, but I found that returning to a fully-populated campus meant brushes with a different kind of specter: the ghosts of lovers past. When I think about the scariest parts of college, I would put the constant threat of bumping into a past partner or fling near the top of the list, just below facing the wrath of Dr. G in Gen Chem Lab. “Out of sight, out of mind” is a noble mantra, but blocking a number and unfollowing on social media only goes so far when you share a campus. Yalies take all sorts of preventative measures in the name of limiting post-breakup chance meetings: no suitecest or dating friends or hooking up with someone in your college. I’ve broken all of these cardinal rules, which honestly indi-
cates a short-sightedness that should disqualify me from giving any sort of relationship advice. But no matter how careful you are, living in the same square mile as an ex means that unexpected encounters are almost guaranteed. Every relationship is different, and so is every breakup. Some exes will cross the street to avoid eye contact, while others can manage a friendly hello in line at Commons — we’ll leave the age-old question “Can exes be friends?” for another day. While what’s healthy or comfortable looks different for everyone, there’s one universal hardship that comes with navigating the new terms of an ended relationship: you have to do it on your own. Relationships themselves are exercises in collaboration, a set of dynamics and norms that partners create together in constant conversation. But a breakup necessarily ends this partnership, and each person is left to define their own rules of engagement. Even in the most mutual of uncouplings, exes might have totally different ideas of how to proceed, paving the way for plenty of tense or awkward moments. Deciding what to do with physical reminders of a relationship is one of the hundreds of little choices that need to be made after a breakup, and it sounds like you and your ex have elected to go about it differently. I get why you feel a little weird about your exes choice to continue using your gifts, especially because they’re homemade. If the gift was practical or generic, it might be more economic or sustainable to keep it in use. I have a friend
who’s kept an air fryer she got from a past anniversary because, as she says, a breakup wouldn’t come between her and convenient, low-calorie fried treats. But your homemade gifts are not air fryers, and — no offense — I doubt your hand-knit scarf or whatever could be considered half as useful as an all-in-one countertop gadget that can cook Trader Joe’s Mandarin Orange Chicken in 12 minutes plus pre-heating. More importantly, your gifts carried much more sentimental meaning than the fastest growing kitchen appliance in America, which can prepare anything from golden-brown mozzarella sticks to perfectly crisp cauliflower nuggets. You didn’t mention what kind of terms you and your ex are on, but if seeing him wear these gifts really bothers you, it might be worth bringing it up with him. Just because a breakup means less communication doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to mention something that’s making you feel uncomfortable or hurt. But if you’re like me, you’re probably less concerned about your ex’s choice itself than you are about what glimpses it may give into his mental state. It’s easy to obsess over the possible meaning of every little action after a breakup, zooming in on Instagram posts and analyzing text message punctuation with the precision of a Comp Lit major. You might be thinking he’s hanging on to these items because he’s not ready to let go of the relationship, or that it’s evidence he’s moved on Joshua Bassett-style to the point where these gifts don’t mean anything at all.
The hard truth is that whatever this choice might say about how he’s processing the breakup — if it even says anything at all — is none of your business. One of the universally acknowledged hardships of breakups is that you must go through it without the support of the one you considered your person. Even for exes who stay in touch, talking about in-the-moment individual experiences of heartbreak is usually off-limits, and for good reason. Keeping that emotional distance is kind of the point of breaking up. Navigating your own way from heartbreak to healing is a challenging, vital first step in the process of disentangling your life from another’s. Bumping into exes on this claustrophobic campus is usually just awkward, but in the early days of a breakup it can also really hurt. Greeting someone you once loved with the same quiet wave you’d give a near-stranger from section is a reminder that you no longer get to know each other deeply, not in the way you once did. Maybe it’s just the season, but I’d say that’s a pretty spooky feeling. Acknowledging this is a first step in growing comfortable with the way your life and that of your ex have diverged. This takes time — there’s a reason it’s called “going through” a breakup — but you might find that establishing these emotional boundaries will allow you to continue to exist in one another’s lives on new terms. After all, haunting is better left to ghosts. Submit your anonymous question here: https://bit.ly/sexonthewknd .
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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2021 · yaledailynews.com
WEEKEND URBAN
// BY JESSAI FLORES
LEGENDS
THE ECHOING GREEN
Nestled in the atrophied heart of the city, beyond the iron gates of Old Campus, is the uneasy sprawl of the New Haven Green. It is like any ordinary park. The children play their sports under the pulse of the sun as their elders watch them from the shady benches. Around them the city spirals into a noisy cavalcade of hurried life. Tires on wet pavement, coins rattling in purses, the hisses and squeals of city buses. In the core of that loud spiral, in the Green, sits an unperturbed silence. The Green is an oasis of grass in the desert of city life. For newcomers, it might even be a nice place for a picnic. For those of us who know better, the Green’s air of peace is nothing more than a ruse hiding something sinister behind it. In fact, what looks like a park and sounds like a park, is really a massive graveyard long destroyed. Deep within the earth of the Green remain the bones of thousands of people, long dead and rotted away. Their headstones were ripped up and moved to Grove Street, but they were all left behind. The silence of the Green is no peaceful refuge but a simmering rage. One that tumbles over itself thousands of times as every lingering soul trembles in fury. While the spirits cannot stalk in the daylight, they still cast their unease across the Green. Enough to cause people to scurry away the minute the sun begins to set. When it does,
the Green spills itself empty, save for the silence of the dead long forgotten. For when the sun sets upon the lawn, and the last echo of life is heard, you best not be seen on the darkening Green. They say that if you were to remain after dark, when the moon casts its drowsy gaze upon the greying lawn, you will hear something faint beneath the silence. An echo of a whisper hovering just beneath what your ears can perceive. It is a quiet calling, just discernible enough for you to wring meaning from it but not enough for you to understand it. The echo will lure you deeper into the Green with nothing but the yellow fog of the streetlamps to lead your way. As you meander through the maze of sidewalks, the echo will grow louder. This time, it is a muffled chorus of voices, as if you were hearing a conversation through a wall. Still, you will not understand what it is that the echo is saying. So, you venture further into the park. As you do so, you will notice that just beyond the corners of your eyes, the shadows cast by the lamps will blur rhythmically in the space between what you can and cannot see. Almost as if the shadows are breathing. In and out, the shadows move as if they were waiting. But waiting for what? The echo will lead you to its source in the deepest part of the
darkened Green. Only those who have lived to tell the tale have recounted in fits of screams and agony what exactly it was that waited for them in the moonlight. Some say it is an immense darkness, a tangle of nothingness in the center of the park. A void so black and empty that it cannot be understood by the human mind. The mind tears itself apart rather than attempting to understand what cannot be understood. Others say that at the end of the echo is evil itself. So hot and vile that few have the words to explain it. One woman once reported going to the source of the noise, only to find herself hung upside down by her shoe from her bedroom ceiling fan, with no knowledge of how she got there. One group of Yale first years once recalled going through the Green at night to go to a cookie shop and then found themselves at the opposite end of the park, nearly thirty-two hours from when they first entered. Yet it only felt like a brisk walk. One man took his wife with him to stargaze in the Green and then got back home, only to discover that his wife had different colored eyes. Across all these stories, lies one thread of similarity: the horrific realization that they were not alone on the darkened Green. Right before the dark heart of the New Haven Green, those who were
allowed to leave, unscathed or forever changed, all remember the dance of the shadows. The shadows that were suspended in the lamplight had the form and shape of something human. According to those poor souls that found their way into the center of an ancient evil, there were thousands of shadows. Each took the shape of a person but not quite. They were always out of focus, as if the shadow could not remember what a human looked like. These shapes, these remnants of darkness moving in the lamplight, are perhaps the echoes of the lives buried under the Green, trampled in the daytime and forgotten. They are furious at the state of their existence. Their graves were snatched away and a giant park was plopped on top of their earthly tomb. So, every night, they climb up from the pits and roam the Green in hopes that whatever lies at the center of the Green devours the unfortunate lives who make their way in. These ghastly shadows are vindictive and clever. They lure you into the Green with their dance and watch as you become ensnared with curiosity for the mysterious echo at the core of the park. Be warned: know that if you follow, you follow them to your doom. Contact JESSAI FLORES at jessai.flores@yale.edu .
// GIOVANNA TRUONG
DON’T LOOK // BY ABIGAIL DIXON It is said that the Stacks, housing millions of books in Sterling Memorial Library, are also home to a ghost. This ghost was once a lonely first year, Class of 1999. Hours away from home, driven by an unwavering passion for intellectual pursuits and impelled by five-and-a-half credits of readings and essays, he was not very social. Instead, he spent his evenings studying in a carrel in the Stacks, enjoying the view, the quiet and the solitude. He began spending hours upon hours each day on the top floor. Allegedly his name was George, but nobody was sure. He did not have any friends due to his time spent secluded — people barely even knew his face. His name is lost to history. One blustery fall evening, when the sun had already set and a bonedeep cold blanketed New Haven, George made his daily trip to the Stacks. He settled in his carrel for another night of philosophy readings. However, after weeks of this routine, approaching the peak of midterm season, his body worn down by stress and near-chronic sleep deprivation, when he tried to comprehend one more chapter of his Aristotle reading, his soul finally detached from his body. Have you had times when you find yourself reading the same page countless times but not registering any of it? Or staring blankly at a wall with no conception of how much time has passed? This means your soul has begun to roam. But, in this case, his soul went so far that it could not find its way back. With his soul gone, George suddenly lost his moral sensibilities. He had a sudden urge to go into consulting after graduation, despite his 200 volunteer hours with nonprofits in high school. Because of the uncertainty surrounding his identity, we do not know where his soulless body ended up, but we do know where his soul is: the Stacks. Filled with regret of how he spent his short time at Yale, his soul has become a sorrowful spirit that still haunts the Sterling Stacks, yet to understand ancient philosophy. Now, he seeks out first years that venture into the Stacks, hoping to find a friend. However, given George’s unfamiliarity with the social scene at Yale, his quest for friends is not harmless. If you lay eyes on him, he will simply steal your soul. You will then be cursed to the same fate as him: eternally wandering the Stacks as your body goes on without you. So, next time you think you hear someone in the cubicle in front of you, or you think you see a reflection in the window… don’t look. Contact ABIGAIL DIXON at abigail.dixon@yale.edu .
// TORI LU
By Amy Cohen Each poem contains references to a different location on or near Yale’s Campus!
Many were turned from man to pale stone By this poor, cursed woman so venenosa With slithering hair, these words she heard ne’er “Tú eres la chica más hermosa” (Note: No need to read into the Spanish.) A: BOOK AND SNAKE TOMB
SPOOKY RIDDLES
Read in this tome of the Gorgon Medusa, Whose secret rape was not kept hushed Columns of writing tell the tale How she received locks not easily brushed
YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2021 · yaledailynews.com
WEEKEND SCARY
PAGE B3
STORIES
Yale Health Horror Stories:
As spooky season falls upon us, WKND asked readers to share their spookiest personal stories… their experiences with Yale Health. //IRIS TSOURIS: The greatest threat to Yalies everywhere is the stairs of Linsly-Chittenden Hall. I say this because those little divots in each step can and will fling you from your 9 a.m. English seminar to a Yale Health examination room — with the bones in your foot chipped, crushed and in various other states of injury. It happened on Sept. 8, 2021, just one week into the semester. A figurative fall down the Platonic ladder of love resulted in a literal fall from the LC stairs: I was gripped, wholly, by my seminar’s discussion of “The Symposium.” Perhaps a little too gripped because just as I was about to leave the building, my right foot pivoted sideways. A sharp inhale, a step missed. Stars momentarily filled my vision. I heard an unnatural crack and tried, fervently, to rise from the ground. But I could not. I don’t entirely remember what happened afterward. Two indelibly kind students must have found me, hoisted me up by my arms and helped me hobble across the Old Campus courtyard to an Uber, which arrived at Yale Health Acute Care half an hour later. Let me preface this by saying that Yale Health has to be some sort of altered reality. I’m not sure if it was the strange, sterile room, or the stupor that I was in, but I cried so violently that the nurse could not take my vitals. “Oh honey,” she asked, “can you try taking a few deep breaths?” The x-ray technician then asked me if I had kicked someone too hard. “Ugh, I wish,” I told him. Imagine being taken out by one silly little step! But it was plausible: the verdict was two fractures, a harrowing visit to Yale Orthopaedics, five unbearable weeks in a walking boot and many, many moments of surprising and invariable tenderness. Yale, as an institution, may be one of the most overtly inaccessible spaces ever, but its people — its understanding strangers, earnest suitemates and excessively accommodating professors — are not. So, to whoever was praying for my downfall that day: it worked! I fell! But if there is any beauty to be found in broken bones, it is that they cannot help but mend themselves. Just as the mottled bruise expels itself from the body, a first year acclimates, inevitably, to the demands of college life — even if such demands include traversing century-old staircases. Contact IRIS TSOURIS at iris.tsouris@yale.edu .
//ANABEL MOORE:
//ISABEL KALB:
Midterms: looming. Death by Yague: impending. Already dashing out of my classes at least three times an hour to empty my sinuses and hacking as if I had a severe lung disease — ahem, but let’s make this abundantly clear… NOT COVID-19 — I notice in the middle of my Math 116 midterm that my eyes are burning. In the Dunham Labs mirror, I look as though I’ve come to class still recuperating from a night of Woad’s mayhem. At this point, I’ve already called Yale Health twice, describing in no uncertain terms that I am extremely close to losing both my lungs. Both times I was greeted with the chipper lady on the phone saying I’d get a call back from a nurse who would help me set up an appointment. This appointment never came. So I drag myself to Yale Health, calling to say there is something seriously wrong with my eyes:I can’t see, I am literally outside, you cannot turn me away, I’ve already called twice, I know I need medicine, please let me see a doctor, and don’t tell me someone is going to send me a message in MyChart. When I finally see a doctor, they take one look and say I have pinkeye. Pinkeye! They give me ointment and eye drops for my eyes — spilling half of the tiny vial on the floor, I might add, as they demonstrate how to properly use eye drops, a novel task — and tell me to come back for the rest of my prescription in the morning. But doc! I implore. This cough has been here for weeks. Is there anything you can give me for my painful and extremely obvious bronchitis? Now, I must admit that this doctor is very kind. It is 11 p.m. on a Tuesday and a fatigued and ill first year shows up at their door, demanding meds. But they then proceed to tell me that I should really try ingesting straight honey, right out of the beehive. Sensing the futility of my endeavour, I get up to leave, thanking them for this astounding advice that will almost certainly help me stop getting weird looks every time I’m the one who starts the coughing domino effect in SSS 114. Six weeks after contracting the Yague, I’m still sick, but at this point I think I’m better served cleaning out the cold medicine section at CVS than trying my hand at 55 Lock Street. Contact ANABEL MOORE at anabel.moore@yale.edu .
Entering college, first years are warned about the “freshman flu,” the vague sickness that haunts many new arrivals. This year, as we emerge from a sheltered pandemic environment, the impact on our immune systems has been even more drastic. But we at Yale are told not to worry, thanks to the resources of Yale Health. When I began to feel sick about a month ago, I called Yale Health. After confirming that it was not an emergency, I was put on hold for almost half an hour, at which point I gave up and went to sleep. When I woke up the next day, I felt my throat beginning to swell. I called Yale Health, hoping to have a strep test. I was instead informed that I should have called the day before, because as of that morning, my COVID-19 test results — at that point just over 3 days old — were too old for me to be seen by Yale Health. I was told to gargle with salt water and get another COVID19 test. Here’s the issue: COVID-19 tests can take several days to come back, possibly longer, depending on how many students need tests. Midway through “yague season,” unsurprisingly, turned out to be a busy time for student COVID-19 testing. Told that it would likely be around three days before my results would be emailed to me, I went back to my room to follow instructions and gargle with salt water. Throughout the day, my throat continued to swell, to the point that swallowing was painful and breathing was difficult. At this point, a friend of mine had been waiting for an appointment with Yale Health for over a week, getting sicker every day. I gave up. Unable to get a strep test, doctor visit, or any kind of medication from Yale Health, and knowing I could end up waiting a week or more, I cracked. Being from southern Connecticut, I was able to go home, see my hometown doctor and get antibiotics. The vast majority of Yale undergrads do not have this option. While I was lucky enough to be able to take this way out, students, especially Yale undergrads in the verging-on-post-COVID-19 yague season, depend on Yale Health for personal safety and support — and Yale Health is letting us down. That same friend, not from Connecticut, resorted to a telehealth visit with her home doctor in California, who immediately diagnosed her with bronchitis, a dangerous combination with her asthma that required immediate medication. Had she not given up on Yale Health, things could have gotten very scary. While it’s understandable that Yale Health is adjusting to new COVID-19 restrictions and is simultaneously overrun with “yague” patients, the way it’s operating right now is not giving students the support we need. Spooky season may be upon us, but our health resources should not be what’s scaring us the most.
//DOROTHEA FAITH ROBERTSON: On Sunday afternoon, Oct. 9, I called Yale Acute Care with a throat so sore I could barely speak. I was told to wait for a call from a nurse. A few hours later, I still hadn’t heard anything, so I called again, and again was told to continue waiting until I could speak to a nurse. Finally, I was told to come in immediately. Following the half-mile walk in my dirty sweatpants and unbrushed hair, I was stopped by security outside the Yale Health building; for me to enter, my name needed to be on a list. After calling twice — again — and being placed on hold for 15 minutes, Acute Care confirmed that I had an appointment and allowed me to enter. Nurses asked me questions, took my vitals, and swabbed my throat for a rapid strep test, which came back as negative. They then told me that there was nothing they could do. “It’s just a cold; your symptoms should subside shortly, and if they don’t, go to Internal Medicine.” By Friday, Oct. 15, I wasn’t feeling any better, but I told myself that I couldn’t let a common cold keep me in bed for a week. In the middle of Spanish class on Friday morning, my professor walked up to me, looking very concerned, and touched my arm. “¿Tienes fiebre?” she asked, as I was sweating profusely, looking pale. “No sé, pero es posible.” She told me to go home and rest. I called Internal Medicine and explained my situation. I had a fever. Over the next five hours and multiple phone calls, I was repeatedly told there were no nurses available. On Saturday morning, I checked for my weekly COVID-19 test results from the day before — which had not yet been posted. Instead, I found a positive test result for my strep throat culture from the previous Sunday: five days ago. I waited outside for 30 minutes before simply walking in, but a nurse quickly walked into the waiting room to tell me to go outside. They could not treat anyone without a negative COVID-19 test from the last 48 hours. With tears in my eyes, I explained to her that I’ve had strep throat for over a week with no treatment and I just need some antibiotics. She went back inside, and after speaking with doctors, allowed me inside. As she’s taking my vitals, I tell her the story of the past week. “That’s ridiculous,” she says, “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” I was prescribed antibiotics and told to rest. I picked up my prescription and headed back to my dorm. I slept for hours, but woke up with two exams, a paper, and a project still awaiting my attention. Contact DOROTHEA FAITH ROBERTSON at dorothea.robertson@yale.edu .
Contact ISABEL KALB at isabel.kalb@yale.edu .
// CECILIA LEE
The Voice of Toad Seeps Into the Stacks // BY ANDREW CRAMER There I was, working diligently on the seventh floor of the stacks. ‘Twas a Wednesday evening. I looked out the window and stared wistfully down at Toad’s Place. Oh, the shenanigans I could be partaking in right now!,” I thought to myself. My daydreaming ended abruptly when I heard a sound. On this fateful night, the noise didn’t come from two illicit lovers desperate for privacy. Nor was it the wail of a defeated Directed Studies student. For a moment, I believed my ears were playing tricks on me. “It’s just the wind outside,” I told myself. But there was no wind on that day. Suddenly, my computer shut off. Was this a sign from a higher power that I should stop writing my article for the News? Maybe. But I wouldn’t let it deter me. I stood up and took a brief walk around the dark, dusty, deserted bookshelves to clear my head. I returned and restarted my computer. I got back to my article, minding my own business. But after only a few minutes, I heard a sound
again. This time, I could make out a voice. “Andreeeeewwww… it’s me, Toad from Toad’s. Join us!” I saw Toad’s on the awning across the street, smiling smugly up at me –– he looked ready to boogie in his slick three-piece suit, microphone in hand. The inviting night air beckoned to me. Surely, the News could wait. “I’m on my way, Toad,” I mumbled. A fellow workaholic shot me a funny look. I didn’t care. This is the voice of Toad’s we’re talking about. If you hear it, you obey. I hustled down the stairs, abandoning my backpack in the stacks, and headed over to Toad’s Place. The night was magical, like no other night at Woads ever has been. I’ve gone back to the seventh floor of the stacks on other Wednesday nights, telling myself I have to do work. But I secretly hope each time that I will hear that ribbit-y baritone voice calling out to me once again. I never have. Contact ANDREW CRAMER at andrew.cramer@yale.edu .
// CATE ROSER
By Amy Cohen Each poem contains references to a different location on or near Yale’s Campus!
Life is precious, this we know But we must learn of our coming decay Many a time there is to go But choose the latest that you may
You may search, of course, for a trick so clever It preserves the self in vanity But dark arts fail on the scope of forever For we cannot escape our humanity Some are taken past one hundred
Some after seconds and some in their prime Let it resonate that our days are numbered The circuit will close at this ultimate time A: LC 103
SPOOKY RIDDLES
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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2021 · yaledailynews.com
WEEKEND HAUNTINGS
Old Campus Ghost Museum
// SOPHIE HENRY
// BY AMELIA DILWORTH Old Campus is heavy with the weight of centuries of Yale. Since the university first laid claim to the ground of New Haven, buildings have occupied this space— but Yale continuously modernizes, forever outgrowing itself, discarding buildings every generation as it reinvents itself, buying new buildings with the enthusiasm of little kids going back-to-school shopping. Many of these buildings have long ago disappeared, their footprints fading away, forgotten but never truly annihilated because construction is earth’s materials and human labor, and no energy is ever fully destroyed. Buildings are born of someone’s desire, designed for someone’s use — and so buildings take on souls and attitudes. Buildings have personalities — and when they are destroyed, buildings leave behind ghosts, benevolent or jealous or defeated, or maybe just disappointed. Today, Old Campus is scattered with architectural corpses and the spirits hovering over them. Here are the ghosts you can meet on Old Campus. Connecticut Hall Connecticut Hall is still standing, but he is only a shell of who he once was. Completed in 1752, he held the first Yale dorm and then the Dean’s Office; today he is the Philosophy department. He used to stand arm in arm with his brothers along Old Brick Row, a string of buildings stretching down Old Campus, parallel to today’s Phelps Gate. Yale destroyed the rest of the Old Brick Row, reluctantly sparing Connecticut Hall when alumni pleaded for his life. But Connecticut Hall was never meant to stand alone. He is used to being surrounded with friends and now he juts out into Old Campus awkwardly, alive but alone. Yale threw McClellan Hall onto Old Campus hoping to give Connecticut Hall a friend, but he remains empty inside. In the 1950s, Yale gutted Connecticut Hall, carving out his entrails, preparing to mummify him — callously renovating him as if lobotomizing a troublesome relative, because if he was still around he might as well be useful. Connecticut Hall does not have the privilege of a time-of-death because his body is still alive, even if he has been forced out of himself. The Yale Fence The Yale Fence is perhaps the most frightening ghost of all because he is more alive than ever. The physical Yale Fence was removed by 1888, but his ghost cackles, unconcerned, liberated from materiality. He is now immortal, intangible, now not a place but an ideology.
From 1833 to 1888, every student at Yale perched on that fence, the essential gathering space. The Yale Fence was foundational to the Yale community, but he also structured a hierarchy between students – which sounds like the kind of thing that happens when your ideal social scene means just sitting in a straight line. The Yale Fence supported a companionate exclusion, a socializing elitism, a friendliness within stratification. The last pieces of the Yale Fence were removed to make way for Osborn Hall – but today, the Yale Fence has metastasized into the fortress of buildings that separates Old Campus from the New Haven Green. Now people live in the barrier between Yale and the world. We don’t sit in straight lines for fun – but we’re not looking out at the street or the Green anymore, either. There’s nothing wrong with socializing over a meal in the dining hall or frisbee in the courtyards or tea in a friend’s suite. But I wonder if the Yale Fence still surrounds us even here, his splintery wooden rails always one step behind you. The Yale Fence is something bold and exciting, because he is friendship and ambition and the satisfaction of finally earning your spot on the corner. But he’s self-absorbed, opportunistic, a community built on division, a network built upon barriers. That spirit still haunts Yale. We don’t just live behind a fence: we live behind gates and walls. It’s fun, and I’m proud to live within such formidable and breathtaking architecture – but we live perched on a constructed elitism, and the ghost of the Yale Fence passes by, whispering that if you don’t lean forward into clubs and coffees and internships, you’ll fall endlessly backwards. Osborn Hall Poor Osborn Hall. He didn’t ask to replace the Yale Fence. He didn’t mean to thrust himself into the infrastructure of the university – yet when Osborn Hall first opens his big dumb eyes and looks around, he sees scowls, he sees glares, he sees that he is hated before he knows what hatred means. Osborn Hall is insecure and tries too hard. He shows up to the first day of school in this absolutely ridiculous Romanesque style and all the other buildings stare at him with their perfect brick faces. Osborn thinks he’s better than everyone else anyway. He decides to look out at the street instead, expecting the world to love his gratuitous grandiosity while the other Yale buildings turn their backs on him and the city. Because he’s facing a busy corner, and so round inside, it’s too noisy to hold a
lecture in Osborn Hall. But he can still hear a professor curse and students complain inside of him, he still hears the architects on the street whispering about tearing him down. Osborn Hall wanted to prove that he could replace the Yale Fence, and he dies knowing he has failed. He is empty with shame, finds himself friendless and abandoned. Yale tears him apart while he’s still relatively young, putting the poor building out of his misery and replacing him with something that conforms. Osborn Hall was Yale’s embarrassing teenage phase, and the University wants to delete all the photos. The University was still growing up, still figuring itself out, using Old Campus to experiment with new identities and new buildings. Osborn Hall still haunts Old Campus, watching with sullen jealousy as Bingham Hall takes his place. Osborn Hall is the cold presence of unburied mistakes and sleep-stealing regrets. His voice floats into meetings asking, “are you sure that’s a good idea? What if no one likes it? What if no one comes? What if you fail? What if you don’t belong here? What if you’re an excessively ornate Richardsonian Romanesque building with a noisy lecture hall?” Dwight Hall But Dwight Hall still stands, you say! That’s the Old Library, renamed for Dwight Hall’s disembodied soul. Originally, “Dwight Hall” referred to a separate building, next to Alumni Hall (which has been replaced by LDub). Now there’s just empty space there. There’s a bench, sure, but only so many people can use a bench at once. Maybe you’ve heard the legend that Mrs. Harkness couldn’t see Harkness Tower because Dwight Hall blocked her sightlines– so they tore it down, and today that is the only building-less spot on the perimeter of Old Campus. Dwight Hall didn’t do anything wrong — he was just in the way of bigger and better things. But Dwight Hall’s soul was never tied to a building. He finds a home in the Old Library, replaced by Sterling in the 1920s, and lives on. The spirit of Dwight Hall — at the time, an “independent, non-profit educational and religious organization,” according to its website – is a thing too kind and strong to be limited to a physical space. Dwight Hall has a conscience, an identity; he’s not dependent on the institution. But what does it mean for service and leadership to move into a library? What does it mean to serve from the mind and not the soul? Today, the Old Library building is officially known as “Dwight Hall and Memorial Chapel.” Why does Yale have a chapel in an old library, and have a library in
a cathedral? Buildings at Yale are always on the move. Dwight Hall isn’t vindictive or vengeful. He’s settled into his new self. But his old building leaves behind a vacancy like a gap-toothed smile. An emptiness like the grassy patch beneath a tombstone still stands witness to the space where an innocent building was sacrificed in favor of a donor’s aesthetics. Durfee’s When I was in middle school, my dad finally let us adopt a cat: Marcie. About a week after we got her, Marcie stopped eating. My mom took her to the vet, who saw a “blockage” in Marcie’s stomach, so she probably ate some yarn or a lego or something. During emergency surgery they called my mom: that “blockage” was actually cancer that had already spread throughout Marcie’s entire digestive system. They put Marcie down during surgery. We never got to say goodbye. And we had only had Marcie for a week. That’s how I feel about Durfee’s. His death is not a massive architectural loss, it doesn’t shatter the infrastructure of my life like the death of a parent or a best friend. But it’s a premature loss, an unexpected loss, the first loss I’ve known for myself. We left for the pandemic and when we returned Durfee’s was gone. His familiar body, once warm with chicken tenders and Awake chocolate, now lays lifeless beneath Durfee Hall: closed eyes, closed doors, dark windows. And this year, some weak zombie Durfee’s has emerged as the package center possesses Durfee’s dead body. It’s sad and empty, a box full of boxes. It’s an extension of an Amazon warehouse. The Bow Wow, the implied reincarnation of Durfee’s, is subsumed into the glorious monopolizing belly of the Schwarzman Center. It is glittery and touchscreen-y and inhumanly clean, slippery-modern like a tech company lobby. It’s spectacular, but we still cling to the nostalgia of something quirky and imperfect, carrying on the traditional heartache of Yalies mourning architectural change. Yale gives us the Bow Wow like a parent in the pet shop at midnight hoping to convince their toddler of a goldfish’s immortality, as if death were the inconvenient loss of a replaceable object and not the end of natural life, the final stage in growing-up, the fence between us and eternity. Modernization comes for us all. Contact AMELIA DILWORTH at amelia.dilworth@yale.edu .
Woads Witch Brew Ingredients: Lime jello Vodka or gin Lemon, lime or pineapple juice Lemon soda or ginger ale Instructions: Pour in 2 fl oz of water for every 3/4 oz of green lime jello. Stir until the jello completely dissolves, then add equal part of ginger ale or lime soda, lemon or lime or pineapple juice for flavor. Finally, add half parts of liquor (vodka or gin). Serve chilled or with ice.