Friends and faculty, students and staff; trustees; honored guests and devoted alumni; my distinguished predecessors, Peter Salovey, Rick Levin, and — in absentia — the trailblazing Hanna Gray, it is the thrill of a lifetime to stand before you today. And I am grateful for the trust you have bestowed upon me.
Outside of raising two wonderful children alongside my husband Dean, the opportunity to help shape the future of universities has been the most gratifying experience of my life. Leading any university is a rare gift. Leading Yale is an honor without parallel.
Twenty-three leaders before me have been given this privilege.[1] They have served in times of peace and peril, solidarity and strife.
Each has built on Yale’s extraordinary strengths: our storied history and sense of community, our talented staff and world-renowned faculty, our exemplary record of scholarship, our distinguished and generous alumni, and of course, our remarkable student body.
Each has faced challenges — some of which may even sound familiar. One former Yale president, in his own inaugural address, spoke at length about what he termed the “breeze of public criticism… blowing freshly through the halls of ancient learning.” And mind you — this was President Noah Porter, in 1871.[2]
Today, it’s fair to say that breeze feels like a gale-force wind. Universities are grappling with an unprecedented swirl of criticism and calls for change. Trust in institutions is waning.[3] And for many Americans, the shine of higher education has grown dim.[4]
It’s true that each of my predecessors would recognize some of these currents. But as they have experienced, and as the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus observed, no one steps in the same river twice[5] — for neither we nor the river stay the same through the passage of time. So it is that however much our history tends to rhyme, we all know — we all feel — that today, we are in uncharted and choppy waters.
And so, at a time when Yale and her peers are increasingly viewed as irretrievably elite and out of touch[6]…
At a time when national and world events seem to roil us[7]…
At a time when our students and postgraduate scholars face growing challenges, including a crisis of division and loneliness[8] — and our faculty and staff face daunting external pressures…
We are left with a simple, inescapable question: How do we do this work? Not only the work of a university president, but the work we all do at Yale — those in this room, and countless more who are not — to nurture, and steward, and propel this cherished institution into the future.
How do we lead Yale today?
Friends — the answer for me came from my background as a scholar of art and architecture.
I found it in two buildings that could not be more different from one another. The first — a humble vernacular schoolhouse in Frostproof, Florida. The second — a soaring Gothic cathedral in Paris, France.
When Claudia and Christopher Hobbs settled down in central Florida, Frostproof was only one generation removed from being an uninhabited swampland — a place that only alligators, snakes, panthers, and wild hogs called home. The wood-frame schoolhouse they opened in 1905 was the town’s first public building, timbered among the modest houses local citrus growers had begun to construct.[9] A humble addition — but one that transformed the village from a wilderness that cultivated briars and fruit to a community that cultivated minds.
Inside that little schoolhouse, Claudia and Christopher, my great-grandparents, delivered humanity’s defining gift — the most enduring of all — the gift of education.
That gift is the same one that teachers bestow in every hometown in America. The same one my grandfather gave as a high school math teacher in Florida. The same one my parents, Malcolm and Jackie, who are with us today, gave as professors in Tennessee.
That gift is not a birthright belonging to the affluent or influential few. It is not a delicacy doled out merely in grand and gothic halls.
It belongs in equal measure to the children of the swamplands. The children of the heartland. The children of all those places where the ivy doesn’t grow.
It belongs to all the children turned away from the schoolhouse door. To those who wonder, and dare to dream of futures reaching far beyond the places they have known.
I count myself among the vast majority of Americans who never imagined they would find themselves at Yale. Not as a student — let alone as president.
Growing up in Knoxville, Tennessee — and born before Yale accepted women as undergraduates[10] — I never considered that Yale might be a place for someone like me. But I arrived here nonetheless, 35 years ago, to pursue my PhD.
I found a second home in New Haven — though I didn’t spend much time in my small apartment on Chapel Street. Like so many students at Yale, I was busy. Teaching classes at the art gallery. Working out at Payne Whitney every morning and arguing with friends over which pizza place was really the best. Spending late nights at Sterling… or Toads. And here, in this schoolhouse, I found the gift of education that has fueled and graced my life.
Sometimes I think back to those very first moments when I arrived at Yale, when I felt like I didn’t belong. Even today — it is hard to ignore the important ways in which I differ from so many of my predecessors: From my field of study… to my public university leadership… to… let’s just say, the length of my hair.
I think about all those things that might have kept me distant. But what I keep coming back to is the closeness I feel with this place.
At every turn, Yale has embraced me. As a student. An alumna. A member of the board of trustees. And now, as president.
At every turn, Yale has taught me the same lesson my great-grandparents knew. The same thing those children in Frostproof knew. The same thing I hope that every Yale student — and every potential Yale student — comes to know, and comes to feel.
That the schoolhouse belongs to all of us — and in the schoolhouse, we all belong. No matter who you are, where you come from, or what you believe — inside these four walls, you have a place. To question. To explore. To exchange ideas freely. That is the design and the promise of each and every schoolhouse, wherever it may stand.
Now, you’ll remember I said I found my answer in two buildings. The other is a bit more well-known than my great-grandparents’ schoolhouse.
When Notre-Dame de Paris was built in the 12th century, it was not the first church to sit in the middle of the Seine. But it differed from its predecessors in important ways. Chief among them: It brought in more light. With its pointed arches, flying buttresses, and stunning stained-glass windows, Notre-Dame was a marvel of modern technology and architecture.[11]
Yet, while it was built to last, it was never intended to stay the same. The iconic Yale professor, Vincent Scully — whom I had the opportunity to teach for as a graduate student — addressed this point. He wrote that the cathedrals of medieval France were “always exceeding the intentions of their makers… changing over time as those who perceive them change.”[12]
And Notre-Dame did change over time. Fortified buttresses in the 14th century.[13] A new spire in the 19th.[14] As well as numerous other touches and additions throughout the ages.
The cathedral we know today speaks to different eras and styles, precisely because it has survived them all. The Black Death. The French Revolution. World wars. Cultural upheavals. Through it all, Notre-Dame evolved and endured. Not unscathed, but undefeated. Not unchanged, but unmoved. Stronger for its scars — and more sacred for all it had weathered.
In 2019, it faced perhaps its greatest test: a horrific fire that left the world in shock. Many believed that, while we’d always have Paris, Paris would never quite be the same. And yet, just a few months ago, after five years of restoration, the cathedral reopened.
But like preceding generations, France didn’t just rebuild. They “exceeded the intentions” of the cathedral’s architects by making it better equipped to withstand future threats. In removing soot from the fire, they also cleaned up centuries of dirt and dust that had dimmed the church’s interior.[15]
They brightened the cathedral and let a little more light shine in. A little lux to help illuminate the veritas within and reveal its beauty even more clearly than before.
The restoration effort inspired the world and echoed the words of Victor Hugo’s celebrated novel The Hunchback of Notre-Dame: “The greatest products of architecture are less the works of individuals than of society.”[16]
So, too, are the greatest universities.
The Gothic style of Notre-Dame is familiar to all of us here at Yale. It echoes across campus. Our Sterling Memorial Library is often referred to as the “cathedral of learning,” replete with sculptural embellishments that transport us through the centuries. When architect and Yale alumnus James Gamble Rogers was asked why he chose to design Sterling this way, he said it was built to endure.[17]
That is precisely what Yale has done throughout our history: We have endured.
Together with our home city of New Haven, we have weathered the storms of every moment — the ‘breeze of public criticism,’ and the winds of change.
We have learned to acknowledge the weak points in our foundation, and have become stronger for that knowledge.
We have permitted ourselves to let more light shine in — to be fortified by new ideas, and new people.
We have, with each generation, picked up the chisel and left our own mark on the university we love.
And by so doing, we have served as a model for the country and the world. The first university in the nation to teach science.[18] The first to build an art museum — and a school of fine arts.[19] The first to print a daily student newspaper.[20] The first to award PhDs.[21] The first to play baseball, to say nothing of inventing football[22] — and yes, we are still holding off Alabama for the most national championships in football.[23] Along with too many other milestones to mention.
We can be proud that when our students leave campus, they take Yale’s spirit of perseverance and progress with them. Artists and actors who light up the world with their talent…journalists who pursue the truth and hold power to account…scientists and engineers who shape our understanding of the world around us…entrepreneurs who change the landscape of our economy with a single idea…educators who share the gift of knowledge with communities around the globe.[24] This was where they learned to listen, where their curiosity grew and their imagination blossomed.
And the world has taken notice. Yalies are routinely showered with awards and recognition. Our arts departments’ best friends are named Oscar, Tony, and Emmy.[25] Nobel prizes and Pulitzers, in everything from biochemistry and medicine[26] to economics,[27] history,[28] and theater,[29] line the mantels of our faculty’s homes.
Across the generations, we have enlightened. We have inspired. And, time and again, we have been both challenged and refreshed by change.
And so, I return to the question I asked of myself — the question I asked of all of us: how do we lead Yale into the future? With the headwinds we face today — how do we move forward?
We do it by reminding ourselves of a simple truth about this place that we love. We do it by remembering that Yale is both the schoolhouse… and the cathedral. A universal house of knowledge… and a singular work of art, one that grows stronger, shines brighter, and reaches ever more dizzying heights with every challenge it overcomes. It is a place that can belong to anyone… and a place that is bigger than us all. It is sacred. It is mundane. And it endures — as the finest institution of higher learning in the world.
Our campus stands as testimony to the truth — that higher education is the work not of individuals, but of society. The transformative power of Yale remains profound. The good we can do in the world remains astonishing. And the fact that we face uncertainty — well, that has never stopped us before.
The truth is, Yale has always risen to its biggest challenges in the toughest times. It was during the height of World War II that Yale researchers pioneered the use of chemotherapy[30] and the delivery of penicillin.[31] It was in the aftermath of the devastating conflict in Vietnam that a Yale undergraduate came up with a design for a memorial that captured the wounds of war and helped heal a nation.[32]
In a world of volatility and variables, Yale’s excellence remains a constant. Whatever hazards come to mark the path — be it crashing markets or spreading pandemics — we keep striving.
We keep reading and writing and learning. We keep researching, discovering, and preserving. We keep inventing and innovating. We keep advancing new technologies to make our community healthier, our country more competitive, and our world more sustainable. In short, we keep moving humanity forward.
There’s a reason the New York Times called us a “home to tinkerers and rebels.”[33] We don’t sit still. We don’t sit back. We are a university in motion, always seeking out the next frontier. It’s why New Haven has become a global hub of biotechnology and innovation. It’s why Yale engineers are leading the way in the emerging field of quantum computing. It’s why Yale scientists are pioneering life-saving research to help end the scourge of cancer, heart failure, and other devastating diseases.
Each time our mettle is tested, Yale answers the call. Not by yielding to the winds of change… but by leading change ourselves. Not by cloistering ourselves in our cathedral… but by engaging with the world as it is. Not by straying from our mission, but by strengthening it to meet every moment we face.
This work isn’t easy. Change rarely is. After all, it takes strong hands to cut through stone, and strong minds to shape it into something worthwhile. But sometimes change is essential. And I believe that in this moment, Yale will once again rise to improve ourselves, our community, and our world.
That work begins today. And it is the responsibility — and the privilege — of each of us to pick up the chisel once more. Let us once again lead change instead of letting change happen. Let us recommit to our work. Excellence in teaching and research. The open exchange of ideas. The discovery, dissemination, and preservation of knowledge.
As we marvel at this glorious campus we get to call home, we must ask ourselves how can we make it even better. How can we strengthen the foundation? What cracks can we fill? And most importantly, what can we build next? How can we emerge from this age of challenge and upheaval to create something even more beautiful and enduring? How can we let in a little more light?
At the heart of our effort is our commitment to free expression — first codified fifty years ago in the landmark Woodward Report.[34] Today, we must hold fast to that promise. Ensuring that Yale is not an ivory echo chamber, but a place where curiosity is fostered, and where people and ideas alike are free to flourish.
I am here — we are all here — because the work must continue. Because the mission of the schoolhouse goes on forever. And because no great cathedral is ever truly finished.
And look, I know that some of the challenges confronting us feel daunting. But we do have control over what we build today — and that, in turn, allows us to shape the future we wish to see.
Today and in the years ahead, I will work with you to shape Yale’s future. That’s why I’ve already engaged thousands in the Yale community in conversations about what that future should look like: Enhancing and expanding educational opportunities for our students. Maintaining Yale’s status as a destination university for the world’s foremost scholars and teachers. Building and strengthening our international partnerships. Setting — and meeting — ever higher expectations in our pursuit of academic excellence, and increasing the collaboration and impact of our faculty’s research and scholarship.
The contributions we make will enrich and extend even more lives in our community, our country, and all over the world. The scholarship we produce will push the boundaries of human understanding and progress.
With an open mind and a compassionate heart, we will listen to each other and welcome diverse viewpoints, including those that may be unpopular. We will ask questions and exchange ideas. We will summon the humility to recognize where we’ve fallen short — and find new ways to learn, and grow, and do better.
Together, we will help rebuild trust in higher education and champion its transformative role in society. Hand in hand with the city of New Haven, we will create a vibrant, thriving community where our mission — our purpose — is renewed with each new member we welcome, each discovery made and idea exchanged, each new graduate who carries Lux et Veritas into the world.
I look forward to the work ahead because I love Yale, both for its simplicities and its complexities. The common gift of knowledge that belongs to all of us. And the uncommon possibilities that are made possible on this hallowed ground.
Most of all, I believe firmly that Yale’s future is even brighter than our past. Because woven in the briar before us, I see extraordinary opportunities that fill me with optimism and hope. To cultivate minds. To endure and to thrive. To build something beautiful together.
Thank you for the honor of building that future alongside you.