Why 12 more names were added to the Central Library atrium
You'll notice a dozen new names on the walls the next time you step into the Central Library's atrium.
Why it matters: The 12 influential authors memorialized in the downtown library represent the next step in an initiative to shine a light on the literary contributions of marginalized creators.
Driving the news: The second phase of the Central Authors Project finished late last month with a renovation of the glass-enclosed public space.
Prior to the project's launch, the Central Library walls housed the names of 83 esteemed figures throughout history, with the first names engraved in 1917 and additions made in 2007.
Yes, but: Just five of the people included were women, and none were people of color.
Flashback: Planning for the Central Authors Project began in 2021 when Indianapolis native and longtime library patron Michael Twyman encouraged the IndyPL to make the lineup more inclusive and provided funding to make it happen.
Phase one added the names of 10 Black American authors to the library walls in spring 2022.
What they're saying: "Public libraries have the power to shape our community's cultural and intellectual life by curating, sharing and telling stories," Twyman said in a statement. "I am so proud to have been part of this historic project to increase the diversity of authors represented in Central Library's architecture."
How it works: Authors were nominated by library visitors and the Indianapolis community at large.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Hamilton Spectator
2 days ago
- Hamilton Spectator
Meet the men who just became Catholic priests in Virginia
ARLINGTON, Va. (AP) — At a time when the U.S. Catholic Church is grappling with a severe shortage of priests, the Diocese of Arlington, Virginia, recently ordained 12 new priests — its second-largest class ever — in a joyful Mass at its cathedral. Ahead of the ceremony, The Associated Press spent time with the men , who explained what drove them to choose a life of celibacy, obedience and devotion. Here are four of their stories. A rare kind of leader As a teenager active in youth ministry, the Rev. Ricky Malebranche was often encouraged by adults to consider the priesthood. He assumed it was just what Catholics told religious, young men. At the end of college, he thought seriously about seminary. But it would take another nine years, he said, before God told him: 'I want you to be my priest.' By then, he had built a career as a high school counselor and coach. He owned a home and hoped to one day marry and have children. 'Oh no, you missed your chance, Jesus,' he thought. After he finally decided to apply to seminary, he felt a profound sense of peace. He later enrolled at Mount St. Mary's, a Catholic institution in western Maryland where the diocese sends some of its seminarians. The son of Haitian immigrants, Malebranche now joins a small group of Black American priests. Though rich in tradition , Black Catholics make up 5% of the U.S. church, and account for less than 1% of U.S. priests. 'I am very cognizant of it every time I do anything in ministry, that I represent a larger group than just me,' Malebranche said. 'I have this desire to not let them down,' he said. 'I want to be able to bring pride to a people who don't always see themselves represented.' A military chaplain Before he ever considered ordination, the Rev. Mike Sampson, without conscious thought, made the sign of the cross — a decidedly Catholic ritual. 'I looked up and laughed,' he recalled. Though raised Protestant, he took the moment as a prompt from God to explore Catholicism. The California native practiced law while volunteering at his local parish in Arlington, Virginia. Six years after his conversion, he enrolled in seminary to become a priest. 'Very proud,' is how his mother, Diane Sampson, described feeling after her son's recent ordination. His call to the priesthood was initially difficult for the Protestant family. 'One of the things that I think even most Catholics are challenged by is the idea of celibacy and not getting married and not having kids and the family name not carrying on,' the Rev. Sampson said. In three years, he will begin a five-year stint as a military chaplain with the U.S. Navy . Fellow seminarians describe Sampson as a mentor. They say he is well-suited to the discipline of military life, despite not serving in the armed forces before seminary, when he was commissioned as a lieutenant. For now, he will serve at a parish close to the office complex where he once worked, and where he occasionally went to noon Mass. He is 'coming back,' he said, 'but in a very different way.' A Peruvian connection Pope Leo XIV , the first U.S.-born pontiff, spent decades in Peru . In his first public appearance as pope, he addressed his former diocese in Spanish. 'I frankly couldn't believe it,' said the Rev. Alfredo Tuesta. 'He greeted us in our language. It was just beautiful.' Born in Lima, Peru, Tuesta immigrated to the U.S. at age 10. His family settled in Paterson, New Jersey, a hub for the Peruvian diaspora. He attended Don Bosco, a nearby Catholic prep school. He was drawn to the priesthood from an early age, but as the firstborn son of immigrants, he felt he should support his family instead. 'Financially, we come from a very modest and humble background,' he said. 'And so, you want to make it. You want to provide.' It was only after he earned a doctorate in mechanical engineering and was living in northern Virginia that he rediscovered his calling. By then, both of his parents had died. He has since heard from his mother's friends that she thought he might become a priest. His ordination drew loved ones from all over the world to celebrate. The self-described introvert was hesitant to be the center of attention. 'We're not really there to celebrate me and my priesthood because it really isn't mine,' he said, noting it's shared among his brother priests and community. 'What we're really celebrating is everyone there — everyone who contributed to my discernment, to my vocation, to my faith, to my upbringing.' An adventurous life The Rev. Tim Banach is a thrill-seeker who enjoys the outdoors. With other seminarians and priests, he has hiked many mountain ranges and camped in the Badlands. The priestly life strikes him as an adventure too, where no day is the same. From weddings to funerals, priests serve thousands of people on their best and worst days. 'There are just these moments you get to share that can be overwhelming,' he said. 'But we're very privileged as well.' A native of Corning, New York, Banach first considered the priesthood while an engineering student at the University of Virginia. After graduation, he lived 'a pretty normal life,' he said, working at a consulting job and going on some dates. 'But that question never really went away.' The diocese eventually sent him to St. Charles Borromeo , a seminary near Philadelphia. He graduated in May. 'When I joined the seminary and met the kind of men that I could be serving alongside for the rest of my life, I was even more encouraged,' he said. 'Because they're exactly the type of guys that I want to be my brothers.' ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content. Error! Sorry, there was an error processing your request. There was a problem with the recaptcha. Please try again. You may unsubscribe at any time. By signing up, you agree to our terms of use and privacy policy . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google privacy policy and terms of service apply. Want more of the latest from us? Sign up for more at our newsletter page .
San Francisco Chronicle
2 days ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Meet the men who just became Catholic priests in Virginia
ARLINGTON, Va. (AP) — At a time when the U.S. Catholic Church is grappling with a severe shortage of priests, the Diocese of Arlington, Virginia, recently ordained 12 new priests — its second-largest class ever — in a joyful Mass at its cathedral. Ahead of the ceremony, The Associated Press spent time with the men, who explained what drove them to choose a life of celibacy, obedience and devotion. A rare kind of leader As a teenager active in youth ministry, the Rev. Ricky Malebranche was often encouraged by adults to consider the priesthood. He assumed it was just what Catholics told religious, young men. At the end of college, he thought seriously about seminary. But it would take another nine years, he said, before God told him: 'I want you to be my priest.' By then, he had built a career as a high school counselor and coach. He owned a home and hoped to one day marry and have children. 'Oh no, you missed your chance, Jesus,' he thought. After he finally decided to apply to seminary, he felt a profound sense of peace. He later enrolled at Mount St. Mary's, a Catholic institution in western Maryland where the diocese sends some of its seminarians. The son of Haitian immigrants, Malebranche now joins a small group of Black American priests. Though rich in tradition, Black Catholics make up 5% of the U.S. church, and account for less than 1% of U.S. priests. 'I am very cognizant of it every time I do anything in ministry, that I represent a larger group than just me,' Malebranche said. 'I have this desire to not let them down,' he said. 'I want to be able to bring pride to a people who don't always see themselves represented.' A military chaplain Before he ever considered ordination, the Rev. Mike Sampson, without conscious thought, made the sign of the cross — a decidedly Catholic ritual. 'I looked up and laughed,' he recalled. Though raised Protestant, he took the moment as a prompt from God to explore Catholicism. The California native practiced law while volunteering at his local parish in Arlington, Virginia. Six years after his conversion, he enrolled in seminary to become a priest. 'Very proud,' is how his mother, Diane Sampson, described feeling after her son's recent ordination. His call to the priesthood was initially difficult for the Protestant family. 'One of the things that I think even most Catholics are challenged by is the idea of celibacy and not getting married and not having kids and the family name not carrying on," the Rev. Sampson said. In three years, he will begin a five-year stint as a military chaplain with the U.S. Navy. Fellow seminarians describe Sampson as a mentor. They say he is well-suited to the discipline of military life, despite not serving in the armed forces before seminary, when he was commissioned as a lieutenant. For now, he will serve at a parish close to the office complex where he once worked, and where he occasionally went to noon Mass. He is 'coming back,' he said, 'but in a very different way.' A Peruvian connection Pope Leo XIV, the first U.S.-born pontiff, spent decades in Peru. In his first public appearance as pope, he addressed his former diocese in Spanish. 'I frankly couldn't believe it,' said the Rev. Alfredo Tuesta. 'He greeted us in our language. It was just beautiful.' Born in Lima, Peru, Tuesta immigrated to the U.S. at age 10. His family settled in Paterson, New Jersey, a hub for the Peruvian diaspora. He attended Don Bosco, a nearby Catholic prep school. He was drawn to the priesthood from an early age, but as the firstborn son of immigrants, he felt he should support his family instead. 'Financially, we come from a very modest and humble background,' he said. 'And so, you want to make it. You want to provide.' It was only after he earned a doctorate in mechanical engineering and was living in northern Virginia that he rediscovered his calling. By then, both of his parents had died. He has since heard from his mother's friends that she thought he might become a priest. His ordination drew loved ones from all over the world to celebrate. The self-described introvert was hesitant to be the center of attention. 'We're not really there to celebrate me and my priesthood because it really isn't mine,' he said, noting it's shared among his brother priests and community. 'What we're really celebrating is everyone there — everyone who contributed to my discernment, to my vocation, to my faith, to my upbringing.' An adventurous life The Rev. Tim Banach is a thrill-seeker who enjoys the outdoors. With other seminarians and priests, he has hiked many mountain ranges and camped in the Badlands. The priestly life strikes him as an adventure too, where no day is the same. From weddings to funerals, priests serve thousands of people on their best and worst days. 'There are just these moments you get to share that can be overwhelming,' he said. 'But we're very privileged as well.' A native of Corning, New York, Banach first considered the priesthood while an engineering student at the University of Virginia. After graduation, he lived 'a pretty normal life,' he said, working at a consulting job and going on some dates. 'But that question never really went away.' The diocese eventually sent him to St. Charles Borromeo, a seminary near Philadelphia. He graduated in May. 'When I joined the seminary and met the kind of men that I could be serving alongside for the rest of my life, I was even more encouraged,' he said. 'Because they're exactly the type of guys that I want to be my brothers.' ___
Yahoo
21-06-2025
- Yahoo
Parties and proclamations: Juneteenth across the diaspora
Hello and welcome to The Long Wave. I'm Adria R Walker, a Mississippi-based race and equity reporter for the Guardian US, and I'm excited to be taking over this week. I've been working on a story about the ways Black American communities have celebrated – in many cases, for centuries – the formal end of slavery, which is variously called Emancipation Day, Freedom Day, Jubilee Day and, perhaps most famously, Juneteenth. My article will be published on 19 June, Juneteenth, a federal holiday that was enshrined into law four years ago. In doing this reporting, I've learned a lot about the holiday that I grew up celebrating. For this week's edition of the newsletter, I'll guide you through what Emancipation Day can look like in the US and its legacy. In 1863, President Abraham Lincoln signed the emancipation proclamation, which abolished slavery in the states that had seceded during the civil war, though slavery was abolished nationwide when the 13th amendment was ratified on 6 December 1865. News of the proclamation spread varyingly. Some southern enslavers attempted to outrun the order and the Union soldiers who brought news of it, moving the people they had enslaved farther and farther west until the army caught up with them. In Galveston, Texas, it was not until 19 June 1865 that people who were enslaved found out about the declaration. News of that freedom was enshrined in Juneteenth, celebrated annually by Galvestonians and nearby Houstonians. While Juneteenth has become the most famous emancipation celebration, it is far from the only one. I had the idea for the story a couple of years ago, on 8 May 2023, when I became curious about how communities across the south celebrated emancipation historically and in the present day. On that day, the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum, one of the Two Mississippi Museums in Jackson, my home town, had shared a newspaper clipping on Instagram about a historic Emancipation Day celebration on 8 May. The 8 May celebrations, which are still observed by the Mississippi School of Mathematics and Science and the local community, began in 1865, when Union soldiers arrived in Columbus to inform the enslaved people that they were free. Elsewhere, 8 August commemmorates the day the former president Andrew Johnson manumitted (freed) the people he had enslaved – the emancipation proclamation had not applied to Tennessee or West Virginia. William Isom, the director of Black in Appalachia, tells me that Samuel Johnson, a formerly enslaved person, is credited with the spread of 8 August celebrations. In Florida, the day is celebrated on 20 May, honouring that date in 1865 when Union troops read and enforced the emancipation proclamation at the end of the civil war. In Gallia County, Ohio, they have marked 22 September 1862, the day on which Lincoln drafted the emancipation proclamationsince 1863 – making it one of the longest-running emancipation celebrations in the country, Isom says. Some communities have celebrated 1 January since 1863, when Lincoln signed the proclamation, while others celebrate 31 December, or Watch Night, when enslaved and freed Black Americans gathered to hear news of the emancipation proclamation. Watch Night is still observed in Black communities across the south, including in the Carolinas, where Gullah Geechee people observe Freedom's Eve, and elsewhere. As a child, I attended Watch Night services at church in Mississippi, though I didn't appreciate the significance at the time. Whenever and wherever slavery was abolished, formerly enslaved people observed and celebrated the day – this is consistent across the African diaspora. I knew about Emancipation Day festivities in the Caribbean and in Canada, for example, though they are different from those in the US, but I didn't know such celebrations extended to the northern US. In Massachusetts, Emancipation Day, also known as Quock Walker Day, is on 8 July. Quock Walker, born in 1753, sued for and won his freedom in 1781. His case is considered to have helped abolish slavery in Massachusetts. In New York State, the Fifth of July was first celebrated in 1827, an event first held the day after full emancipation was achieved there. After the British empire ended slavery in 1838, many areas in the north began to observe 1 August. In Washington DC, on 16 April, people commemorate the anniversary of the 1862 signing of the District of Columbia Compensated Emancipation Act, which abolished slavery and freed about 3,000 people in the capital. Under the act, former enslavers were compensated for the people they had enslaved, a common practice during efforts to end slavery around the world. However, the people who had been enslaved did not receive compensation. I vaguely remember attending my first Juneteenth celebration as a little girl. Farish Street, a historic Black district in Jackson, was abuzz with people. Despite it being the middle of summer in Mississippi, the heat didn't stop folks from coming out to eat, dance and socialise. The state is relatively close to Texas – it is about a six-hour drive from Jackson to Houston – so we have quite a bit of cultural overlap. It made sense that we would share holidays. Like many other cultural traditions, Juneteenth spread across the country with the arrival of southern people during the great migration. In the decades since, Juneteenth has been catapulted from a local or regional event to a national and international one – last year, for example, I was invited to attend a Juneteenth event in Toronto, Canada. Other emancipation commemorations travelled, too. The 8 August celebrations, for example, moved throughout Appalachia, through coal country and into urban metropolises such as Chicago, Indianapolis and Detroit. Historically, the holiday included celebratory aspects – eating traditional foods, hosting libations, singing, dancing and playing baseball – but also a tangible push for change. Celebrants would gather to find family members from whom they had been separated during slavery, attend lectures and advocate for education, and practise harnessing their political power – something that was particularly relevant in the reconstruction days. For Isom, Juneteenth can become a day that the entire country comes together to celebrate freedom, while communities' specific emancipation celebrations can be hyper-local and hyper-specific. 'Even in [places] where there's not necessarily many Black folks at all, they're having the Juneteenth events,' he says. 'And so the local celebrations – like for here, 8 August or 22 September – that's where I feel like communities can showcase and celebrate their own cultures and traditions around Emancipation Day. We need both.' To receive the complete version of The Long Wave in your inbox every Wednesday, please subscribe here.
