It’s time to listen to Kip Clark
He’s been listening to MIT for years; now it’s our turn to listen to him
Imagine this: you’re on your way to your dorm after a long day of classes, swarmed with psets from every class, projects from clubs, and missed messages from friends and family. You wish you could talk to someone, but it feels like no one is there to listen. Your eyes droop a little, but not quite because of a physical kind of tiredness. You feel a tightening in your chest, wondering if this struggle will ever end. Walking in the night, you wonder if this will be the last all-nighter you’ll be pulling this semester, or if there will be more. As you pass the staircase in front of Lobby 7, you see a humongous sign with just two simple words: “Free Listening.”
MIT is a place of relentless motion. Between psets, essays, and late-night study sessions, it’s easy to mistake productivity for purpose. Sometimes, conversations feel like transactions, whether as a part of collaborations built around deadlines or friendships tied to shared workloads. In this kind of environment, connections can feel shallow, and the act of listening without judgment feels almost radical.
That’s exactly what Kip Clark does. Every once in a while, he plants himself by Lobby 7 with that “Free Listening” sign, inviting anyone who passes by to stop and talk. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t offer advice. He just listens.
For some students, he’s become part of MIT’s landscape, like the Great Dome or the Infinite Corridor. People ask, “Ever seen that guy with the ‘Free Listening’ sign?” For others, he’s the first person to hear truths they’ve never said aloud: fears about failure, uncertainty about belonging, the invisible weight of trying to live up to expectations. Kip’s presence reminds people that being heard is not a luxury; it’s a human need.
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It is now Wednesday, Sept.17. Walking down the Infinite, eyes glued on your phone while scrolling your Dormspam feed, you briefly look up, trying not to run into anyone. In the corner of your eye, you see a familiar person on a poster: “He’s been listening to MIT for years; it’s time to listen to him.” Even though you’re drowning in psets, you feel the urge to listen to the guy who listened to you.
At 5:30 p.m., you enter the Number Six Club house, unsure what to expect as you walk up the wooden stairs. On the second floor, a large room filled with fruits, cookies, comfortable sofas, and a single chair at the center of the room warmly welcomes you. People quickly fill up the space, and soon, a familiar face appears, sitting in the center chair.
After a brief aside on the protein content of watermelon and an introduction to those unfortunate enough to not be previously familiar with him, Kip recounts why he does what he does. Born and raised in the Greater Boston area, he recalls what could charitably be called a tense relationship with his parents. Marked by rejection and emotional absence at some critical moments of his adolescence, he felt like he wasn’t being heard. Kip makes a particularly apt metaphor, saying that one can be a great construction worker and make great buildings, but that might not translate into making a good home.
You soon learn that Kip got the idea of “free listening” from a friend named Debbie who did a very similar thing at other locations. In July 2018, he debuted this iconic activity at the School-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named nearby; less than a year later, he made his way down the road to MIT.
At MIT, the very first person to confide in Kip spoke about his sexuality, something that he hadn’t confided to anyone else about. Another spoke to Kip about her suicidal ideation — Kip gratefully recalls that he saw her around campus months later. Others spoke to him about impostor syndrome, parental expectations, the need for a sense of achievement, and many other things that plague our community’s minds, yet don’t get spoken of. Invariably, you feel like you can relate to some of the things that Kip brings up.
One of the things you appreciate is Kip’s emphasis on consent; just as no one forces him to listen, no one forces anyone to speak, to stop, or even to look at Kip while he sits at the stairs to Lobby 7. This is intentional, and it makes sense. The whole point is to emphasize authenticity and a willingness to connect; that authenticity may not hold if the other person spoke from a feeling of requirement.
Soon, the conversation turns back to the MIT community in general. While MIT is generally great and you enjoy your time here, you’ve had this intangible feeling that that doesn’t sit right with you. In his infinite wisdom, Kip puts a good name to what causes this feeling: a culture of transactionality.
In a community that does so many great things, connections are inevitably made with the intention of reaching some sort of economical or logistical goal, rather than for the sake of making genuine connections. This happens often enough that you even recognize the name for it: “networking.” You make friends with someone because they’re part of the executive committee you want to join, or someone introduces themselves to you because they want to join your study group. Here, it can feel like you’re being incentivized to act as if you are going for a high score in a video game, but the truth is, as Kip puts it so succinctly, “Life is not an optimization problem.”
If anything, Kip’s listening is a rejection of this culture. When Kip listens and you speak, no party has any ulterior motives nor secondary goals. Kip listens because he is interested, not because he intends to fix your problems or make any sort of profit from your words; he listens simply to listen. You speak not to attract attention or or to get sympathy; you speak simply to share your thoughts and to make your voice heard, because you are allowed to take up space.
The talk ends, and as you walk out of the Number Six Club, you feel a strange sense of hope. Strange because it has become quite apparent to you that the solution to the world’s problems doesn’t exist, and the fact that such a panacea doesn’t exist should worry you. Yet, you still feel hope, because it is the little things that matter the most: when someone lets you in, or when you let someone in. Collectively, these moments can be far more meaningful and effective in our lives, if we let them.