Clara Brenner, MBA ’12, arrived in Cambridge on the lookout for a business partner. She wanted to start her own ­company—and never have to deal with a boss again. She would go it alone if she had to, but she hoped to find someone whose skills would complement her own.

It’s a common MBA tale. Many people attend business school with hopes of finding the one. Building that relationship is so important to a company’s foundation that it’s been described in romantic terms: Networking is akin to dating around, and some view settling down with a business partner as a marriage of sorts.

Brenner didn’t have to look for long. She met her match—Julie Lein, MBA ’12—soon after arriving at Sloan more than a decade ago. But their first encounter wasn’t exactly auspicious. In fact, their relationship began with an expletive.

Lein was sitting at a card table in a hallway in E52, glumly selling tickets to a fashion show featuring work-­appropriate clothes for women—at that time, the marquee event for Sloan’s Women in Management Club, and one that both Lein and Brenner thought was patently absurd. 

Lein had no interest in attending, but she wanted to support the club’s mission of boosting women in business. “She looked very miserable,” says Brenner. Lein asked if she wanted to buy a ticket, Brenner recalls, and “I think I said, ‘F*** no.’” 

“We both bonded over the fact that this was such a stupid idea,” says Lein. (The fashion show has since been retired, in part thanks to Lein and Brenner’s lobbying.)                             

Today, the two run the Urban Innovation Fund, a San Francisco–based venture capital firm that has raised $212 million since 2016 and invested in 64 startups addressing the most pressing problems facing cities. It has supported businesses like Electriphi, a provider of EV charging and fleet management software, which was acquired by one of the biggest names in the auto industry. And it funds companies focused on helping kids learn to code, providing virtual tutoring services, offering financing for affordable housing, and more. The companies in its portfolio have a total value of $5.3 billion, and at least eight have been acquired thus far.                             

Though Brenner and Lein hit it off quickly, they weren’t an obvious fit as business partners. Brenner arrived at Sloan after weathering an early career in commercial real estate just after the 2008 financial crash. She hoped to start her own company in that industry. Lein, on the other hand, had worked in political polling and consulting. She initially planned to get an advanced policy degree, until a mentor suggested an MBA. She hoped to start her own political polling firm after graduation. 

Ultimately, though, their instant kinship became more important than their subject matter expertise. Brenner, says Lein, is “methodical” and organized, while she “just goes and executes” without overthinking. Their relationship—in business, and still as close friends—is rooted in trust and a commitment to realizing the vision they’ve created together.

“We were able to see that … our skills and style were very complementary, and we just were able to do things better and faster together,” says Brenner. 

In 2012, the two teamed up to run Sloan’s second Women in Management Conference, which they had helped found the year before. It was then, they say, that they knew they would work together after graduation. 

Still, they had trouble agreeing on the type of venture that made the most sense. Their initial talks involved a tug-of-war over whose area of expertise would win—real estate or policy. 

But in the summer of 2011, they’d both happened to land internships at companies focused on challenges in cities—companies that would now be called “urban-tech startups,” says Brenner, though that term was not used at the time. The overlap was fortuitous: When they compared notes, they agreed that it made sense to investigate the potential for companies in that emerging space. Lyft was just getting its start, as was Airbnb. After exploring the idea further, the two concluded there was some “there” there.

“We felt like all these companies had a lot in common,” says Brenner. “They were solving very interesting community challenges in cities, but in a very scalable, nontraditional way.” They were also working in highly regulated areas that VC firms were often hesitant to touch, even though these companies were attracting significant attention. 

To Brenner and Lein, some of that attention was the wrong kind; companies like Uber were making what they saw as obvious missteps that were landing in the news. “No one was helping [these companies] with, like, ‘You should hire a lobbyist’ or ‘You should have a policy team,’” says Brenner.

The two saw an opportunity to fund businesses that could make a measurable positive impact on urban life—and to help them navigate regulatory and policy environments as they grew from startups to huge companies. 

Upon graduating in 2012, they launched Tumml, an accelerator program for such startups. The name was drawn from the Yiddish word tummler, often used by Brenner’s grandmother to describe someone who inspires others to action. 

At the time, Brenner says, “world-­positive investing” was “not cool at all” among funders because it was perceived as yielding lower returns, even though growing numbers of tech companies were touting their efforts to improve society. In another unusual move, the partners structured their startup accelerator as a nonprofit evergreen fund, allowing them to invest in companies continuously without setting a fixed end date. By the end of their third year, they were supporting 38 startups. 

Tumml found success by offering money, mentorship, and guidance, but the pair realized that relying solely on fickle philanthropic funding meant the model had a ceiling. To expand their work, they retired Tumml and launched the Urban Innovation Fund in 2016 with $24.5 million in initial investments. While Tumml had offered relatively small checks and support to companies at the earliest stages, UIF would allow Brenner and Lein to supercharge their funding and involvement. 

Their focus has remained on startups tackling urban problems in areas such as public health, education, and transportation. The types of companies they look for are those that drive economic vitality in cities, make urban areas more livable, or make cities more sustainable. As Tumml did, UIF provides not just funding but also consistent support in navigating regulatory challenges.

“It’s a very, very small subset of companies that can both work on a problem that, at least in our minds, really matters and be an enormous business.”

And, like Tumml, UIF has taken on industries or companies that other investors may see as risky. When it was raising its first fund, Lein remembers, they pitched a large institution on its vision, which includes investing in companies that work on climate and energy. The organization, burned by the money it lost when the first cleantech bubble burst, was extremely wary—it wasn’t interested in a fund that emphasized those areas. But Lein and Brenner pressed on. Today, climate tech remains one of the fund’s largest areas, accounting for more than a sixth of its portfolio of 64 companies (see “Urban innovation in action,” at right). In addition to Electriphi, they have invested in Public Grid, a company that gives households access to affordable clean energy, and Optiwatt, an app that helps EV drivers schedule charging at times of day when it is cheaper or cleaner.                             

“They took risks in areas, [including] mobility and transportation, where other people might not play because of policy and regulation risk. And they were willing to think about the public-private partnerships and what might be needed,” says Rachel Sheinbein, MBA ’04, SM ’04, a Bay Area–based angel investor who has worked with the Urban Innovation Fund on investments. “They weren’t afraid to take that on.”

Lein and Brenner have also invested in health companies like Cleancard, which is working to provide at-home testing for cancers, and startups creating workflow tools, like KarmaSuite, which has built software to help nonprofits track grants. 

Meanwhile, they have cast a wide net and built a portfolio rich in companies that happen to be led by entrepreneurs from underrepresented groups: Three-quarters of the companies in UIF’s current portfolio were founded by women or people of color, and nearly 60% include an immigrant on their founding team.  

When it comes to selecting companies, Brenner says, they make “very calculated decisions” based in part on regulatory factors that may affect profits. But they’re still looking for the huge returns that drive other investors. 

“It’s a very, very small subset of companies that can both work on a problem that, at least in our minds, really matters and be an enormous business,” she says. “Those are really the companies that we’re looking for.”

One of the most obvious examples of that winning combination is Electriphi. When Brenner and Lein invested in the company, in 2019, the Biden administration hadn’t mandated the electrification of federal auto fleets, and the Inflation Reduction Act, which included financial incentives for clean energy, hadn’t yet been drafted. And California had yet to announce its intention to completely phase out gas-powered cars. “It was not a hot space,” says Brenner.

But after meeting with Electriphi’s team, both Brenner and Lein felt there was something there. The partners tracked the startup for months, saw it achieving its goals, and ended up offering it the largest investment, by several orders of magnitude, that their fund had ever made. Less than two years later, Ford acquired it for an undisclosed sum. 

“When we were originally talking about Electriphi, a lot of people were like, ‘Eh, it’s going to take too long for fleets to transition, and we don’t want to make a bet at this time,’” Sheinbein recalls. But she says the partners at Urban Innovation Fund were willing to take on an investment that other people were “still a little bit hesitant” about. Sheinbein also invested in the startup. 

GABRIELA HASBUN

Impact investing has now taken root in the building where Lein and Brenner first met. What was once an often overlooked investing area, says Bill Aulet, SM ’94, managing director of the Martin Trust Center for MIT Entrepreneurship, is now a core element of how Sloan teaches entrepreneurship.

Aulet sees Urban Innovation Fund’s social-enterprise investing strategy as very viable in the current market. “Will it outperform cryptocurrency? Not right now,” he says, but he adds that many people want to put their money toward companies with the potential to improve the world. 

Lein, who worked as Aulet’s teaching assistant at Sloan for a class now known as Entrepreneurship 101, helped establish the mold at Sloan for a social-impact entrepreneur—that is, someone who sees doing good as a critical objective, not just a marketing strategy.

“Entrepreneurs don’t just have to found startups,” says Aulet. “You can also be what we call an entrepreneurship amplifier,” which he defines as “someone who helps entrepreneurship thrive.”

When they make investments, VCs tend to prioritize such things as the need for a company’s products and the size of its potential market. Brenner and Lein say they pay the most attention to the team when deciding whether to make a bet: Do they work together well? Are they obsessive about accomplishing their goals? Those who have watched UIF grow say Brenner and Lein’s partnership fits that profile itself. 

“I can just tell when a team really respects each other and [each] sees the value in the other one’s brain,” says Sheinbein. For Lein and Brenner, she says, their “mutual respect and admiration for each other” is obvious. 

“We went to Sloan, we spent a bunch of money, but we found each other,” says Lein. 

“We couldn’t agree on a new urban-tech startup to start,” she adds, so instead, they built an ecosystem of them—all in the name of improving cities for the people who live there. 

When the prison doors first closed behind him more than 50 years ago, Lee Perlman, PhD ’89, felt decidedly unsettled.  

In his first job out of college, as a researcher for a consulting company working on a project for the US Federal Bureau of Prisons, he had been tasked with interviewing incarcerated participants in a drug rehab program. Once locked inside, he found himself alone in a room with a convicted criminal. “I didn’t know whether I should be scared,” he recalls. 

Since then, he has spent countless hours in such environments in his role as a teacher of philosophy. He’s had “very, very few experiences” where he felt unsafe in prisons over the years, he says. “But that first time you go in, you do feel unsafe. I think that’s what you should feel. That teaches you something about what it feels like for anybody going into prison.”

As a lecturer in MIT’s Experimental Study Group (ESG) for more than 40 years, Perlman has guided numerous MIT students through their own versions of that passage through prison doors. He first began teaching in prisons in the 1980s, when he got the idea of bringing his ESG students studying nonviolence into the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Norfolk to talk with men serving life sentences. The experience was so compelling that Perlman kept going back, and since the early 2000s he has been offering full courses behind bars. 

In 2018, Perlman formalized these efforts by cofounding the Educational Justice Institute (TEJI) at MIT with Carole Cafferty, a former corrections professional. Conceived both to provide college-level education with technology access to incarcerated individuals and to foster empathy and offer a window into the criminal justice system for MIT students, TEJI creates opportunities for the two groups to learn side by side. 

“There’s hard data that there’s nothing that works like education to cut recidivism, to change the atmosphere within a prison so prisons become less violent places.”

Lee Perlman, PhD ’89

“We believe that there are three fundamental components of education that everybody should have, regardless of their incarceration status: emotional literacy, digital literacy, and financial literacy,” says Cafferty. TEJI offers incarcerated students classes in the humanities, computer science, and business, the credits from which can be applied toward degrees from private universities and community colleges. The emotional literacy component, featuring Perlman’s philosophy courses, is taught in an “inside-out” format, with a mixed group of incarcerated “inside” students and “outside” classmates (from MIT and other universities where TEJI courses are sometimes cross-listed). 

“I’ve been really torn throughout my life,” Perlman says, “between this part of me that would like to be a monk and sit in a cave and read books all day long and come out and discuss them with other monks, and this other half of me that wants to do some good in the world, really wants to make a difference.” Behind prison walls, the concepts he relishes discussing—love, authenticity, compassion—have become his tools for doing that good.

TEJI also serves as a convener of people from academia and the criminal justice system. Within MIT, it works with the Sloan School of Management, the Music and Theater Arts Section, the Priscilla King Gray Public Service Center, and others on courses and special prison-related projects. And by spearheading broader initiatives like the Massachusetts Prison Education Consortium and the New England Commission on the Future of Higher Education in Prison, TEJI has helped lay the groundwork for significant shifts in how incarcerated people across the region and beyond prepare to rejoin society.

“Lee and I both share the belief that education can and should be a transformative force in the lives of incarcerated people,” Cafferty says. “But we also recognize that the current system doesn’t offer a lot of opportunities for that.” Through TEJI, they’re working to create more.

Perlman didn’t set out to reform prison education. “There’s never been any plan,” he says. “Before I was an academic I was a political organizer, so I have that political organizer brain. I just look for … where’s the opening you can run through?”

Before earning his PhD in political philosophy, Perlman spent eight years making his mark on Maryland’s political scene. At age 28, he came up short by a few hundred votes in a primary for the state senate. In the late 1970s, Perlman says, he was named one of 10 rising stars in Maryland politics by the Baltimore Sun and one of the state’s most feared lobbyists by Baltimore Magazine because he got lawmakers to “do things they’d be perfectly willing to leave alone,” as he puts it, like pass election reform bills. The legislators gave him the nickname Wolfman, “probably just because I had a beard,” he says, “but it kind of grew to mean other things.”

Perlman still has the beard. Working in tandem with Cafferty and others, he’s also retained his knack for nudging change forward.

JAY DIAS/MASSACHUSETTS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION

Cafferty understands, better than most, how difficult that can be in the prison system. She held numerous roles in her 25-year corrections career, ultimately serving as superintendent of the Middlesex Jail and House of Correction, where she oversaw the introduction of the first tablet-based prison literacy program in New England. 

“I used to say someday when I write a book, it’s going to be called Swimming Against the Tide,” she says. In a correctional environment, “safety and security come first, always,” she explains. “Programming and education are much further down the list of priorities.”

TEJI’s work pushes against a current in public opinion that takes a punitive rather than rehabilitative view of incarceration. Some skeptics see educating people in prison as rewarding bad deeds. “Out in the world I’ve had people say to me, ‘Maybe I should commit a crime so I can get a free college education,’” says Perlman. “My general response is, well, you really have one choice here: Do you want more crime or less crime? There’s hard data that there’s nothing that works like education to cut recidivism, to change the atmosphere within a prison so prisons become less violent places. Also, do you want to spend more or do you want to spend less money on this problem? For every dollar we spend on prison education and similar programs, we save five dollars.”

The research to which Perlman refers includes a 2018 RAND study, which found that participants in correctional education programs in the US were 28% less likely to reoffend than their counterparts who did not participate. It’s a powerful number, considering that roughly 500,000 people are released from custody each year. Perlman has such statistics at the ready, as he must. But talk to him for any amount of time and the humanity behind the numbers is what stands out. 

“There is a sizable group of people in prison who, if society was doing a better job, would have different lives,” he says, noting that “they’re smart enough and they have character enough” to pull it off: “We can make things happen in prison that will put them on a different path.” 

“Most of the people I teach behind bars are people that have had terrible experiences with education and don’t feel themselves to be very capable at all,” he says. So he sometimes opens his class by saying: “Something you probably wouldn’t guess about me is that I failed the 11th grade twice and dropped out of high school. And now I have a PhD from MIT and I’ve been teaching at MIT for 40 years. So you never know where life’s gonna lead you.” 

Though Perlman struggled to find his motivation in high school, he “buckled down and learned how much I loved learning,” as he puts it, when his parents sent him to boarding school to finish his diploma. He went on to graduate from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. Growing up in Michigan in the 1960s, he’d learned about fair housing issues because his mother was involved with the civil rights movement, and he lived for a time with a Black family that ran a halfway house for teenage girls. By the time he took that first job interviewing incarcerated former drug addicts, he was primed to understand their stories within the context of poverty, discrimination, and other systemic factors. He began volunteering for a group helping people reenter society after incarceration, and as part of his training, he spent a night booked into jail. 

“I didn’t experience any ill treatment,” he says, “but I did experience the complete powerlessness you have when you’re a prisoner.”

Jocelyn Zhu ’25 took a class with Perlman in the fall of 2023 at the Suffolk County House of Correction, and entering the facility gave her a similar sense of powerlessness. 

“We had to put our phones away, and whatever we were told to do we would have to do, and that’s not really an experience that you’re in very often as a student at MIT,” says Zhu. “There was definitely that element of surrender: ‘I’m not in charge of my environment.’”

On the flip side, she says, “because you’re in that environment, the only thing you’re doing while you’re there is learning—and really focusing in on the discussion you’re having with other students.”

“I call them the ‘philosophical life skills’ classes,” says Perlman, “because there are things in our lives that everybody should sit down and think through as well as they can at some point.” He says that while those classes work fine with just MIT students, being able to go into a prison and talk through the same issues with people who have had very different life experiences adds a richness to the discussion that would be hard to replicate in a typical classroom. 

He recalls the first time he broached the topic of forgiveness in a prison setting. Someone serving a life sentence for murder put things in a way Perlman had never considered. He remembers the man saying: “What I did was unforgivable. If somebody said ‘I forgive you for taking my child’s life,’ I wouldn’t even understand what that meant. For me, forgiveness means trying, at least … to regard me as somebody who’s capable of change … giving me the space to show you that I’m not the person who did that anymore.’” 

Perlman went home and revised his lecture notes. “I completely reformulated my conception of forgiveness based on that,” he says. “And I tell that story every time I teach the class.”

The meeting room at the minimum-­security Boston Pre-Release Center is simply furnished: clusters of wooden tables and chairs, a whiteboard, some vending machines. December’s bare branches are visible through a row of windows that remain closed even on the warmest of days (“Out of Bounds,” warns a sign taped beside them). This afternoon, the room is hosting one of Perlman’s signature classes, Nonviolence as a Way of Life. To close the fall 2024 semester, he has asked his students to creatively recap four months of Thursdays together. 

Before long, the students are enmeshed in a good-natured showdown, calling out letters to fill in the blanks in a mystery phrase unfolding on the whiteboard. Someone solves it (“An eye for an eye makes the world go blind”) and scores bonus points for identifying its corresponding unit on the syllabus (Restorative Justice). 

“It’s still anybody’s game!” announces the presenting student, Jay Ferran, earning guffaws with his spot-on TV host impression.

Ferran and the other men in the room wearing jeans are residents of the Pre-Release Center. They have shared this class all semester with undergrad and grad students from MIT and Harvard (who are prohibited from wearing jeans by the visitor dress code). Before they all part ways, they circle up their chairs one last time.

“Humor can be a defense mechanism, but it never felt that way in here,” says Isabel Burney, a student at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. “I really had a good time laughing with you guys.”

“I appreciate everyone’s vulnerability,” says Jack Horgen ’26. “I think that takes a lot of grace, strength, and honesty.”

“I’d like to thank the outside students for coming in and sharing as well,” says Ferran. “It gives a bit of freedom to interact with students who come from the outside. We want to get on the same level. You give us hope.”

After the room has emptied out, Ferran reflects further on finding himself a college student at this stage in his life. Now in his late 40s, he dropped out of high school when he became a father. “I always knew I was smart and had the potential, but I was a follower,” he says. 

As Ferran approaches the end of his sentence, he’s hoping to leverage the college credits he’s earned so far into an occupation in counseling and social work. His classmate Philip Hutchful, 35, is aiming for a career in construction management. 

Access to education in prison “gives people a second chance at life,” Hutchful says. “It keeps your mind busy, rewires your brain.”

MIT undergrads Denisse Romero Cruz ’25, Jack Horgen ’26, and Alor Sahoo ’26 at the final session of Perlman’s Nonviolence as a Way of Life class at the Boston Pre-Release Center.

Along with about 45% of the Boston Pre-Release Center’s residents, Ferran and Hutchful are enrolled in the facility’s School of Reentry, which partners with MIT and other local colleges and universities to provide educational opportunities during the final 12 to 18 months of a sentence. 

“We have seen a number of culture shifts for our students and their families, such as accountability, flexible thinking, and curiosity,” says the program’s executive director, Lisa Millwood. There are “students who worked hard just so they can proudly be there to support their grandchildren, or students who have made pacts with their teenage children who are struggling in school to stick with it together.”

Ferran and Hutchful had previously taken college-level classes through the School of Reentry, but the prospect of studying alongside MIT and Harvard students raised new qualms. 

“These kids are super smart—how can I compete with them? I’m going to feel so stupid,” Ferran remembers thinking. “In fact, it wasn’t like that at all.”

“We all had our own different types of knowledge,” says Hutchful.

Both Ferran and Hutchful say they’ve learned skills that they’ll put to use in their post-release lives, from recognizing manipulation to fostering nonviolent communication. Hutchful especially appreciates the principle that “you need to attack the problem, not the person,” saying, “This class teaches you how to deal with all aspects of people—angry people, impatient people. You’re not being triggered to react.” 

Perlman has taught Nonviolence as a Way of Life nearly every semester since TEJI launched. Samuel Tukua ’25 took the class a few years ago. Like Hutchful, he has applied its lessons. 

“I wouldn’t be TAing it for the third year now if it didn’t have this incredible impact on my life,” Tukua says. 

Meeting incarcerated people did not in itself shift Tukua’s outlook; their stories didn’t surprise him, given his own upbringing in a low-income neighborhood near Atlanta. But watching learners from a range of backgrounds find common ground in big philosophical ideas helped convince him of those ideas’ validity. For example, he started to notice undercurrents of violence in everyday actions and speech. 

“It doesn’t matter whether you came from a highly violent background or if you came from a privileged, less violent background,” he says he realized. “That kind of inner violence or that kind of learned treatment exists inside all of us.” 

Marisa Gaetz ’20, a fifth-year PhD candidate in math at MIT, has stayed in TEJI’s orbit in the seven years since its founding—first as a student, then as a teaching assistant, and now by helping to run its computer science classes. 

Limitations on in-person programming imposed by the covid-19 pandemic led Gaetz and fellow MIT grad student Martin Nisser, SM ’19, PhD ’24, to develop remote computer education classes for incarcerated TEJI students. In 2021, she and Nisser (now an assistant professor at the University of Washington) joined with Emily Harburg, a tech access advocate, to launch Brave Behind Bars, which partners closely with TEJI to teach Intro to Python, web development, and game design in both English and Spanish to incarcerated people across the US and formerly incarcerated students in Colombia and Mexico. 

Since many inside students have laptop access only during class time, the remote computer courses typically begin with a 30-minute lecture followed by Zoom breakouts with teaching assistants. A ratio of one TA for every three or four students ensures that “each student feels supported, especially with coding, which can be frustrating if you’re left alone with a bug for too long,” Gaetz says. 

Gaetz doesn’t always get to hear how things work out for her students,but she’s learned of encouraging outcomes. One Brave Behind Bars TA who got his start in their classes is now a software engineer. Another group of alums founded Reentry Sisters, an organization for formerly incarcerated women. “They made their own website using the skills that they learned in our class,” Gaetz says. “That was really amazing to see.”

Although the pandemic spurred some prisons to expand use of technology, applying those tools to education in a coordinated way requires the kind of bridge-building TEJI has become known for since forming the Massachusetts Prison Education Consortium (MPEC) in 2018.

“I saw there were a bunch of colleges doing various things in prisons and we weren’t really talking to each other,” says Perlman. TEJI secured funding from the Mellon Foundation and quickly expanded MPEC’s membership to more than 80 educational institutions, corrections organizations, and community-based agencies. Millwood says the School of Reentry has doubled its capacity and program offerings thanks to collaborations developed through MPEC.

At the regional level, TEJI teamed up with the New England Board of Higher Education in 2022 to create the New England Commission on the Future of Higher Education in Prison. Its formation was prompted in part by the anticipated increase in demand for high-quality prison education programs thanks to the FAFSA Simplification Act, which as of 2023 reversed a nearly three-decade ban on awarding federal Pell grants to incarcerated people. Participants included leaders from academia and correctional departments as well as formerly incarcerated people. One, Daniel Throop, cochaired a working group called “Career, Workforce, and Employer Connections” just a few months after his release. 

“I lived out a reentry while I was on the commission in a way that was very, very powerful,” Throop says. “I was still processing in real time.” 

“Most of the people I teach behind bars are people that have had terrible experiences with education and don’t feel themselves to be very capable at all.”

Lee Perlman, PhD ’89

During his incarceration in Massachusetts, Throop had revived the long-defunct Norfolk Prison Debating Society, which went head-to-head with university teams including MIT’s. Credits from his classes, including two with Perlman, culminated in a bachelor’s degree in interdisciplinary studies magna cum laude from Boston University, which he earned before his release. But he still faced big challenges.

“Having a criminal record is still a very, very real hurdle,” Throop says. “I was so excited when those doors of prison finally opened after two decades, only to be greatly discouraged that so many doors of the community remained closed to me.” 

Initially, the only employment he could get was loading UPS trucks by day and unloading FedEx trucks by night. He eventually landed a job with the Massachusetts Bail Fund and realized his goal of launching the National Prison Debate League. 

“I fortunately had the educational credentials and references and the wherewithal to not give up on myself,” says Throop. “A lot of folks fail with less resources and privilege and ability and support.”

The commission’s 2023 report advocates for improved programming and support for incarcerated learners spanning the intake, incarceration, and reentry periods. To help each state implement the recommendations, the New England Prison Education Collaborative (NEPEC) launched in October 2024 with funding from the Ascendium Education Group. Perlman encouraged TEJI alumna Nicole O’Neal, then working at Tufts University, to apply for the position she now holds as a NEPEC project manager. 

Like Throop, O’Neal has firsthand experience with the challenges of reentry. Despite the stigma of having served time, having a transcript with credits earned during the period she was incarcerated “proved valuable for both job applications and securing housing,” she says. With the help of a nonprofit called Partakers and “a lot of personal initiative,” she navigated the confusing path to matriculation on Boston University’s campus, taking out student loans so she could finish the bachelor’s degree she’d begun in prison. A master’s followed.

“I’ve always known that education was going to be my way out of poverty,” she says.

From her vantage point at NEPEC, O’Neal sees how TEJI’s approach can inspire other programs. “What truly sets TEJI apart is the way that it centers students as a whole, as people and not just as learners,” she says. “Having the opportunity to take an MIT course during my incarceration wasn’t just about earning credits—it was about being seen as capable of engaging with the same level of intellectual rigor as students outside. That recognition changed how I saw myself and my future.”

On a Zoom call one Wednesday evening in December, Perlman’s inside-out course on Stoicism is wrapping up. Most participants are women incarcerated in Maine. These are among Perlman’s most advanced and long-standing students, thanks to the state’s flexible approach to prison education—Perlman says it’s “maybe the most progressive system in the country,” early to adopt remote learning, experiment with mixed-gender classes, and allow email communication between teachers and students. 

The mood is convivial, the banter peppered with quotes from the likes of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. More than one student is crocheting a Christmas gift, hands working busily at the edges of their respective Zoom rectangles. 

As the students review what they’ve learned, the conversation turns to the stereotype of Stoicism as a lack of emotion. “I get the feeling the Stoics understood their emotions better than most because they weren’t puppets to their emotions,” says a student named Nicole. “They still feel things—they’re just not governed by it.”

JAY DIAS/MASSACHUSETTS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION

Jade, who is a year into a 16-month sentence, connects this to her relationship with her 14-month-old son: “I think I would be a bad Stoic in how I love him. That totally governs me.”

Perlman, a bit mischievously: “Does anyone want to talk Jade into being a Stoic mother?” 

Another classmate, Victoria, quips: “I think you’d like it better when he’s a teenager.” When the laughter dies down, she says more seriously, “I think it’s more about not allowing your emotions to carry you away.” But she adds that it’s hard to do that as a parent. 

 “Excessive worry is also a hindrance,” Jade concedes. “So how do I become a middle Stoic?”

“A middle Stoic would be an Aristotelian, I think,” muses Perlman.

When the conversation comes around to amor fati, the Stoic notion of accepting one’s fate, Perlman asks how successful his students have been at this.

The group’s sole participant from a men’s facility, Arthur, confesses that he has struggled with this over more than 20 years in prison. But for the last few years, school has brought him new focus. He helps run a space where other residents can study. “I hear you saying you can only love your fate if you have a telos, a purpose,” Perlman says.

“I was always teaching people things to survive or get ahead by any means necessary,” Arthur says. “Now it’s positive building blocks.”

“Education is my telos, and when I couldn’t access it at first, I had to focus on what was in my control,” says Victoria. “I framed my prison experiences as refusing to be harmed by the harmful process of incarceration. I’m going to use this opportunity for myself … so I can be who I want to be when I leave here.” 

Soon after, the video call—and the course—ends. But if Perlman’s former students’ experience is any indication, the ideas their teacher has introduced will continue to percolate.

O’Neal, who took Perlman’s Philosophy of Love, is still mulling over an exploration of loyalty in Tristan and Isolde that brought a classmate to tears. She thinks Perlman’s ability to nurture dialogue on sensitive topics begins with his relaxed demeanor—a remarkable quality in the prison environment.

“It’s like you’re coming to our house. A lot of [people] show up as guests. Lee shows up like someone who’s been around—you know, and he’s willing to clean up the dishes with you. He just feels at home,” she says. “So he made us feel at home.” 

Throop becomes animated when he describes taking Philosophy of the Self and Soul with Perlman and MIT students at MCI-Norfolk in 2016. 

“Over those days and weeks, we got to meet and discuss the subject ­matter—walking around the prison yards together, my classmates and I, and then coming back and having these almost indescribable—I’m rarely at a loss for words!—weekly class discussions,” Throop remembers. Perlman “would throw one big question out there, and he would sit back and patiently let us all chop that material up,” he adds. “These discussions were like the highlight of all of our weeks, because we got to have this super-cool exchange of ideas, testing our perspectives … And then these 18-to-20-year-old students who were coming in with a whole different worldview, and being able to have those worldviews collide in a healthy way.”  

“We all were having such enriching discussions that the semester flew by,” he says. “You didn’t want school to end.” 

It all began with a simple origami model. 

As an undergrad at Harvard, Danna Freedman went to a professor’s office hours for her general chemistry class and came across an elegant paper model that depicted the fullerene molecule. The intricately folded representation of chemical bonds and atomic arrangements sparked her interest, igniting a profound curiosity about how the structure of molecules influences their function. 

She stayed and chatted with the professor after the other students left, and he persuaded her to drop his class so she could instead dive immediately into the study of chemistry at a higher level. Soon she was hooked. After graduating with a chemistry degree, Freedman earned a PhD at the University of California, Berkeley, did a postdoc at MIT, and joined the faculty at Northwestern University. In 2021, she returned to MIT as the Frederick George Keyes Professor of Chemistry.

Freedman’s fascination with the relationship between form and function at the molecular level laid the groundwork for a trailblazing career in quantum information science, eventually leading her to be honored with a 2022 MacArthur fellowship—and the accompanying “genius” grant—as one of the leading figures in the field.

Today, her eyes light up when she talks about the “beauty” of chemistry, which is how she sees the intricate dance of atoms that dictates a molecule’s behavior. At MIT, Freedman focuses on creating novel molecules with specific properties that could revolutionize the technology of sensing, leading to unprecedented levels of precision. 

Designer molecules

Early in her graduate studies, Freedman noticed that many chemistry research papers claimed to contribute to the development of quantum computing, which exploits the behavior of matter at extremely small scales to deliver much more computational power than a conventional computer can achieve. While the ambition was clear, Freedman wasn’t convinced. When she read these papers carefully, she found that her skepticism was warranted.

“I realized that nobody was trying to design magnetic molecules for the actual goal of quantum computing!” she says. Such molecules would be suited to acting as quantum bits, or qubits, the basic unit of information in quantum systems. But the research she was reading about had little to do with that. 

Nevertheless, that realization got Freedman thinking—could molecules be designed to serve as qubits? She decided to find out. Her work made her among the first to use chemistry in a way that demonstrably advanced the field of quantum information science, which she describes as a general term encompassing the use of quantum technology for computation, sensing, measurement, and communication. 

Unlike traditional bits, which can only equal 0 or 1, qubits are capable of “superposition”—simultaneously existing in multiple states. This is why quantum computers made from qubits can solve large problems faster than classical computers. Freedman, however, has always been far more interested in tapping into qubits’ potential to serve as exquisitely precise sensors.

Qubits store information in quantum properties that can be easily disrupted. While the delicacy of those properties makes qubits hard to control, it also makes them especially sensitive and therefore very useful as sensors.

Qubits encode information in quantum properties—such as spin and energy—that can be easily disrupted. While the delicacy of those properties makes qubits hard to control, it also makes them especially sensitive and therefore very useful as sensors.

Harnessing the power of qubits is notoriously tricky, though. For example, two of the most common types—superconducting qubits, which are often made of thin aluminum layers, and trapped-ion qubits, which use the energy levels of an ion’s electrons to represent 1s and 0s—must be kept at temperatures approaching absolute zero (–273 °C). Maintaining special refrigerators to keep them cool can be costly and difficult. And while researchers have made significant progress recently, both types of qubits have historically been difficult to connect into larger systems.

Eager to explore the potential of molecular qubits, Freedman has pioneered a unique “bottom-up” approach to creating them: She designs novel molecules with specific quantum properties to serve as qubits targeted for individual applications. Instead of focusing on a general goal such as maximizing coherence time (how long a qubit can preserve its quantum state), she begins by asking what kinds of properties are needed for, say, a sensor meant to measure biological phenomena at the molecular level. Then she and her team set out to create molecules that have these properties and are suitable for the environment where they’d be used. 

COURTESY OF DANNA FREEDMAN

Made of a central metallic atom surrounded by hydrocarbon atoms, molecular qubits store information in their spin. The encoded information is later translated into photons, which are emitted to “read out” the information. These qubits can be tuned with laser precision—imagine adjusting a radio dial—by modifying the strength of the ligands, or bonds, connecting the hydrocarbons to the metal atom. These bonds act like tiny tuning forks; by adjusting their strength, the researchers can precisely control the qubit’s spin and the wavelength of the emitted photons. That emitted light can be used to provide information about atomic-level changes in electrical or magnetic fields. 

While many researchers are eager to build reliable, scalable quantum computers, Freedman and her group devote most of their attention to developing custom molecules for quantum sensors. These ultrasensitive sensors contain particles in a state so delicately balanced that extremely small changes in their environments unbalance them, causing them to emit light differently. For example, one qubit designed in Freedman’s lab, made of a chromium atom surrounded by four hydrocarbon molecules, can be customized so that tiny changes in the strength of a nearby magnetic field will change its light emissions in a particular way.  

A key benefit of using such molecules for sensing is that they are small enough—just a nanometer or so wide—to get extremely close to the thing they are sensing. That can offer an unprecedented level of precision when measuring something like the surface magnetism of two-­dimensional materials, since the strength of a magnetic field decays with distance. A molecular quantum sensor “might not be more inherently accurate than a competing quantum sensor,” says Freedman, “but if you can lose an order of magnitude of distance, that can give us a lot of information.” Quantum sensors’ ability to detect electric or magnetic changes at the atomic level and make extraordinarily precise measurements could be useful in many fields, such as environmental monitoring, medical diagnostics, geolocation, and more.

When designing molecules to serve as quantum sensors, Freedman’s group also factors in the way they can be expected to act in a specific sensing environment. Creating a sensor for water, for example, requires a water-compatible molecule, and a sensor for use at very low temperatures requires molecules that are optimized to perform well in the cold. By custom-­engineering molecules for different uses, the Freedman lab aims to make quantum technology more versatile and widely adaptable.

Embracing interdisciplinarity

As Freedman and her group focus on the highly specific work of designing custom molecules, she is keenly aware that tapping into the power of quantum science depends on the collective efforts of scientists from different fields.

“Quantum is a broad and heterogeneous field,” she says. She believes that attempts to define it narrowly hurt collective research—and that scientists must welcome collaboration when the research leads them beyond their own field. Even in the seemingly straightforward scenario of using a quantum computer to solve a chemistry problem, you would need a physicist to write a quantum algorithm, engineers and materials scientists to build the computer, and chemists to define the problem and identify how the quantum computer might solve it. 

MIT’s collaborative environment has helped Freedman connect with researchers in different disciplines, which she says has been instrumental in advancing her research. She’s recently spoken with neurobiologists who proposed problems that quantum sensing could potentially solve and provided helpful context for building the sensors. Looking ahead, she’s excited about the potential applications of quantum science in many scientific fields. “MIT is such a great place to nucleate a lot of these connections,” she says.

“As quantum expands, there are so many of these threads which are inherently interdisciplinary,” she says.

Inside the lab

Freedman’s lab in Building 6 is a beehive of creativity and collaboration. Against a backdrop of colorful flasks and beakers, researchers work together to synthesize molecules, analyze their structures, and unlock the secrets hidden within their intricate atomic arrangements.

“We are making new molecules and putting them together atom by atom to discover whether they have the properties we want,” says Christian Oswood, a postdoctoral fellow. 

Some sensitive molecules can only be made in the lab’s glove box, a nitrogen-filled transparent container that protects chemicals from oxygen and water in the ambient air. An example is an organometallic solution synthesized by one of Freedman’s graduate students, David Ullery, which takes the form of a vial of purple liquid. (“A lot of molecules have really pretty colors,” he says.)

Freedman is a passionate educator, dedicated to demystifying the complexities of chemistry for her students. Aware that many of them find the subject daunting, she strives to go beyond textbook equations.

Once synthesized, the molecules are taken to a single-crystal x-ray diffractometer a few floors below the Freedman lab. There, x-rays are directed at crystallized samples, and from the diffraction pattern, researchers can deduce their molecular structure—how the atoms connect. Studying the precise geometry of these synthesized molecules reveals how the structure affects their quantum properties, Oswood explains.

Researchers and students at the lab say Freedman’s cross-disciplinary outlook played a big role in drawing them to it. With a chemistry background and a special interest in physics, for example, Ullery joined because he was excited by the way Freedman’s research bridges those two fields. 

COURTESY OF DANNA FREEDMAN

Others echo this sentiment. “The opportunity to be in a field that’s both new and expanding like quantum science, and attacking it from this specific angle, was exciting to me both intellectually and professionally,” says Oswood.

Another graduate student, Cindy Serena Ngompe Massado, says she enjoys being part of the lab because she gets to collaborate with scientists in other fields. “It allows you to really approach scientific challenges in a more holistic and productive way,” she says.

Though the researchers spend most of their time synthesizing and analyzing molecules, fun infuses the lab too. Freedman checks in with everyone frequently, and conversations often drift beyond just science. She’s just as comfortable chatting about Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce as she is discussing research.

“Danna is very personable and very herself with us,” Ullery says. “It adds a bit of levity to being in an otherwise stressful grad school environment.”

Bringing textbook chemistry to life

In the classroom, Freedman is a passionate educator, dedicated to demystifying the complexities of chemistry for her students. Aware that many of them find the subject daunting, she strives to go beyond textbook equations.

For each lecture in her advanced inorganic chemistry classes, she introduces the “molecule of the day,” which is always connected to the lesson plan. When teaching about bimetallic molecules, for example, she showcased the potassium rubidium molecule, citing active research at Harvard aimed at entangling its nuclear spins. For a lecture on superconductors, she brought a sample of the superconducting material yttrium barium copper oxide that students could handle. 

Chemistry students often think “This is painful” or “Why are we learning this?” Freedman says. Making the subject matter more tangible and showing its connection to ongoing research spark students’ interest and underscore the material’s relevance.

M. SCOTT BRAUER/MIT NEWS OFFICE

Freedman believes this is an exceptionally exciting time for budding chemists. She emphasizes the importance of curiosity and encourages them to ask questions. “There is a joy to being able to walk into any room and ask any question and extract all the knowledge that you can,” she says. 

In her own research, she embodies this passion for the pursuit of knowledge, framing challenges as stepping stones to discovery. When she was a postdoc, her research on electron spins in synthetic materials hit what seemed to be a dead end that ultimately led to the discovery of a new class of magnetic material. So she tells her students that even the most difficult aspects of research are rewarding because they often lead to interesting findings. 

That’s exactly what happened to Ullery. When he designed a molecule meant to be stable in air and water and emit light, he was surprised that it didn’t—and that threw a wrench into his plan to develop the molecule into a sensor that would emit light only under particular circumstances. So he worked with theoreticians in Giulia Galli’s group at the University of Chicago, developing new insights on what drives emission, and that led to the design of a new molecule that did emit light. 

“Frustrating research is almost fun to deal with,” says Freedman, “even if it doesn’t always feel that way.” 

After decades of working as a biologist at a Southern school with a Division 1 football team, coming to MIT was a bit of a culture shock—in the best possible way. I’ve heard from MIT alumni all about late-night psetting, when to catch MITHenge, and the best way to celebrate Pi Day (with pie, of course). And I’ve also learned that for many of you, the Institute is more than simply your alma mater. As the MIT Alumni Association celebrates its 150th anniversary, I’m reflecting on the extraordinary talent and drive of the people here, and what it is that makes MIT alumni—like MIT itself—just a little bit different.

As students, you learned to investigate, question, argue, critique, and refine your ideas with faculty and with each other, managing to be both collaborative and competitive. You hacked the toughest and most interesting problems and came up with the most unconventional solutions. And you developed and nurtured a uniquely entrepreneurial, hands-on MIT spirit that only those who have earned a degree here can fully understand, but that the rest of us can easily identify and admire.

An article in this magazine about the history of the MIT Alumni Association notes that when the association was formed, there were 84 alumni in total. By 1888, the number had increased to an impressive 579. And it grew by orders of magnitude; today nearly 149,000 alumni are members. But even as the alumni community has grown and evolved, its culture and character have remained remarkably consistent, represented by men and women known for their rigorous thinking, incisive analysis, mens et manus ethos, and drive to make a real and transformative impact on people and communities everywhere.

As MIT alumni, you recognize each other by your Brass Rats. These sturdy, cleverly designed rings not only signify your completion (some might say survival) of an immensely difficult course of study. They also signal to the world that you stand ready to share your expertise, knowledge, and experience in the service of humanity. 

Alumni have always been the Institute’s greatest ambassadors, and today that role has taken on even greater meaning and importance. We are working intensely, every day, to make the case for the vital importance of MIT to ensuring the nation’s security, prosperity, health, and quality of life. And I’m deeply grateful that we can rely on MIT’s extraordinary family of alumni to help share that message far and wide.

Tiny flying robots could perform such useful tasks as pollinating crops inside multilevel warehouses, boosting yields while mitigating some of agriculture’s harmful impacts on the environment. The latest robo-bug from an MIT lab, inspired by the anatomy of the bee, comes closer to matching nature’s performance than ever before. 

Led by Kevin Chen, an associate professor in the Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science and the senior author of a paper on the work, the team adapted an earlier flying robot composed of four identical two-winged units, combined into a rectangular device about the size of a microcassette. The wings managed to flap like an insect’s, but the bot couldn’t fly for long. One problem is that the wings would blow air into each other when flapping, reducing the lift forces they could generate.

In the new design, each of the four units has a single flapping wing pointing away from the robot’s center, stabilizing the wings and boosting their lift forces. The researchers also improved the way the wings are connected to the actuators, or artificial muscles, that flap them. In previous designs, when the actuators’ movements reached the extremely high frequencies needed for flight, the devices often started buckling. That reduced the power and efficiency of the robot. Thanks in part to a new, longer wing hinge, the actuators now experience less mechanical strain and can apply more force, so the bots can fly faster, longer, and in more precise paths.

COURTESY OF THE RESEARCHERS

Weighing less than a paper clip, the new robotic insect can hover for more than 1,000 seconds—almost 17 minutes—without any degradation of flight precision.

“When my student Yi-Hsuan Hsiao was performing that flight, he said it was the slowest 1,000 seconds he had spent in his entire life. The experiment was extremely nerve-racking,” Chen says.

The new robot also reached an average speed of 35 centimeters per second, the fastest flight researchers have reported, and was able to perform body rolls and double flips. It can even precisely track a trajectory that spells M-I-T.

“At the end of the day, we’ve shown flight that is 100 times longer than anyone else in the field has been able to do, so this is an extremely exciting result,” Chen says.

COURTESY OF THE RESEARCHERS

From here, he and his students want to see how far they can push this new design, with the goal of achieving flight for longer than 10,000 seconds.

They also want to improve the precision of the robots so they could land in and take off from the center of a flower. In the long run, the researchers hope to install tiny batteries and sensors so the robots could fly and navigate outside the lab. The design has more room for those electronics now that they’ve halved the number of wings.

The bots still can’t achieve the fine-tuned behavior of a real bee, Chen acknowledges. Still, he says, “with the improved lifespan and precision of this robot, we are getting closer to some very exciting applications, like assisted pollination.”