Kristi Rendahl

Good morning. Thank you for having me here. It has been nearly 13 years since I graduated from here, but the feeling of gathering with friends and classmates in the Centrum is as familiar as ever.

It’s an honor to be here to celebrate Women’s History Month with you. I don’t remember thinking a lot about what it means to be a woman while I was in college. It was probably while living in the country of Armenia for five years that I started to consider what it meant. International Women’s Day on March 7 was among my favorite holidays celebrated in Armenia, in no small part due to the special attention heaped on women. Men made a special effort to give flowers to the women in their lives – family, friends and colleagues alike. There was a feeling of prestige about being a woman that day. It’s only a pity that men don’t have an equivalent holiday.

Over time, I have come to appreciate what gifts of inspiration we receive from the women in our lives. I’m not talking about women like Hillary Clinton or Oprah Winfrey, though they certainly have their place in inspiring us. I’m talking about the women who inspire us each day with their mighty moments of success against the odds. I’m talking about the women who consistently care for us in our homes and classrooms. I’m talking about the women whose bloodline fills us but who we never had the chance to know. I’m talking about you and me.

My great-grandmother, Hilda, is one of those women for me. She was a suffragette who fought for women’s rights in the early part of the 20th century. She was known for holding monthly salons in her home to discuss women’s issues of the day. She then became a New Hampshire state legislator for 19 terms (1931-1937 and 1941-1975), becoming the longest serving female legislator in the country. It is because of her and others like her that I can vote. It is because of her and others like her that, in fact, I must vote. It is because of her and others like her that I serve as an election judge. And, in some way, it is because of her and others like her that I am pursuing a doctorate in public administration. She died when I was young, so I never heard her wisdom directly, but her achievements have taught me that we do not need to be satisfied with the status quo; that substantive change requires hard work, conviction and a lifelong commitment.

My great-aunt May was another woman to admire. I didn’t know her well, but my family still speaks of her with a certain reverence. I remember her giving me feedback on a waltz I was playing on the piano. She coached me to play right through the errors so it didn’t interrupt the dancers. It had never occurred to me that people would dance to something I played. It sounds silly, but her comment was really a statement about sharing talents. Music isn’t just for the performer, but for everyone. She went to Madagascar as a missionary at a young age and was not allowed to leave for seven years due to the war. It wasn’t until the age of 60 that she married for the first time. By that time she spoke Norwegian, French, Malagasy and Spanish. She and Leonard were married for 25 years before he died. They lived in a border community of Nogales, Arizona, serving the poor. My friend Kirstin and I visited some of her friends in that community after she had died. They showed us the apartment where she had lived. It was simple. Minimalist. Reflective. We slept there and imagined the person who had been. It was near the church where she played organ until weeks before her death. The pastor of that church invited me to play for the church service that Sunday. Separated by two generations, but playing the same notes.

Gayane was my first close friend in Armenia. We ended up friends by mere chance nearly 13 years ago, but have remained friends by choice. Almost the same age, but separated by countless cultural norms, not to mention language, we had to work to understand each other. She colored outside of the lines in comparison with most village girls, but never enough to cause a scandal. Together we raised the eyebrows of the neighbors by picnicking with a bottle of wine on a rock in the river and having a leisurely conversation in the village square when only men did such things. It’s hard to pinpoint when a person decides to be utterly devoted to a friendship. My devotion to Gayane may have begun when we hiked up to a khatchkar, a stone carved into a cross, on the side of a mountain and she insisted on wearing heels.

I should have seen then that her heels were indicative of a deeper resolve to achieve the seemingly impossible. After meeting and marrying an American man, she traveled with him to South Korea to teach English for a year. Now keep in mind that this was the same woman whose English skills during our friendship consisted of phrases like: “Is your armchair comfortable?” But we lost touch for a few years, so I didn’t hear about those experiences until they had moved to New York City to start a new life together. Ever defying the expectations of the world, Gayane was able to support her husband while he earned a master’s degree, first at a miserable telemarketing job and later until now at a major US corporation. Today, the girl from the village can be found commuting to work or taking their son to and from day care. At breakneck speed. In her heels.

My friend Carolina in Guatemala is another font of inspiration for me. Carolina is a seasonal, part-time Spanish language teacher, working with tourists who come to Guatemala. Her husband – who has only an eighth grade education – is a furniture maker who sells out of a modest home where they and their two daughters live. The only appliances in their home are a stove and a television. They’re accustomed to bathing in cold water, not unlike how we’re accustomed to living in the seasonal refrigerator we call home. Their life is basic, but more or less comfortable. When Leo, Carolina’s husband, was injured in a soccer game, he was confined to bed rest while he recovered, which meant a loss of income. Carolina felt that she needed to do something.

What does a woman with few decent job prospects, no access to credit and only a high school education do to improve her family’s situation? Well, Carolina invested in the raw ingredients for 50 tamales to be sold out of the small window in their door to the alley. The worst-case scenario, she said, was that they would all eat tamales for a week. Her business plan, no matter how rudimentary, proved solid. Carolina sold every single tamale the first weekend she opened for business. And she experienced so much success and customer appreciation that she continued making and selling tamales every weekend for the next nine years. This story – one that took her only a few minutes to tell – has stuck with me. It represents to me the creativity of women. I told her that when my parents heard that story they were impressed by her spirit. Carolina laughed and said, “sure, the spirit of survival.” Indeed.

Today, these women's stories reside within me. Hilda is at the election polls and among my girlfriends discussing the challenges unique to women. May is next to me on the bench when I practice piano each day and play at church once a month. Gayane straightens my spine so I walk confidently into the most unfamiliar of environments. And Carolina points out the possibilities when I can no longer see them. They are stories that carry me in the moment and over my lifetime. And we are all surrounded by such stories. We find them on the front page of the newspaper. We find them at our family gatherings. And we find them in the woman sitting next to us. I wish us all a lifetime of stories that renew and inspire.

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