Rendahl: Looking Forward

It was late one evening last week when I e-mailed a friend seeking inspiration for something to write about. “E-mail me the first three things that come to mind,” I said. “Don’t worry about what they mean or don’t mean, it’s a creative exercise.”

He wrote back at 3:00 in the morning: insomnia, priorities, and reluctance to leave winter behind because he hadn’t done all he wanted to do, but knew he needed to look ahead.

I read his email at about 4:00 in the morning, which is not a time of day I normally experience unless I’m fretting about the order and priorities in my own life. I didn’t notice winter much this year, because I was traveling for work in some hot places for much of January and February. People assume I planned it strategically, but it was an accident, like most of the good things that happen to me.

Save for a few hapless errors in judgement, looking ahead is something I’m good at. And that’s why I was excited to meet Lily.

Lily is a little girl who was adopted by a friend of a friend. She was adopted in Russia, but she’s half Armenian and looks tochnoe hay, to borrow a Soviet Armenian phrase. My friend, her godmother, is someone I hadn’t seen or talked to in years, but she saw on the omnipotent Facebook that I have a relationship with Armenia. Her friend is trying to educate her daughter about her roots, she said, but learning about Russia is easier than learning about Armenia, and would I meet to talk a bit about Armenia.

Would I meet to talk about Armenia? It’s like asking me if I like sleeping in, and pots of tea, and sprinkles on my cupcakes. Of course I’ll meet to talk about Armenia!

But you can imagine my anxiety. Here’s a little girl, only five years of age, who knows nothing of Armenia, and I am to become her primary source of information. Where do I begin? And I’ve never been good at boundaries, so where do I stop?

I ran about my place, looking for clues about what to say or do or give. I found a framed painting of the Armenian alphabet that I bought from my former employer, “Made in Armenia Direct.” She must learn about the alphabet, I thought. It’s too fundamental and beautiful to overlook.

Then I saw a small Armenian flag, which I snatched up and put in the pile before opening the drawer where I keep my zipper storage bags of foreign currency. Armenian dram should also be included. I looked in a cupboard and saw a new sachet of Armenian herbal tea that I hadn’t opened. Score. I also saw the soujouk that I’d bought in a Persian store a few days earlier. Double score.

But the alpha and the omega (or the Ա and the Ք, in this case) were two hand-crafted stamps of her name and her nickname, Lilian and Lily, made by my friend Kate Minasian, who has an Etsy store for these sorts of things. I’d brought two inkpads and several sheets of blank paper, so you can imagine just exactly what little Lily did.

Yes, that’s right, she held that stamp on the inkpad until there could be no doubt about whether the ink had stuck. Then she quite officially, as if a post-Soviet bureaucrat herself, placed the stamp on the paper to leave her mark, certain to leverage her full weight, however few kilograms it is, across the entire real estate of the stamp.

It was the first time she’d seen her name in Armenian. I don’t remember the first time I could write my name, but I know that it was important, that seeing it in print was an affirmation of my identity. I like to imagine her stamping her homework with it.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the afternoon. Would she care about what I had to say, or would she think I was heaping baggage on her? I told her how when grown-ups toast in Armenia they touch their glasses to the noses of the children at the table. I sang part of “Hayi Achqer” (Armenian Eyes) in honor of hers. And I recited that little poem “Napastak, napastak,” which I shared with my niece when she was about four years old and her wrinkled-nose response was, “How did you learn to talk like that?”

She didn’t ask me about the recent election or the protocols or the coming 98th commemoration of the Armenian Genocide. She did ask me whether there are trees with white bark in Armenia like there are in Russia. She did ask me whether the Easter Bunny comes to Armenia. She did ask me how to say lip balm in Armenian. And she did look carefully at each piece of dram to see what year it had been made.

The grown-ups challenged me to say the alphabet backwards, but I failed without a visual clue. They asked me in what language Mashdots wrote his letters to other countries when creating the Armenian alphabet; I guessed Greek and wished I could dial a friend for help. They wondered about the significance of the colors of the Armenian flag and I shrugged but thought the red must be for blood.

I’m already anticipating the next time we meet. I forgot to tell Lily how Armenians are known for excelling at chess, including the sisters of the esteemed editor of this paper. And she asked about candy, so she needs to try gata or baklava, preferably not made by me. But even if I find out whether there are, in fact, birch trees in Armenia, I know she’ll find another way to stump me.

Pun intended.

Kristi Rendahl

Kristi Rendahl

Kristi Rendahl is associate professor and director of the nonprofit leadership program at Minnesota State University, Mankato. Prior to starting with MSU in 2017, she worked for over 20 years with nongovernmental organizations on several continents, including living in Armenia from 1997-2002. She speaks Armenian and Spanish.
Kristi Rendahl

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3 Comments

  1. She’s a lucky girl to have you in her life! I love the way you described running around, trying to find items to show or give Lily. Keep it up!

  2. While I usually look for your editorial contributions, I must have
    accidentally missed the 4/13 edition! Your article (at a minimum)
    was touching.
    We are leaving for Armenia & Karabagh in 3 weeks and I will be sure
    to pass on your regards to the populace.

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