Orientation Welcome
Class of 2008
President’s Remarks
August 30, 2004

You have been hearing words of welcome throughout this exciting, hot day, and I hope you’re not growing too weary of them, for it is my privilege—and my pleasure now—to add my voice to the chorus. I am so delighted to be able to extend a heartfelt welcome to the 617 talented and interesting women who henceforth constitute the Wellesley College Class of 2008 (an identity that I hope and trust you will wear with pride for the rest of your lives).

This is a magical college, and I hope you’ll grow to love it as I do, as so many of us here do, and as so many who have come before you have done and continue to do. It is a great accomplishment to have arrived at this new stage in your life’s journey, and I want to say congratulations to each one of you. It’s a pleasure, too, to greet all who have accompanied you today on this pilgrimage: parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, companions of all ages and functions.

This ritual, embarking for college, is one of the great rites of passage still remaining in our modern secular culture. Traditional societies had practices that structured life’s major transitions, infused them with drama and meaning and took the edge off the small sense of dread that I suspect may be welling up in many of you as you anticipate taking your leave and setting off on your new paths—separate paths that will take you places you can’t yet see or fully imagine.

You are about to embark on a life transition that will pose challenges of different kinds for everyone assembled here; your experience will be unique, and you will make your own sense of it. And yet you are all in the throes of a similar process, one in which, more and less consciously, each of your families has been engaged for many months. And the culminating moment is close at hand.

I suspect that this moment has lurked just under the surface all summer long as you’ve found yourselves, paradoxically, at times drawing closer together, at times pulling farther apart, as if to rehearse the leave-taking that everyone here knows intuitively is going to be hard. In the flash of a busy summer that has vanished all too soon, you have experienced dozens of subtle endings and as many small beginnings, for such are the cycles of transition—something falls away so that something new can take root and grow.

Meanwhile, here at Wellesley, we’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival, preparing actively for it, and your arrival now enables us to begin with great joy and high anticipation another year in the life of a proud and successful college that is yours now to pilot and tend with us, adding your distinctive talents, your ambitions, your dreams.

Every year since its founding in 1875, the college has begun anew as another incoming class has arrived to begin a new life here. This is why our founders, Henry and Pauline Durant, chose for the seal of their new college (inscribed on the pages of an open book) these three words quoted from Dante: Incipit Vita Nova, here begins a new life.

I am going to reflect with you for a few minutes on this image of a new life, as it applies to the incoming first year class and to your families. First, though, I want to recognize those who have been planning for many weeks to ensure you a warm and generous Wellesley welcome:

• the hundreds of student volunteers and student leaders who have worked diligently on all aspects of orientation;
• the scores of professional administrators and support staff (from every department and division of the college) who have prepared the campus and the programs and mentored the student volunteers; and
• the many members of the faculty who have been refreshing and renewing their academic offerings and anticipating a new class.

The Student Life Division, in particular, has been working tirelessly to ease your transition in every way they know how, and they have been led by the head of that division, and your Dean of Students, Kim Goff-Crews, whom I am sure many of you have met. Thank you Kim and thanks to your colleagues.

Now, to this question of endings and new beginnings: I want to speak, first, to the families—and especially the parents—of the extraordinary women of Wellesley's Class of 2008. I do know that many of you will be leaving here not only with your cars still full of all the paraphernalia that no amount of muscle would wedge into your daughter’s tiny room, but also with a large lump in your throats as you turn your backs and make your way back home without her.

I have a daughter—our only child—a young physician living with her husband near San Francisco. She turned 30 this year, so it has been some time since my husband and I negotiated the passage you’re confronting today. And yet I recall it as vividly as if it were yesterday. My heart goes out to you all.

I remember feeling disoriented and lost, and surprisingly sad, far longer than I expected, being stunned at how quiet the house had suddenly become (amazed to find myself wishing that the phone would ring), and wondering where my husband and I would find the energy and light—the sense of shared purpose—with which our daughter had infused our marriage from the time of her birth. I wrote a poem about that parting and I’ll read it to you at the end of this talk.

But I’m also very happy to be able to bear witness to you today to the fact that unforeseeable and quite wonderful new beginnings will in time grow out of what at this moment may feel mostly like a sacrifice, that the new relationships you'll develop over time with your daughters (and with each other) will evolve and deepen in surprising and touching ways in the years ahead. I offer you that reassuring thought as you grope for the words to express your feelings and take your leave on this emotional day.

This is a time to be gentle with yourselves and one another, a time to protect a space for new possibilities to germinate. We're deeply grateful to you for sharing these accomplished young women with us; we do know how deeply blessed we are to have them with us for a time, and we will work very hard to be worthy of your trust. We thank you for it.

And now, to the Class of 2008—and what a class you are—you’ve heard your class statistics by now and you sense already, I suspect, that as Wellesley women much will be expected of you, not only while you're here on campus, but, importantly, throughout your lives. I know you have high expectations of yourselves; they have brought you here to take your place, and inscribe your story, in the unfolding narrative of an extraordinary institution. Your college—Wellesley College—has for 129 years been redefining what constitutes effective leadership by making it truer to women: to the gifts we have for the world and to the hopes we have for the future.

You are in the vanguard of a new generation—the first generation truly—of women whose leadership may actually mean something more radical and more promising than just a reflection of the dominant culture, or a reaction against it. If you’ve visited Clapp Library, and seen the portraits of my 11 predecessors, you’ve observed one of Wellesley’s distinctions, our unbroken succession of woman presidents. The portrait gallery heralds the college’s historic belief in the potential, indeed the necessity, of women’s leadership, going back to a period in the United States, not so long ago, when such a belief was eccentric, risky, really unthinkable. It remains so, still, in many parts of the world, and one clear responsibility we have now is to be a beacon for women around the globe.

And while you’re here you’ll discover for yourselves that traveling in the company of the amazing women you’ve been meeting this day, and will continue to meet, is going to be quite a trip, not only during your four years on campus but for the rest of your lives. They’ll surprise you, they’ll challenge you, they’ll support you, and they’ll encourage and enable you to become ever more truly and confidently your own amazing and unique self.

Yet there will be low points, too, especially at first: times when you’ll be homesick, and you’ll worry that you may have made a mistake. Some of you may be harboring the secret fear we all try to keep under wraps a lot of the time—that you are a mistake, the only mistake made by our board of admission, that you somehow slipped under their radar and don’t belong here after all. (I’ll bet quite a few of you are thinking that!) You can put that thought to rest right now.

Trust me, we haven’t made a mistake, and you haven’t either. I know that from my 11 years now as president. I’ve had a front-row seat watching our students develop and model their own special philosophies about how to lead peacefully and well, about how to craft lives of meaning and of beauty, about how to explore their differences with curiosity and courage.

I’ve watched them develop the qualities of mind and of character that will enable them not only to enjoy their lives and make a difference in the world, but also to play their part in making a different world—a safer, saner, fairer and more hospitable place for us all. It’s quite stunning to watch and to cheer.

Wellesley women are literally transforming the world from the inside out—in families, in communities, in corporations, hospitals, court rooms, classrooms, government agencies, research laboratories, nonprofit organizations, in every sector of human endeavor. And we have an uncanny ability to find and support one another. Madeleine Albright, who was back last June for her 45th reunion, talked about that mutual support among Wellesley women, remarked on how rare it is in other settings, and quipped that “there is a special circle of hell reserved for women who don’t help each other.” We Wellesley women do—help each other and help other women.

And Wellesley women are made of sturdy stuff. I’ve met thousands of them. They're smart and committed and passionate, and they're careful about the impact they have on the spaces they inhabit. We are women who demand more of ourselves than we do of those around us. We are women who become the kinds of leaders who absorb pain and who don't inflict it. We are women who craft creative ways to be of service, another of our founders’ mottos that you will make your own: Non ministrari, sed ministrare, not to be served, but to serve. This is the sisterhood of women you join today, the community you join, and the liberal education on which you embark.

Your task, while you are here, will be to discover what matters most to you, what for you is most fully alive, the places where you can be most passionate, most powerful, most engaged, and effective—the places where "your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet," Frederick Buechner's lyrical definition of vocation. And then your task will be to find the courage to develop the capacities, knowledge, and wisdom that will enable you to shape your life from that wellspring of identity, integrity, and commitment. That sounds straightforward enough, but it is a lifelong task. And you will succeed at it, here and on beyond.

You'll succeed if you apply yourselves, if you take advantage of the wide-ranging opportunities we have arrayed before you here, if you make intellectual pursuits—feeding your mind, your heart, your soul—your number one priority during your four years with us. This is the only time in your lives when you'll have in quite such a concentrated form the luxury of investing so directly in your own intellectual and personal growth, surrounded by so many people so committed to supporting and rejoicing in your developmental strides. I know you'll take every advantage of this unique and precious time.

You'll succeed if you are true to yourselves (and only you can work out what that means for you), if you take risks (but not reckless ones), if you stretch your wings and challenge yourselves, if you experiment with entirely new ideas and new tests of your mettle, with different versions of yourself, different ways of expressing your vision, your promise, your voice.

A feminist poet, Marge Piercy, wrote a poem about finding a voice—how growing up in a male world and internalizing subtle but searing criticism can produce a self-censor that silences a woman's voice. "Unlearning to Not Speak," her poem is called, and some of you will be taking up that task, will succeed here by discovering your voices, asserting yourselves, doing the hard and important work of learning to speak your truth.

Others will succeed by stilling your voices for a time, learning to modulate them so that you can unlearn to not listen—or learn to listen with every ounce of honesty and empathy you can muster, to listen for ways in which you are similar to and different from that other person down the hall or across the classroom, before you go crashing through a boundary that separates the two of you. That’s the essential work of creating community.

You'll succeed here if you let yourselves grow toward the sun (as you certainly will), and I hope you'll make the time to observe and consolidate that growth, mark where it is you are—intellectually, socially, spiritually:

Keep a journal, meditate, take long walks, dangle your feet in the lake, write poems or letters or email messages to yourself (or to someone else and keep a copy), save quotations or writings or other works of art that speak to you (or create your own), share your joys and struggles with friends—use any and all touchstones that work for you—from your own traditions or from new ones you will discover here.

Cultivate curiosity and interest in many things. Learn to amuse yourself—to find your muse. Try to notice something every day that delights you and takes you by surprise—and try to surprise others—notice what inspires you. Find out what it is you love, and do more of that. Make sure the dreams you dream are big enough to be worthy of you.

Ask yourselves the big questions: What is this life? What is my life? What do I have to offer the world? What are my moral and ethical obligations? How can I make a contribution that will bring me meaning and others comfort or hope? What makes a society good and what can I bring to that? Love the questions and let them work on you, as the poet Rilke counseled, while you live your way into answers, not today, not this year or the one after, but eventually, as your life unfolds. Get enough sleep, too, be generous and gentle with yourselves and with one another.

You'll succeed if you ask yourself what you need from this college to develop into the finest, truest, deepest person you can be. Ask yourself that question from time to time and let us know if you're not finding it. I don't promise that we’ll be able to fix everything, but I do promise we’ll listen. Because the best way—the only way—Wellesley College can make a difference in the world (our most fundamental purpose) is to facilitate the healthy and creative growth of every member of this community.

It’s not always going to be easy. I hope you’re ready for that. There will be times of struggle and distress, times when you will feel anxious, confused, overwhelmed. That is an essential part of the journey you begin today. As you cast yourselves adrift of much of what you think you know, you will at times feel as though you are drifting, alone, at sea. Don’t blame yourself when this happens, when you feel lost. Don’t panic, and don’t worry that something is wrong with you. Hang on and remember that you are doing something very important and very hard—learning to think for yourself, to think critically, learning to examine yourself and your deep beliefs as you bring your inner reality into alignment with a world “out there.”

You will be learning to honor the humanity and diversity of others and to find your own home in the world. You are engaged in an exploration in which the very meaning and purpose of your life is at stake. Of course this will be unsettling, sometimes profoundly so, but it is the work you have come here to do—and it is work you owe yourselves, and owe our common future.

And that brings me to one last obligation we all share (and I would argue the most vital of them all), one other measure of our individual and collective success. Every one of us must ask ourselves regularly not only what we as individuals need from Wellesley College, but also what each of us can give back to Wellesley to make this the best learning community it can possibly be—for everyone. I ask you, please, to ask yourself this question from time to time: What personal, intellectual, cultural, ethical, creative contributions am I bringing this community? Is there more I can do to make this a vibrant, inclusive, challenging place in which we all can learn from each other?

If you do these things, if you ask these questions and live with them, if you are mindful in these ways, if you act, always, as though what you do matters (because it does), then you will surely succeed…at Wellesley and throughout your lives. So, there is serious and important work we will be doing together—learning, questioning assumptions, shaking loose of prejudice, supporting one another in community building and truth seeking. I know you'll do this work faithfully and well. I know we can count on you.

I know, too, from stories I hear from alumnae across the country and around the world, and from my own experience, that among the greatest treasures you will take from this college—and cherish for the rest of your lives—will be the deep and enduring friendships you will nurture here. And some of the most lasting ones have begun this very day.

Do please savor your friendships, take good care of one another, guard your spirits, and save some time for fun, frivolity, and play. For, as important as our serious work is, it is equally important that we not get so bound up in it that we miss the joy along the way. "If you miss the joy of it," Robert Louis Stevenson said, "you miss it all." Rabbi Hillel said it this way: "I get up. I walk. I fall down. Meanwhile, I keep dancing."

Let's make a pact together then—on this penultimate August day as we contemplate the next four years in each other’s company. Let's agree to work hard, to be disciplined and respectful, to take seriously our commitments to ourselves, to one another, to this global learning community, to the powerful legacy of this college which is yours, now, to inherit, reshape, and extend into the future.

And let's promise, too, to save some time for laughter, levity, and love. Let’s be sure to keep on dancing. When you catch me walking around the campus with a distracted or worried look on my face, remind me to lighten up—and I will do the same for you. Welcome to Wellesley College and the very best of luck to each and every one of you. We are so very glad you are here.

And now the poem from the day my daughter went off to Stanford as a first-year student in 1991. As hard as my husband and I tried all that summer to change her mind, she was resolute that she wanted to fly alone to California. She said it was going to be difficult enough, and this would make it easier for her. So we said good-bye at Logan airport. This poem picks up just after we put her on the plane.

Shall we watch the plane take off?
You ask as I try not to cry.
I shake my head no,
And we walk to the car
Unburdened except for the pain.

It's not as though there wasn't time
To see this coming, you say,
Cautiously, half question-half joke, as if to help.
But I am blinded by a loss
Beyond envisioning.

We come to the car, just two of us now
No child to sit in the back.
Empty electric chair at the end of death row.
Let's go back, I blurt. Gently, you say
No. It's time to go on.

It is time to go on. I wish you all a safe journey and God speed. Your daughters are going to thrive here and make you even prouder of them, if that’s possible, than you are right now. Go in peace, and thank you.