From Jo:
Wendy Wasserstein died on my 30th Birthday. In some strange way her passing was both cruel and poetic. As I settled into my 2nd year at Beacon, my marriage was ending, my career making an unalterable shift, and my creative superhero was unexpectedly gone.
You see, I took this “temporary” teaching job to meet the needs of my partner’s career trajectory - so we could have a medical insurance as working artists - maybe even have a baby. At the time I thought I might pursue an MFA in Playwriting, or in Dramaturgy, or some other path that would return me to working in the professional theatre – when it was my turn. I called myself a feminist at the time too. Oy.
That was 14 years ago. The Heidi Chronicles is my thirtieth B’DAT Production.
Wendy Wasserstein should be 67 years old. Her powerful voice should be a salve for these challenging times. She should be nominated for another Pulitzer. She should be living in Brooklyn, eating a bagel, speaking at Women’s Marches, teaching at Columbia, raising her daughter and writing more plays that hold us accountable for losing focus of intersectional ideals. Wendy Wasserstein’s absence in the American Theatre is profound.
But looking back at The Heidi Chronicles from the present is like looking into the mind of a prophet – she knew. She KNEW the next wave was imminent. She knew the first, the second, the third would not be enough. Through the characters in the play she anticipates the present like a dang lady boss. I’m heartbroken that she’s not alive to challenge the current administration, the media influencers, and what contemporary feminism has become in all of its messy glory. But also, I wish she was here to see things like the waning of the AIDS Crisis, marriage equality, the #metoo movement, and the Parkland teens. But then I see Georgia and Brittany and Carmen and Hawa and Serena and Sydney and Morgan and I know that she’s right here. Children will listen. Hard.
The realization that Wendy Wasserstein’s daughter is exactly the same age as our senior class blew my mind. They might go to college together. Meet at a party. Date. The next wave is IN THE ROOM and they are NOT having it. They were raised by parents, like our playwright, who taught their daughters the same things they taught their sons. Parents who understand the difference between humanist and feminist and made sure their children do too. Parents who knew the M.R.S. degree is NOT a PhD and frankly shouldn’t be.
Some might argue that I stayed at Beacon so long because I too “covet my independence”. Here I captain my own little ship in our little off-broadway school. But in reality I stay for the perennial arrival of Heidis and Peters and Scoops and Frans and Susans who expand the size of my heart, and my potential, every season. Being part of the village that raises them has been the greatest honor of my unexpected and uncommon life. Making theatre after all is all about the community and we certainly can’t change the world working alone. So on this Mother’s Day weekend, I’d like to dedicate this one to all the mamas, for doing right by your girls - and your boys - and for welcoming me into your families and your lives.
The Future IS Female. Imagine that.
Rock on.
