Kristine Holmgren

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Wed, 15 May 2013 15:56:00 +0000

The best of times, and the best of times.

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 10 May 2013 08:20:00 +0000

It's the middle of the night and I'm wide, wild, and wooly awake - -

When a person is a playwright, and two of the plays written are about to launch, the playwright often has a difficult time settling down at the end of the day.

So it is for me - right now.

Two plays - two delights -

One, my funny, funny show - SWEET TRUTH - is about to be be "world" launched in Columbia, Missouri at the Berlin Theatre.

And two - my show, EFFIGY - not as funny, but certainly humorous - premieres at my own Minneapolis-based Mixed Blood Theatre in August.

Of course - a reasonable playwright would sleep well under these conditions.

"My work is done," a reasonable person would say. "Time now for Pinot Grigio on the patio at W.A. Frost's."

Instead, I'm wide awake, imagining new scripts and new directions.

One will be with the Minnesota Historical Society and the commission I'm about to begin on our shared, new production with Tim Stolz.

Another is certainly the play I'm revising for a Midwest theatrical producer.

And a third is my stalled, new show "Growing Up Goodrich."

But Goodrich will have to wait for a while.

I'm dreaming of an effigy-laden summer! Tonight I designed the postcards, created the posters and fussed over the Mixed Blood stage diagrams given to me by the delightful Fringe Festival professionals.

The park bench is assembled - a dear friend is creating my "hanging tree" and tying a fresh, hard noose. He does this for me from memory. The Boy Scouts, it seems, teach their Cub Scouts to tie a hang man's noose. Go figure.

And while you're figuring, I'm going to go to bed.

It's been a wonderful, wonderful day - and although I hate it to end, another awaits after a few hours sleep.

My wish for you - that one day you will be as happy as I am.

Never, never walk away from your art.

Dance, sing, create, and dare. In the end it is the only thing that saves us.

I know this. Because art continues to save me.

Soft, wise words

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 00:38:00 +0000

Confessions of an unrepentant tattletale

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 20:05:00 +0000

You'll get no apology from me. If you're doing something against the law and I see it? I'll blow the dang whistle on you.

I did it when I worked for the Minnesota Department of Corrections.

I did it when I worked for a certain women-serving nonprofit cheating its unsuspecting funders. And I'll do it again.

Consider yourself warned.

Don't let me catch you stuffing a box of company paper in your briefcase as you punch out.
I'll tell the boss.

If you're one of those unfortunate parents who insists on taking your exhausted toddler to Cub Foods at four o'clock in the afternoon, you better watch your back.

Don't you dare slap that little bink in front of me. I'll call the frickin' county.

I'm one of those moral fruit cakes you've read about.

I am a whistleblower.

Tattletale as a rightful legacy

I come to this odious behavior honestly.

My mother - bless her self-righteous soul - trained me in the fine art of radical truth telling.

I was seven-years-old when she issued her first order.

"If anyone, " she said, "ever asks you to do anything I wouldn't want you to do - you come home and tell me right away."

Never mind the lack of logical thinking in that demand. I listened. I obeyed.

When ten-year-old Mike Zeller asked me to go into his garage and "pull down" my panties - I told him I had to first ask my mother.

The rest is Goodrich Avenue legend.

Mike, last I heard, was doing time at Moose Lake.

The Zellers moved to California, never to be heard from again.

And I went on to become a professional writer. A notable tattletale.

No one escapes my righteous indignation.

When my children were young, I wrote a column for the Star Tribune.

For the first several years, my girls were a common topic.

Piano recitals. Political slights by the public schools. The charming ways in which their little worlds reflected the larger issues of society. That's what I wrote about.

Then, one day - my seven year old came home from school, fierce in her rage against me.

"I didn't know you wrote stuff everyone reads, " she said.

I reminded her that the circulation of my newspaper was several million readers.

"You have to stop," she said. "Right now."

I assured her that was not going to happen.

"At least," she pleaded, "stop writing about me."

And so - a truce was forged. And I stopped writing about my daughter Grace.

That is - until writing this blog - - where, I guess, I blew the whistle on her.

Which only proves - I'm not to be trusted.

Don't let my sweet smile, my blue eyes, my little-old-lady affect confuse you.

You bring bibles into my public school? I'll call the American Civil Liberties Union. You stop one of my friends from speaking out a school board meeting? I'll call the police.

I do it for our collective good. I do it to make you a better person. I do it because I can't do anything else.

The logic of my whistle-blowing mentality might not resonate with your timid approach to citizenship.

But trust me. You can't trust me.

I'm a frickin' tattletale.

BELIEFNET blows it. Feminism is NOT a dirty word

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 18:55:00 +0000

Seriously, is the F-word offensive? I'm proud to call myself a feminist

As a playwright and pastor, I was delighted to be offered a new blog on a faith site – but not at the expense of my beliefs

Kristine Holmgren

guardian.co.uk,

Tuesday 12 February 2013 12.14 EST

Let me be clear: I'm a feminist playwright and proud of it. I'm also a Presbyterian pastor. I've built a successful career marrying these peculiar, male-defined vocations.

When the faith and spirituality site Beliefnet invited me to blog for them, I was delighted. In my circles, Beliefnet is a well-known resource. Writing for them would add national scope to my own website and blog.

Blending my unique expertise, I suggested the title: "Notes From a Feminist Pastor". But before the ink was dry on the contract, Beliefnet asked me to delete the word "feminist". A Beliefnet representative wrote to me:

"(We're) concerned about the negative connotation that our readers may associate with the word. We'll want this blog to focus more on Christianity/spirituality as opposed to issues related to feminism. What do you think of … 'Sweet Truths with Kristine Holmgren'?"

I told them to take a hike. I can't work where feminism is not celebrated. I'm proud to call myself a feminist.

And why shouldn't I be? Feminism proclaims all people are created equal, irrespective of our gender. It is the simple belief that women are people, entitled to respect, protection and equity under the law.

I'm old enough to remember pre-feminism, and the bad old days before feminism saved us. I remember when newspapers listed employment opportunities under two categories; "help wanted-male" and "help wanted-female".

"Administrative assistants" were men; "secretaries" were women. "Custodians" were men; "maids" were women. Never mind that they did the same tasks. Equal pay for equal work was never a consideration.

I remember my first job interview: the hiring manager asked if I was married, if I planned to marry, my boyfriend's name, his age, his occupation and when I planned to have children. Every question was legal. Not one was asked of the men interviewed.

And I remember when all girls were expected to find a good guy, marry after high school, take their husbands' names, get pregnant and disappear. But my generation of women had other plans for our futures. We were not about to march, lockstep, into motherhood. Nor would we settle for the dead-end, low-paying jobs our older sisters hated and suffered.

Instead, we raised a royal, riotous ruckus. We marched, we yelled, we shut down businesses. We fought for equal rights in the workplace, equal funding for education, for athletics. We fought for abortion rights, equal pay for equal work, protection against sexual and domestic violence.

We did so because it was the right thing to do. We were feminists. And we still are.

Make no mistake, the work we did to bring about social change was done so at great personal sacrifice. Every time a woman rose to speak for freedom of choice a personal reputation was ruined. Even so, my generation of women thought nothing of defending the rights of other women at the price of our own futures. We measured the loss and found it worthy of the gain.

Feminism made us sisters. Individually, we were impotent females. Together, we were a social force.

Historians call us the "second wave" of the women's movement. We were born after women gained the voting franchise. In some ways, our call to action was more difficult than our mother's. Once achieved, the vote will never disappear.

Not so with our accomplishments, apparently. For example, a recent poll by the Pew Research Center, released in January, found that over the past two decades, the further we get from the ruling on Roe v Wade, the less young people appear to know about it. Among those younger than 30, only 44% polled knew the case was about abortion; 16% thought it had to do with school desegregation.

Beliefnet, and its staffers, do not understand the stake in forgetting our history, and trivializing the sacrifice of previous generations. Here's what they told me:

"I agree with the ideals of feminism. But our readers are offended by feminism. And we can't risk offending our readers."

Consider the many titles that offend: "liberal", "environmentalist", "progressive", "humanist" … It's time, I think, to reclaim them all. Time to start calling ourselves who and what we are, with pride and purpose.

Think of how hopeful the world would be if every progressive was proud of the title, eager to find likeminded folks. Imagine your local city council confronting a room full of people calling themselves liberals, without apology. Do you think our common life would be changed if corporations had to contend with outspoken, strong environmentalists, committed to securing a healthy, prosperous planet?

Imagine a world where men, women and children were proud to say who they are and what they believe. It is time to reclaim freedom of thought, freedom of choice, freedom of self-definition.

And it's time to be proud to be feminist.

Cranky no more

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 21:32:00 +0000

For almost ten years, I sat in this same chair in this cafe, writing my opinions for the Star Tribune.

In those days, I never ran short of criticism.

Trained by cranky immigrant Swedes, I grew up watching the world with a wary eye.

When I needed to write social criticism, I had little difficulty.

Inconsistencies were everywhere. Lies, failures, shortcomings, and the ever-present flaws of humanity were ready for the picking. I sat in this little chair and cherry-plucked from the vast and infinite flaws of my little world.

Today, I sit in the same little chair in the same little cafe. I'm sure I'm wearing the same jeans, same sweater I wore fifteen years ago.

What I see, however, is far different from what I saw in those early days.

Art changes everything

Today, my world has no edges. All the sharp contrasts from the past - the things that inspired me to charge into righteous indignation - are muted into common effort.

Writing for the theater changed me from a comely curmudgeon to a near-obnoxious optimist.

Instead of aligning myself with the great, ink-stained wretches of my former career and calling, I align with the bright, careless, lovely and lonely beauties and freaks who affiliate with the stage.

The beautiful people of theatre

When I pick up my pen, I think of the young, beautiful, globe-trotting actor known for her scarves; so much, her friends assume that every lost piece of cloth belongs to her.

I think of the playwright who can only pen what she knows through her long experience as an actor. She writes for those who deliver the goods - and not those who review them.

I think of the director who only works with young people; not because he enjoys them - quite the opposite. He works with the young because if he didn't do so, no one would. And he understands the importance of creativity.

These, and others, came into my life when I stopped criticizing.

And when I started creating.

BeliefNet tells me to not use the "F" word!!

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 03:20:00 +0000

February 7, 2013

Romenesko

Beliefnet tells writer: Don’t use the word ‘feminist’ on your blog

“Guess which Minnesota Playwright was invited to BLOG for Beliefnet?” Kristine Holmgren wrote on Facebook in early January. “Yup! Your favorite cupcake, me!!! I’m negotiating “terms” right now…!”
Beliefnet staffers “were very excited about me” blogging for them,” Holmgren told me on Wednesday, a day after negotiations broke down over use of the word “feminist.” The editors and marketing people “gushed” over her portfolio, which included columns that Holmgren says had been picked up by the Chicago Tribune and Baltimore Sun.
“I said to them [during a group interview], ‘You’ve got to know that I’m a Presbyterian pastor, but I come to the world as a feminist.’ They said, ‘That’s fabulous. We want a wide range of views on the site.’” (Beliefnet, which was briefly a News Corp. property, was acquired by BN Media in 2010. It calls itself “the leading website for spirituality, inspiration and emotional wellness.”)
Two days ago, Holmgren got this email from Beliefnet marketing and business analyst Sharon Kirk:

We’re ready to get started on the header for your blog however first we need the title of your blog and any creative direction you may have (i.e. colors you want to include, any themes, a headshot, etc.). I believe you and Jana previously tossed around a few title possibilities including “Feminist Pulpit Notes.”
While I agree that title is certainly straight forward, I think it would resonate with our readers more if the title was a bit “softer.” Our readers are looking for editorial that’s uplifting, motivational, inspirational, etc. and I think your blog will perform better if the title speaks to that aspect of your blog. Do you have any ideas along those lines?

Holmgren replied: “How about – “Sweet Truth – Thoughts of a Faithful Feminist” – ?”
Kirk had problems with that, too.

I love “Sweet Truth” however I would suggest changing the tag line or deleting all together as I’m concerned about the negative connotation that our readers may associate with the word feminism. In addition, we’ll want this blog to focus more on Christianity/spirituality as opposed to issues related to feminism. What do you think of simply “Sweet Truths with Kristine Holmgren”?

“I think we need a conversation about this,” Holmgren told Kirk. “Please phone me.”
The pastor/writer says she asked Kirk over the phone why she had a problem with “feminist.” The Beliefnet marketer said she didn’t, but that “we know our readers are offended by the word.”
Holmgren tells me: “I asked, Why did you contract with me? I made it very clear who I am. I said, I’m afraid this is a dealbreaker. I said was I stunned. I felt like I was talking to somebody from 1955.” (I emailed and called Kirk for comment, but have not heard back from her. I did the same with Beliefnet marketing vice president Brandy Grenier, who hasn’t replied.)
Holmgren announced to her Facebook friends Wednesday that the Beliefnet deal was off:

I spoke a few moments ago with the contact at BeliefNet. She told me – not only can I not use the word “feminist” in my title, I cannot use it on the blog.

Kristine Holmgren
“The word offends so many people,” she said. She said I should come up with a word that was “softer.” I told her I didn’t think there was anything “softer” than feminism; a word that denotes equality for men and women and respect for children and families. She said “I agree, but. . . ” so I told her their inflexibility on this was a “deal breaker.” She regretted my “feeling” on this (by the way – - this isn’t a “feeling.” It’s a “thought system.” Some people’s kids!!! ) and said, “We can conclude this without rancor.” I said, “Oh, no we can’t.” I’m writing about this one.

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Overheard at a coffee shop; An old woman's wisdom.

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 17:06:00 +0000

When she was a small child, she posed in front of her nursery mirror - fascinated with her reflection. Sometimes she emulated Betty Davis. Sometimes Shirley Temple.

When she was old enough, her mother enrolled her in tap dance classes, hoping to channel some of that ham-bone energy into something constructive.

It worked. Twice each year, the tap school dressed her in frilly, fluff-flounced costumes, put her on stage with a dozen other little show-offs, and together they tapped their way to elementary school stardom.

When she turned 13-years-old, her tap-dance gang joined the downtown YWCA where they spent their Saturdays doing something called "creative dramatics."

Swimming, archery, bowling and hula absorbed their weekends, and she made new friends who introduced her to neighborhoods and families she might never have met and enjoyed.

In high school, she auditioned and was cast in every onstage opportunity. In college, where the competition stiffened, she turned her ambition to philosophy, religion and service.

Now, in retirement, she realizes that her life has always been grounded in the joy and opportunity of performance.

She built a professional life in social work, peppered it with a life-long love of writing and dance. Today - she is an actor.

And last night, a young person asked her for advise.

Sure - it's been easy for you. Your generation, he said, grew up with guarantees. But what about me? No Social Security - no Medicare - no guaranteed pension - no promise of insured savings. How will I ever be happy?

Happiness is sharing your art, she said.

Money, of course, will always be important.

But the secret to happiness, she said, is not money. The secret is living a life grounded in art - in expression - in communication.

Find peace, she said, in practicing your art.

Celebrate it in what you communicate to others.

Share it in the art you create every day.

And never believe the millionaires. Suzy Orman is a liar. Donald Trump is not a role model. Bill Gates is a rare duck.

Don't believe what they tell you and don't believe what they write.

Money does not mean security - and the truth is - you need much less than you now believe. You all ready have everything you need to be happy, she said.

"You all ready have everything you need to be happy, she said."

Joy. It's in you, she said. Share it.

Love. Everyone around you needs what you have, she said. Shower the people - and be kind to yourself.

Peace. Every great thinker and lover knows that this is the yearned-for virtue, she said. So it is for you. Work for it.

If you accept these virtues within yourself, and share them with others - you'll find the money you have is more than what you need.

The greatest quest is the one that leads you to peace.

I finished my decaf - leaned back in my booth and remembered the words written long ago - by another wise, older person.

"Hope, faith and love abide - these three. And the greatest of these is love."

May all your love lead you, this year, to the expression of your "art," the living of your "joy," and the generous seeking after "peace."

GOD GIRL - at the History Theatre

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 16:12:00 +0000

Kristine Holmgren shares the inspiration behind her new career as an emerging Minnesota playwright.

GOD GIRL - a Raw Stages reading at the History Theatre

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Thu, 20 Dec 2012 18:48:00 +0000

Monday, January 7 / 7:00 pm

God Girl

by Kristine Holmgren
directed by Austene Van
Princeton Theological Seminary, 1976. The war in Vietnam is over, the women’s liberation movement is in full swing, and idealistic Kris Holmgren joins the first large population of women seeking ordination into the Presbyterian ministry. Will she survive the cynical, sinister secrets of her new career?

Join the conversation

Following tragedy - What NOT to say to your children

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 20:36:00 +0000

The phone rang at 3 A.M.

I jumped because I know the truth.

Only tragedy phones after midnight.

"Pastor Kristine," the anxious mother cried, "Henry won't come out of the closet. And he has a knife."

Four days prior, six-year-old Henry attended his grandfather's funeral.

I remembered - the little boy seem odd - he smiled too much - giggled too much - and although he held fast to his mother's hand, Henry seemed disconnected from the tragedy of the death experience.

Something, I thought at the time, was not right with little Henry.

"He wants to die."

"He wants to die," his mother said through the phone. "He says he wants to be with his grandfather."

Moments later, when I knocked on the closet door, Henry told me the same thing. If gramps was living now with Jesus, he said - and heaven was a wonderful place - a better place than this place - why couldn't he be there?

Why did he have to live far away from Jesus and without his grandfather?

Adjusting reality

The night ended well.

Henry's mother and I coached him out of the closet, took away his knife - and tucked him into his large, comfortable bed with assurances that heaven can wait.

In the weeks and months to follow, I sat with Henry's family as together we sorted through his odd and innocent view of death and dying.

Following the shooting spree at the elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, I remembered Henry and his family.

This week, across the nation, millions of American parents will face their children's awful, innocent questions about death, dying, violence and evil.

Here are a few things not to say as we construct our answers.

Don't say - "God needed that little child in heaven."

Portraying God as someone who arbitrarily kills children to meet a heavenly quota is a terrifying idea to a child.

Your little child wants to know why things like this happen. To lay the cause of it on God's random desire to snatch a life is frightening to anyone. And you don't believe that - do you?

Consider instead, a more truthful, honest way to support their tiny worlds with comfort.

Say - "Your daddy and I do everything we can to keep you and all of us safe."

Don't tell lies and believe them to be words of comfort.

Don't say - "You're too young to understand."

Children get it.

They know about evil. They believe in boogie men, dragons, monsters under the bed.

They know there are forces out there, bigger than they, meaner than they, with the strict intention to do them harm.

And you're the grown up.

Tell them you know about those forces as well. Remind your child that you are big, strong, capable and able to protect your family.

Remind your child that your job is to take good care of your children.

And you're good at your job.

Don't say - "Go to sleep. Everything will be all right tomorrow."

This is the biggest lie.

If everything will be all right tomorrow, grief has no meaning. If grief has no meaning, the loss of a child is insignificant. And if a loss of a child is insignificant, what value is the life of your own child?

Of course - our children are precious to each of us - and so this is a teaching moment for an important lesson; death is a natural part of our experience as creatures.

When a person dies, our sadness is deep and sometimes hard to bear. The reason for that is this - when someone dies, there is nothing more that can be done to help, save or recover the relationship.

Tell your child that one of the most important things we learn in life is the necessary lesson of saying goodbye and letting go.

Remind your child that you are there to help in the learning.

Don't say - "God doesn't give anyone more than they can handle."

This phrase demonizes those of us who are dealt a terrible hand in life.

The truth is - many, many people face circumstances we cannot handle.

Many of us fall to pieces under the challenge we face. Life is not easy for many of us. We stagger under the burdens of our difficult lives, we fall into irretrievable pain, suffer and fail.

Don't teach your child to trivialize grief with the old "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" mentality.

Instead, teach your child compassion. Teach your child that bad things happen to all of us - and when they do, good people must step forward and be of use.

Teach your child to comfort others.

The best way to do this is to be of real, serious, honest comfort to your family - especially your children.

And please, don't say - "All of this is God's will."

Last time I checked, no one but God knows the truth about divine will.

Don't teach your child that God, or anyone, "wills" the killing of innocent children.

True, there are holy scriptures to support that kind of craziness, but that's a discussion for another time.

Now, in the midst of immediate tragedy, find words of hope, power, and comfort for your child.

Remember - you're the parent in this situation; with obligation and responsibility to protect the heart, soul, and spirit of your little one.

Show your confidence, compassion and concern in the way you respond to death and violence.

What ever happened to Henry?

Today, Henry is a grown man, with two children of his own.

But I can't sugar-coat his story; as a child he was sensitive and imaginative.

Although the death of our grandparents and our parents are natural life-events, Henry was changed by the loss of his grandfather.

As a consequence, even as a grown man, he faces challenges that many of us don't always understand.

I expect the elementary school population of Newtown, CT will carry the same burden.

Our children however, will look at the tragedies of the world through the windows we provide them. The leadership of parenting is a deep source of comfort to our little ones.

And a clear, truthful understanding of the deep meaning of tragedy and death is the greatest resource we can provide.

.

Heartbreak at the holidays - Five ways to cope

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 15:06:00 +0000

Trust me - I know.

Heartbreak over the holidays is worse than a Lake Superior swim in October.

One big difference - a cold dunk in Gitchie Goomie numbs the senses.

Being dumped in December is a "feeling" frenzy. Hallmark commercials break your heart. The question - "What are your plans for New Year's eve?" makes you tear-up.

And "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" is enough to make you reach for the cyanide.

Even so, you can do this thing.

Here are the top five tactics for making it through the holiday with a broken heart.

1. Face up. Grow up. Man up.
Pain can make us misbehave. Drink too much, drive too fast, fall asleep at work.

You might be tempted to inhale four dozen krum kakke in one sitting. You might find yourself attracted to that awful woman in the cubicle next to you - the one who keeps asking you to go to a Scientology lecture.

Or, you might develop an addiction to Drambuie over vanilla ice cream.

None of those things will crack the case. Truth be told, it takes a lot of courage to be sad. But sadness helps us find out who we are; whom we love; who loves us.

Listen to your misery. Let it lead you to your truth.

2. Don't mess with your mind.
This is not the time to "take stock" of your life - your past - your future. Instead, this is a time to turn off all "evaluation" of your sweet, lovely life. Don't let this awful moment be the focus of your holiday. Remember - there are worse things than losing your honey.

When you feel the blues coming at you with a sledge hammer, take a walk or call someone in trouble too - think of others rather than yourself.

Don't fall into the trap of believing you'll never love again, never be happy again, never find your mate. Instead, accept your feelings of hopelessness, despair, fear - and take away the power they might otherwise have. Draw no conclusions. Wait. Everything looks better after January first.

3. Boogie on down to Broadway.
I don't know about you - but music lightens my life. Crank up the tunes, and dance in the kitchen. Sing at the top of your lungs. Rock on with your bad self, and let the endorphins have sway over this grim moment in time. Music, dance and song lift your spirits - and fight back the nasty stress of loneliness.

4. Remember how normal all of this is.
True - sometimes a severe heartbreak can lead a person into full-blown depression. That's not going to happen to you this holiday.

When a person is depressed, nothing matters - no one can help, nothing can save him or her. But you? Everything matters to you. Your pain is your body's way of telling you you're a healthy, loving person.

Don't worry. You're okay, and you'll get over all this.

5. Let yourself "love" the one you still love.
You might think it impossible - but the process of extending your heart to someone whom you have no intention of loving ever again builds your own stability.

Because the relationship is over does not mean life has ended. Your loved one is still alive - you're still here. You can love that person and let him (or her) go.

You don't need to forgive or forget - - you don't need to stay in touch.

But there's nothing wrong with spending a few holiday minutes alone - remembering the one you lost - and wishing the two of you a happy New Year. No matter how badly he or she treated you, you both deserve compassion.

And no matter how hard it is to move forward - take time to live in the "now," and to honor all these experiences.

Finally - breathe!

And remember the words of the old holiday tune; "Next year, all our troubles will be miles away."

Or - as my mother always used to say - "This too, shall pass."

Happy holidays!

Beyond frostbite - or, how to survive a Minnesota winter

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 17:07:00 +0000

Come a little closer Bunky, and I'll tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

There are secrets to living well on the tundra.

Secrets known only the wise, the withered and the wistful.

And global warming has sheltered you, my darling twenty-something, from the truth about Minnesota winter.

Because, my little Bunkster, your childhood was snowless. As a consequence, you've grown up expecting that a flannel shirt alone will provide - that long underwear is only for the sick, old, crazy or stupid.

It's not your fault, snoogie.

Even so, I cannot allow you to wallow in stupidity.

And so, my little punkin' - it's time you faced the truth about Minnesota.

Lean in, Bunky - as your mommy shares the top five skills necessary for surviving an Old Fashioned Minnesota Winter.

# 5 - Accept.

The first step is acknowledging you are powerless over snow.

Snow like this - snow that blocks the door to the deck and freezes shut the garage - snow that damages the roof and frightens the house pets - honey; this kind of snow has an axe to grind. This kind of snow needs someone to put it in its place.

I don't want you to grow up to be the kind of man who chooses to smoke dope in the hot tub rather than shovel the drive way or rake the roof.

I want more for you, Bunky. And so does your father.

So - get out there. Shovel. Shovel until you don't think you can shovel another shovel full.

And accept it, sugar.

It's winter. It's bigger than both of us.

#4 - Respect.

Remember last Christmas? There was no snow - and Grandma tried to sun bathe in the nude. You thought it was funny - but the police had another opinion.

Promise me, Bunky. Promise me you'll be smarter than your father's people.

Respect winter. No matter how whimpy it may be.

#3 - Enjoy!

When you were a little bink, you loved to make snow forts, snow men, snow bunnies.

I promise - no one will call the Carleton College dean and report what you do here, at home, on your Christmas vacation.

So, have at it, Bunkster!! Build your Mommy a snowman. Deck him out with your Daddy's fedora, madras scarf and hookah.

Don't let the snow get you down, sugar.

#2- Exploit!

When I was your age, the young men who wanted to take advantage of me used this weather to the hilt.

Tobogganing the Town and Country golf course after dark - tubing Buck Hill on a bright Sunday morning - snow-shoeing around Lake Josephine in the bright, awful December moonlight - - -

Oh, Bunkster, Bunkster - my darling boy.

Take one of your girls out for one of those activities - and I guarantee you won't be sorry!

Go! Have fun in the snow! Make this a winter to remember.

#1 Defend.

When you grow up and leave this frozen wasteland behind, you will encounter those who - because of their limited exposure to frostbite - fail to appreciate the magic of God's country.

Bunky - wherever you go - don't let anyone trash-talk Minnesota.

A long time ago, before you were a twinkle in your chemically dependent daddy's eye - his ancestors moved here - on purpose.

Those undereducated, desperate Swedes chose Minnesota because the land is so like Sweden; frozen, flat, desolate and cold.

I know, I know.

But Bunky, that's who we are.

So, shoulders back - stand tall! Wear water-wick socks under your Sorrels and keep your goose-down dry.

Be proud, my boy!

You're Swede, you're Minnesotan, you're stubborn and you're a little stupid.

But you know how to survive and thrive in a part of the country everyone else is happy to fly over.

And that's something.

Isn't it?

The amnesia of Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 23:43:00 +0000

When I was a little girl, no one suffered in our house during Christmas.

My mom was a member of the Grand Avenue State Bank's "Christmas Club."

If you were lucky enough to belong, the bank took your Christmas Club account money every week and refused to give it back to you - until December 1st.

Housewives in my neighborhood loved this - because it ensured they had enough to buy their families a wonderful holiday.

My mom loved it best. Without the club, she knew she would forget to save.

"It's amnesia," she said. "I forget Christmas is coming!"

My mom managed to deposit a dollar each week into her Christmas Club account - and let me tell you - when I was a little girl, $52 bought a lot of Christmas for our little family.

My own personal, private "elf"

And Christmas in our house needed every penny.

My dad was a Linotype operator for the Pioneer Press. It was good job, a decent job, a well-paid job. But Christmas was a magical time, and required more from each of us.

And so it came to pass that each year, my father joined-up as one of Santa's elves.

I knew it. My brother knew it. My mom told us so.

"Santa needs people like your dad," she said, "to get all his work done. Look at the beautiful things Santa makes in his shop. Without your father, how could he do it?"

That's how, throughout my childhood, I knew that the meticulously carved, hand-crafted wood-worked gifts I received every year on Christmas morning were made in my own house. By my own dad.

Unique, collectable, wonderful toys - like, a doll-sized bed with real, turned bed posts, painted blue and white; a stool with my name painted in Scandinavian rosemaling; a wagon for my baby doll, with real, rubber wheels painted baby-doll white.

Made for me - by own personal, private "elf."

The disappearing Tiny Tears

My mother too, was in cahoots with Kris Kringle.

Before Thanksgiving, my Tiny Tears doll would disappear. Her name was Grace - she was always with me - and when she went missing, I was lost.

Every year I'd hunt for her, worry for her, cry for her - beg my mother to help me find her. To no avail.

"Maybe Grace went home to visit Santa," she said.

"Maybe Grace went home to visit Santa," she would say. "Maybe she got homesick for the North Pole."

My Christmas amnesia; I never remembered that the identical problem occurred at the identical time the prior year.

And of course - every year - on Christmas morning, there she was; my little Grace - under the tree, decked in a brand new, hand sewn dress, surrounded by mounds of freshly sewn play clothes, home-made sweaters and caps, blankets and shoes.

All of this, because of my mother's Christmas Club - and her holiday budget of $52.

Trying to recreate the impossible

When I started my own family, I wanted to give my girls the same magic my parents provided.

And so, every year, I set aside my own "Christmas Club" fund.

To this day, I stash a dollar here, a fifty there - and hope that the end of the year I'll have enough to lavish a grand and unforgettable holiday upon my own children.

But something always gets in the way.

One year, the car broke down. I had to use the holiday cash to repair the transmission and rebuild the carburator.

Another year, the downstairs bathroom pipes burst, and all my "Christmas Club" cash went out the door with the clean-up crew.

This year, I have to use the Christmas Club money to replace damaged, dangerous carpet in my basement.

And so it happens - every year, about this time - I apologize again to my children. I'm sorry the holiday won't be grand. I'm sorry I don't have the money to make it lavish. I want it to be magical- I want it to be remembered.

And every year they say the same thing.

Christmas all ready is magical. Every Christmas day memorable.
My gifts are special, and every moment precious.

Their words shake away my amnesia. I remember what two simple people did with $52 and a lot of imagination.

If my parents could be Santa's elves, so can I.

And so - this year - no apologies. I'm going to remember what my amnesia seduces me to forget.

The blessings of the holiday are bigger than the limits of our wallets. It doesn't take a grand bank account to make a grand Christmas memory!

From my little house to yours - Merry Christmas, and happy, happy New Year!

What happened to Kristine??

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 02:15:00 +0000

Hang in there! Don't forget me! The playwright schedule is a bit overwhelming right now. . but I expect to post new insights soon.

Have a fabulous holiday season!

The hard sell on marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 28 Oct 2012 00:00:00 +0000

Off I went last night - excited to phone "undecided" voters and persuade them to vote NO on the marriage amendment.

Unless you've been under a rock for the past six months, you know what I'm talking about.

This past year, the Minnesota State Legislature passed the following amendment to the state Constitution. The voters, however, are the ones who must pull the trigger to give it power.

"Shall the Minnesota Constitution be amended to provide that only a union of one man and one woman shall be valid or recognized as a marriage in Minnesota?"

I say "no."

Not because I think gays and lesbians should marry if they choose - although I do.

Not because I believe in polygamy or bestiality or whatever other weirdness the Religious Right promises will ensue - although I don't.

I say "no" because I don't want my constitution messing with this part of the social contract between men and women. I like things the way they are - flexible, free, and open to the nuance of history.

I learned last night, however, that my reasons for supporting the defeat of this amendment are impotent.

The campaign has its own reasons. And they have little to do with freedom, societal contracts or the legitimate construction of constitutional content.

We were, in the main, Baby Boomers - all.

Messing with my head

Of course, the ten of us who showed up to phone filled the little office, unaware.

We were leftie Baby Boomers - all. Balding, greying, plumping, daring-to-drive-at-night Social Security recipients; traveling with satchels of organic produce and water, bottled to our own containers - to help us make it through the night.

We were promised a "training," and we got it, all right.

Our trainers were two overly-pierced and hipster attired youngsters. The girl was tall, thin, mini-skirted and grim. She wore black tights (of course), black boots, and gloves with the fingers torn free to expose black fingernail polish, nibbled to the raw.

Her partner was an eggheadian guy, wearing Dave Letterman glasses, oversized black tennie-bumpers and a grim, flannel shirt.

They were the first to break the bad news to us.

We needed, they said, to put away our preconceived reasons for opposing the amendment. Hearts and minds are not moved, they said, by concern for civil liberties - individual freedom - the protection of the constitution.

Using a tactic that works with the undecided

Instead of talking about "rights" and "laws," we needed to talk about our personal relationship with marriage.

"Think of your own relationships," the young male hipster instructed. "Think of all the good things it brings you. Think how sad it would be if only heterosexual couples could experience what you've experienced."

"We want you to - you know - say good things."

A gray, bearded old guy in the back of the room coughed and raised his hand.

"I ain't never been married," he said, "and I ain't never seen a good one neither."

The hipster smiled.

"What about your own parents?"

"Assholes," the man coughed again, and we all laughed.

Sitting beside him, a straight-backed, elegant bottle-brunette in a Chico's silk top and Ecco shoes shook her head and waved at the girl hipster.

"You married?" she asked.

The young girl shook her head. No - she wasn't married.

"Well, I don't recommend it." the old woman said. "I've been married three times. How am I supposed to get on the phone and tell anyone marriage is a good thing?"

"Who's idea is all this?" the man in the back barked.

"None of us is here to 'recommend marriage,'" said a gentleman in tweed trousers, a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows. "We're here to support the Constitution."

The hipsters glanced at each other; a furtive, calculating glance.

Three people in the front row stood - gathered their bottles and bananas and exited.

No one called them back.

"Here's the script," scrambled the anxious girl hipster, as she hustled to pass-out a paper covering the evening's talking points.

"You can study it," she said. "It's only a suggestion. You're free, you know. You can talk about the constitution - whatever - if you want."

"But we want you to - you know," said the boy, "say good things about - you know - about, well - about marriage."


No - she wasn't married.

The poor guy. We could see it. He was so disappointed in us.

I felt the mood in the room shift.

Disapproval from young people is hard for any Boomer to accommodate.

"It's okay," the brunette leaned forward in her chair."We can do this, honey. We're cranky, that's all. Pay no mind to us."

"That's right, that's right," the others chimed.

"We'll follow your little script" the brunette confirmed. "No biggie."

So it came to pass that last night, a room full of cynical elders, phoned several hundred strangers and lied to them - bold faced - about their affection for the proverbial tie-that-binds.

I heard them as they dialed and chatted.

Marriage, they said, is a beautiful thing.

Do you know someone gay or lesbian? Do you think that one day they might want to be as happy in their relationship as you are in yours?

Why deny them the elegant bliss of matrimonial heaven?

Why, indeed, I thought.

Everyone deserves the right to experience the raw disappointment, gut wrenching disillusionment and hard, cold misery that only married love can bring.

Gay, lesbian or straight.

Imaginary worlds are the best

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 04:30:00 +0000

A new play is a new planet - populated by the strange and the ordinary.

Pulling a story to stage draws down the abstract and concrete parts of the creative process.

A tale cannot be told without a decent setting.

A character cannot initiate or respond without good, strong motivation. And a plot cannot develop without an underlying lesson.

I love writing plays.

More than critical, social commentary, writing for the theatre offers an opportunity to review, revise and revisit reality.

For over ten years, I paid serious, important attention to media - listening for inspiration, seeking a hook upon which to hang a critical view of my world.

Writing a play is the direct opposite.

Now, instead of paying attention, I ignore the news. Instead of seeking to criticize, I yearn to inspire.

It's a loftier calling.

Granted - it makes a woman a little crazy. Imagine, if you can, what my day is like.

I rise early, walk my adorable dog, do what must be done around my house.

I pack a bag and travel to my coffee shop. For the next four hours, I no longer live in St. Paul, Minnesota. I have no children, no responsibilities, no obligations, no bills, no worries, no fear.

For the next four hours, I live in la-la-land.

Sometimes, sitting there alone, I speak aloud the lines my characters bring to life.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit."

Or -

"You don't have the good sense god gave a gopher."

I know. My stuff ain't Shakespeare.

It's Holmgren.

"

The one who got away

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Thu, 25 Oct 2012 19:36:00 +0000

All the leaves are brown - and the sky is grey.

You know the drill - and I've got the funky chicken woman blues.

My old boy friend, Jim Anderson, was the first to call them out for what they are.

Jim was a University of Minnesota summa cum laude graduate and a fabulous pick-up hockey player.

I loved him for almost a decade.

He was a classic Minnesota boy - blond and blue eyed. Everyone thought we were brother and sister. And honey, the man knew funk when he saw it.

I remember one particular October afternoon, as the blues began to overwhelm me - he took my face in his powerful hands, looked me in the eye and said -

"Honey girl - you are as funky as an old chicken woman."

He, of course, was right. He was always right.

He was so right I had to dump him and marry someone wrong.

Funky chicken woman blues

I have the funky chicken woman blues.

When a woman gets to my age (old enough for Social Security and young enough to still be able to make a living), autumn is a tough season.

Old ghosts come to call.

Women of my generation don't need Halloween to visit the living-dead.

The first, raw chill of October, the unforgiving slap of freezing rain, the impossible pile of unmovable, wet oak, elm and maple leaves - everything seems to conspire to the land of the funky chicken.

And let's be frank - living alone makes a woman peculiar. I know this. Being a playwright doesn't help. I spend my afternoons in coffee shops, documenting the conversations of imaginary people and calling it art.

For cryin' out loud.

Wherever he is, I'm sure my adorable Jim Anderson sighs in relief when he thinks of me. His days are probably filled with gratitude for his narrow escape.

Even so, when the birch tree sheds her last, dead leaf - and when the robins begin to dwindle at the bird feeder, I think of Jim Anderson.

He hated pretense. He loved ideas.

And once upon a long time ago - he loved me.

Those who can, can't help themselves.

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 21:07:00 +0000

Maybe it's the changing of the light - the coming of winter. Maybe it's Obama - maybe it's my hunger for his extinguished fire.

Maybe it's because Sheila Shanley has been dead for ten years - and my mother has been dead for almost twenty.

Whatever the reason, during this past week, I've been miserable.

No. Not miserable. The word miserable is too strong.

During this past week, I've been creatively challenged.

What we don't know CAN hurt us.

Of course - like most funky times - I suffered in ignorance. I had no idea what was troubling me - perhaps something material, mechanical or maniacal.

I thought I could fix it by raking leaves. Mopping the kitchen floor. Throwing on four loads of laundry. Reading a good book.

I began to think the root of the funk was financial. I thought I should get a part time job - pull down some cash.

I did all that. The funk hung fast.

Until today. Today, I went back to work. I'm working on my new play, GROWING UP GOODRICH.

Like magic, the fog lifted. The sunniness of my disposition returned. Coffee tasted better. My bank account no longer freaked me.

To hell with sex, drugs, rock'n'roll.

Writing is my Kick-a-Poo Joy Juice.

Taking my own good advice.

I once taught a class at THE LOFT LITERARY CENTER entitled, "Monday Morning Blues Buster."

(The title, I believe, became the inspiration for the name of the Northfield coffee shop - one of my legacies to Rice County!)

The course was designed to jump-start stymied, stuck, bored and burned-out writers into a new frame of mind. I taught it because I'm the only writer I know who is never, ever "blocked." I always, always have something to write, something to say.

Only a portion of it is worthy of consumption, of course - but nonetheless, I'm a frickin' font of wisdom.

I remember my dismay - my surprise - my genuine shock - at how many writers complained about the pain of writing.

"I hate to start," one person said, "because I hate to re-write. And everything is so terrible, I know I'll have to re-write."

"What if I fail?" asked another. "What if I'm no good at it?"

"I experience physical pain," one compained, "in my soul, my heart. And of course - my back! Writing gives me SUCH a back ache!"

After six hours of this, I cracked.

"Look," I said. "No one is holding a gun to your head. No one is forcing you to write. If you hate it, stop. If it makes you suffer, don't write. Give it up. Try water colors."

Needless to say - I offered the course only once. I had so little to offer.

Rockin' on with my bad self.

My play GOD GIRL is ready for the next step.

GOD GIRL is ready for the next step at The History Theatre - where it was selected for RAW STAGES production, January 7, 2013.

PAPER DADDY, while dormant, is tighter, leaner, better than when it premiered in Northfield.

SWEET TRUTH awaits my revising review - The Berlin Theatre expects a rewrite in February.

But right now, GROWING UP GOODRICH has my undivided attention.

The story of the 1957 Midwest printers' strike; the hardship imposed on Minnesota families - the violence, the anger, the fear and the dread that visited my optimistic Swede parents - is a story that will resonate with Baby Boomers and the children who struggle to understand our idealism.

Write to bring to the light.

Of course - that's not why I'm writing it.

This play, like all the others, has a life of its own. The characters scream for release - push and strain for freedom. The plot shapes as my mind swims in detail.

Damn, I love this life!

A pen, a great pad of paper, a clear mind and the time to write -
There is no angst in my wonderland.

An Election Day of "NO" When We Mean "YES" - Same Sex Marriage and Voter Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 15:52:00 +0000

Unless you're intellectually challenged, educationally stunted, emotionally vague or dispositionally stupid, you understand the positive message behind the negative word.

Peppered around Minnesota, orange and blue signs encourage you to vote "no" on two constitutional initiatives.

Counter intuitive - yes? (Or - do I mean, "Counter intuitive - no?")

One might think "YES" is a positive thing. Think again. Sometimes (in this case!) your YES shuts down your freedoms - and mine.

Two initiatives - one to limit the freedom to "marry" to one man and one woman.

The other - to insist that everyone who casts a ballot in Minnesota carry photo identification.

I'm not a lesbian (although, if you GOOGLE my name, you'll see how many times I am labeled such!) and I'm carry a photo I.D. So - technically, I have no dog in this fight.

I am, however, free. And I hope to stay free as long as possible.

(Granted - one day my adorable children might choose to confine me to a facility where I'm strapped into a wheel chair and fed three meals of pureed beets and chicken vomit. Until then, I'm hanging tough to the little freedoms I own!)

Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose.

A big part of my freedom (and yours!) is the freedom to engage in normal, acceptable loving relationships - where the world joins you - and calls you "good." ( I lose nothing. You lose nothing.)

Another part of my freedom (and the freedom we all share in this great land!) is the ease, comfort and accessibility of our most treasured franchise - the vote. (I lose nothing. You lose nothing. Get it?)

Many elderly people no longer have photo identification. Many African Americans and new immigrants do not own cars - and do not carry photo identification.

Until recently, I did not know that the Department of Motor Vehicles issues photo identification to all citizens - for a small fee. And if I did not know this simple fact, I'm certain - dead certain - that a majority of underprivileged, undereducated, under-represented Minnesotans do not know it either.

You may not like the fact that all Minnesotans are welcomed at the voting booth. Stupid people - poor people - handicapped people - illiterates - incompetents - the blind - the deaf - the amputee; the many miscreants you don't like and don't want your daughter dating.

But hey, Bunky. This is American. Land of the free - home of the imperfect.

And last time I checked, when all Minnesotans vote - we all win.

Even when we vote in the negative.

This time - two "NO" votes - and the "yes" wins!

THE PLAYWRIGHT AS MURDERER

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 16:04:00 +0000

Audiences are not stupid. They buy a ticket, go to the theater with one purpose in mind; entertainment.

As the playwright, your first (and only) job is to entertain. If you write well, your work might also inspire and educate.

But do not be confused; if your audience is not first entertained, your play is dead.

Playwrights are clever little murders.

We, unknowing, kill our characters, our plot-lines, our scripts as casually as you slop together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for your five-year-old.

FIRST RULE - LET YOUR PLAY LIVE!

Below are three writing devices that feel like script writing. They're not. Instead, they're cheap, easy ways to murder your script.

Any time you find yourself “writing” any of the following devices into your work, stop. Replace them with actual writing, and your script will live.

We don't need no stinkin' narrator.

1. A SCHLOCKY NARRATOR –

Hey, we don’t need no stinkin' narrator.

True - a monologue is easy to write, easy to stage. But for your audience, a monologue is cheap and boring.

Ask any Artistic Director what he or she thinks of monologue.

Instead of telling us how your actors reached your dramatic moment, show us.

Show us how they feel about each other through actual behavior in a scene. Make them individuals, not narrations.

2. THE BREAKDOWN

I don’t know how this one got started, but I see it everywhere.

It begins about halfway through ACT I - a secondary character has some kind of an irrational, ridiculous, physical and/or emotional breakdown. Some playwrights place it before intermission, thinking the audience cares.

The audience, however, is not stupid. The audience knows when you are sinking to cheap manipulation. And emotional breakdown is not a common, human experience - and so, to your audience, it has no meaning.

Breaking down is not actual behavior.

Why? Because most of us cope with our lives. To the majority of us, breaking down is not actual behavior. Instead of throwing one of your characters into a crazy-ass breakdown, meet your audience where they live

Show them the nuanced, internal dynamics that lead to existential despair, confusion, pain or sadness. In doing so, you'll challenge your actors, inspire your director and move your audience.

Yup. Show. Don't throw!

3. GAY, LESBIAN, TRANSGENDER PLOTS

Oh, my god.

Once - - once! - - - I'd like to go to a "festival of plays" and exit without (once again) being lectured, taught, trained, informed, on the many, many, many struggles faced by our gay, lesbian, transgender and queer brothers and sisters.

Lest I sound intolerant - - read on!

Writing a play about the GLBT community (even if you are a member of the community!) is now, officially, overdone.

We're all on the side of the angels!

We'ver heard it all - and listen to me. . . WE ALL AGREE!! We're all on the side of the angels on this one!

Theatre-going audiences are among the most accepting, educated, sophisticated audiences in our communities.

If you, as a playwright, hope to reach them, it is important you step outside the cliche of our time and into the unexplored, dangerous world of original story telling. Try to shock your audience by not trying to - well - shock your audience.

Time, my friend, to integrate GLBT characters into your scripts as the accepted individuals they are in our communities.

Aren't you tired of putting all our "weird" stuff on GLBT folks? In my experience, some of the strangest people I've known are so heterosexual, they should be in prison!

Let some of them share the weirdness of our collective tales of challenge, decay, glory and redemption.

Stories that expose our GLBT friends as uniquely perverse bore your audience.

I know, I know. . . there are stories to tell about the GLBT struggle. Bullying in schools, discrimination at work, equality in marriage - blah, blah, blah.

Sorry, bunky. We've heard them all.

This is not to say - if you have an original take on this theme - bring it!

Beware, however - the choir has been preached to, one too many times. Your plot must contain a real story - - not another sermon to the all-ready-converted.

Speaking of which. . .

Do you have any idea how hungry your audience is for a real story? A real plot - with real conflict? Something that reflects our real, common humanity?

Struggle with this one, kids. You'll be happy you did.

Your audience will rise up - and call you blessed!

Why I continue to dream

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 14:58:00 +0000

Fear is a liar. Running from fear gives power to lies.

We needn't run. All we need do is believe in our dreams, and the lie is defeated. We are Americans. Our dreams are our destiny.

When we believe something - firm and clear - we live as though our beliefs were common reality. And of course - they soon become so.

This process is not as simple as many believe - because "the liar" is ever-present.

The past two weeks, our nation has been over-exposed to the political agendas (or lack, therein) of those who wish to be our national leaders.

Our trickle-down economy has failed; our financial institutions have turned against us and our Capitalism has matured to mediocre meanness.

During awful times it is often comforting to be lied to - to blame the stranger, the immigrant, the African American, the women, the irresponsible young, the lazy, the poor.

But blame leads to fear - and fear is a liar. Living with lies makes us shallow people.

Once again, I choose hope. I choose the dreams of my generation; the people stuffed into overcrowded elementary schools in the 1950's - crammed into Sunday Schools and Hebrew Lessons and Catechism throughout our childhood - called to action by an unjust war, racism and the horrific pain of our emotionally unavailable WWII dads and their lonely wives.

I choose the hope we carved out of the conformity of an industrial age. I choose our poets, our actors and our scientist - who opened the universe to our imagination and our energy. I choose the future my generation has always chosen; laced with joy and pride - messages of courage and the challenge of being a real human being.

Don't be afraid. If fear were the truth, we'd know it by now.

You know what's right. You know what's true. Go. Live in the sunshine.

Be like a Baby Boomer.

Dream.

First, you bite your nails

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 22:32:00 +0000

Hey - let's get something straight.

I'm not all that excited about telling my own, true story - on these pages, or anywhere else. I'm a playwright. I don't do memoir. I do comedy.

So when the Minnesota History Theatre first approached me with the idea of writing about the horrendous sexism I faced during my early years as one of the first women in the Master of Divinity program at Princeton Theological Seminary (PTS), I demured.

We were normal.

I could write it funny. I could write it wild. But could I write it true?

I'm sure going to try.

My new play - GOD GIRL- is a comedy/drama stroll down memory lane.

The play explores my experiences as a member of the PTS class of 1979. We were the first with a large population of women; thirty one percent.

Prior to our class, only a handful of odd, crazy female pioneers were admitted.

Those poor things; imagine classrooms where you are the only woman in a cloud of men. Now, imagine all the men are professionally religious. Get it?

When we were admitted, those poor women were so happy to see us they offered to clean our dorm rooms to make certain we would stay.

They loved us, I think, because we were so normal. We were happy women - great friends to each other. Few of us - only a few - were crazy, right wing-nuts. None of my friends were fundamentalists. Some were agnostic - attractive, critical thinkers.

We dressed in cool, groovy clothes and jogged in the afternoon. We practiced yoga and formed "consciousness raising groups."

We decided, as a group, we would not have sex with any man at Princeton.

Princeton SEMINARY, that is.

But who wants to hear about those good old, bad old days?

Hard story to tell - harder to live through

As tough as it was to live through those awful times, they are excruciating to remember.

These days, I'm writing (what I hope to be) the final version of this play - and for the first time, I'm revealing that I attended PTS as a divorced woman.

Yup.

A divorced woman, in 1975, seeking a credential to be a Presbyterian pastor.

I thought long and hard.

In those days, I thought long and hard before I revealed the awful secret about myself.

A divorced woman might not have a place at the table. Churches were known to release, shame and humiliate men who went through divorces. What would they do to a woman, all ready tainted?

The truth, and nothing but the truth - so help me You Know Who.

I've been working on this play for over three years.

The first version was a full-tilt-boogie musical; book and lyrics by Yours Truly.

The GOD GIRLS were a kick line of female seminarians. Each had a story to tell.

Think; A Chorus Line - set at Princeton.

The second version was a free-wheeling drama; telling the ugly story of the dark, underbelly of the seminary leadership. A tale of child abuse, incest, corruption and greed so ugly, the History Theatre pleaded with me to change directions.

My final version is so close to the bone it hurts. The truth. Nothing but the truth. With a little humor to help the medicine go down.

I hope you will like it.

The last homecoming queen

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 23:37:00 +0000

I worshiped her for her hair.

She was a tall woman - taller than most of us.

And beautiful. Naturally beautiful.

Her name was Sandy.

She was a senior at Macalester College, and I was only a freshman; a chubby-cheeked, trying-too-hard freshman.

Those were tough days for me. My mother was a single parent and we didn't have money for dorm life. So, like a few other geeky nerd girls at Macalester, I attended classes during the day - and lived at home.

That wasn't the end of my suffering. I had other problems; chin acne, front teeth too big for my adolescent jaw.

And I still hadn't found the right bra to arrest my jiggle when I walked across campus.

It was 1969, and I was working hard on figuring out who I was and what I would do with my life.

Even then, even with all the silly post-adolescent distractions, I knew I wanted to die leaving behind something better. I wanted my college years to count - I wanted to become some one, some thing, some how.

And I wanted to do it looking more like Candace Bergen than Zelda Gilroy.

Surrounded by hair - and admirers

I grew up in corn-fed Minnesota, where girls with heavy, round faces and thin, floppy blond hair was the norm.

There was nothing heavy, round or floppy about Sandy. She was lean and lanky, a marvel of nature.

The rest of us lugged our back packs across campus, on our way to important lessons in political science and the history of civil unrest.

Sandy had a boyfriend.

Sandy didn't schlep text books like the rest of us. She was too smart for lecture notes - too cool for that kind of action.

I didn't worship her, however, for her smarts. I worshiped her for her hair.

The most striking thing about Sandy was her long straight, glistening curtain of gold. Parted in the middle, it fell down her back in a clear, unencumbered cascade of beauty.

It was the longest, most beautiful head of hair I've ever seen.

The first time I saw her was at the off campus student's hangout - the Grill at Macalester College. When she walked into the room the coolest guys dropped their cheese sandwiches - turned - and stared.

Wide, floppy bell bottoms, slung low on her narrow hips, arms free, moving in graceful cadence with each stride, Sandy was the quintessential flower child.

She strode to the center of the cafe, and sat on the floor. Within minutes, five, six other girls followed her lead. And so Sandy sat on the floor, surrounded by a few other girls, the boys who loved her - and her hair.

Six, eight, ten inches of steaming, flaxen silk lay around her. As she talked, laughed, listened, I watched her pick up a handful here, untangle the ends there, brush the dust from these golden strands and toss her hair back on the ground.

All of this - and a man too.

Wherever Sandy was, I couldn't look away. Something there was about her that fascinated me. How long did it take to grow her hair to her butt? And how did she keep it so glistening? So free? My hair landed on my shoulders and refused to grow further. What did she eat? Did she take vitamins? what was her secret?

And where did she meet her boyfriend?

Sandy became our homecoming queen.

He was her match; beautiful, intense, dark, brooding, and so hip it hurt.

My friends called him "Jeremy" - and that might have been his name.

Then again - it might have been Bob, for all I know. Jeremy was a fantasy name for the ideal hippie boy.

And his name didn't matter. Sandy and Jeremy were together, for all the world to see.

My friends and I were the world - and we were eager to see.

Tough times

Macalester College - like every other institution of higher learning - went through an identity crisis in 1969.

The students - all of us - resisted traditions that represented the old order.

The cruel war was raging in Vietnam. When our boys graduated Macalester, if they didn't have decent deferments through marriage or a stint at seminary, they would be cannon fodder for the North Vietnamese.

With such considerations, we didn't take much stock in things like homecoming, football and the rituals of our dying innocence. We were focused on the weekly, silent, black-shirted protest we created every Wednesday on Grand Avenue; the "Honeywell Project," where we attempted to shut-down Minnesota's link to the arms industry; and the weekly protests throughout the city, shouting, singing and sitting for peace.

Macalester students didn't have time for homecoming.

I think it was Jeremy who first suggested it. The rest of us went along, gladly

Sandy became Macalester College's homecoming queen that year; the last homecoming queen in the history of the college.

I didn't go to the game - I didn't see Sandy crowned and celebrated. I wasn't a part of the community in those days - I didn't have anyone to sit with - the right poncho to wear.

And I didn't smoke dope.

Like so many other "off campus" students, I stayed home that night with my mom. We watched Perry Mason on television, made Chef Boyardee pizza and worked on the socks we knit each year for the rest of the family's Christmas.

I heard that Sandy and Jeremy got married.

I heard that Jeremy and Sandy got married. I like to think it was a hippie wedding, with hippie clothes, hippie jewelry and hippie vows.

"I do my thing - you do your thing - and if we meet each other, it's beautiful."

or -

"For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health - as long as we both shall love."

Time marches on. . .

Sandy, wherever she is today - is in her late '60's.

Old enough to be a grandmother.

She probably cut her long hair decades ago.

In my memory, however, she will always be Macalester's flower child; sitting on the floor, surrounded by the adoration and solicitation of lesser beings.

In my imagination, she is perpetual summer; shimmering and free.

The last of a tradition of women, and the last queen of my alma mater.

An old song with new babies!

noreply@blogger.com (Kristine Holmgren) — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 23:41:00 +0000

Kristine Holmgren

The best of times, and the best of times.

Soft, wise words

Confessions of an unrepentant tattletale

Consider yourself warned.

Tattletale as a rightful legacy

No one escapes my righteous indignation.

Which only proves - I'm not to be trusted.

BELIEFNET blows it. Feminism is NOT a dirty word

Seriously, is the F-word offensive? I'm proud to call myself a feminist

As a playwright and pastor, I was delighted to be offered a new blog on a faith site – but not at the expense of my beliefs

Cranky no more

Art changes everything

The beautiful people of theatre

BeliefNet tells me to not use the "F" word!!

Comments

Overheard at a coffee shop; An old woman's wisdom.

GOD GIRL - at the History Theatre

GOD GIRL - a Raw Stages reading at the History Theatre

Join the conversation

Box Office Hours

Directions

Following tragedy - What NOT to say to your children

"He wants to die."

Adjusting reality

Don't say - "God needed that little child in heaven."

Don't say - "You're too young to understand."

Don't say - "Go to sleep. Everything will be all right tomorrow."

Don't say - "God doesn't give anyone more than they can handle."

And please, don't say - "All of this is God's will."

What ever happened to Henry?

Heartbreak at the holidays - Five ways to cope

Beyond frostbite - or, how to survive a Minnesota winter

# 5 - Accept.

#4 - Respect.

#3 - Enjoy!

#2- Exploit!

#1 Defend.

The amnesia of Christmas

My own personal, private "elf"

The disappearing Tiny Tears

Trying to recreate the impossible

What happened to Kristine??

The hard sell on marriage

Messing with my head

Using a tactic that works with the undecided

Imaginary worlds are the best

The one who got away

Funky chicken woman blues

Those who can, can't help themselves.

What we don't know CAN hurt us.

Taking my own good advice.

Rockin' on with my bad self.

Write to bring to the light.

An Election Day of "NO" When We Mean "YES" - Same Sex Marriage and Voter Freedom

Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose.

THE PLAYWRIGHT AS MURDERER

FIRST RULE - LET YOUR PLAY LIVE!

1. A SCHLOCKY NARRATOR –

2. THE BREAKDOWN

3. GAY, LESBIAN, TRANSGENDER PLOTS

Speaking of which. . .

Why I continue to dream

First, you bite your nails

We were normal.

My new play - GOD GIRL- is a comedy/drama stroll down memory lane.

Hard story to tell - harder to live through

I thought long and hard.

The truth, and nothing but the truth - so help me You Know Who.

The last homecoming queen

I worshiped her for her hair.

Surrounded by hair - and admirers

Sandy had a boyfriend.

All of this - and a man too.

Sandy became our homecoming queen.

Tough times

I heard that Sandy and Jeremy got married.

Time marches on. . .

An old song with new babies!