Caleb Levin, Odin Vega, Lyla Randall in Fun Home; directed by Logan Ellis; photo by Marc J Franklin

Serious Playtime at Huntington Theater’s “Fun Home” November 14 – December 14, 2025

A serious yet playful reimagining of parental memory through surreal childhood dreams conflating with the imposition of adult reality

The winner of five Tony Awards including Best Musical, Fun Home is a beloved, groundbreaking, and soulful story of conceiving your parents by way of adult point of views. Constructed from Alison Bechdel’s best-selling graphic memoir, the musical unearths Alison through childhood, college, and adulthood as she decrypts her coming-out story, and her compounded relationship with an astute, labile, and closeted father. How have the mysteries of her father’s life shaped her own discernment of love and integration of her lesbian identity? With a lofty score by Jeanine Tesori and a terse, emotionally charged book by Lisa Kron, Fun Home is a mesmerizing, must-see theatrical experience, directed by Logan Ellis.

Among the multifarious thematic spirits of the unfeigned theatrical biographical missive ‘Fun Home’ (inspired by the popular comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For), which is a play on words meaning ‘Funeral Home’, is a rip roaring song and dance journey into a childhood past to come out soaring into the greater understanding of present day adulthood. It explores how we perceive our parents from our childhood perspectives and how we come to understand them better through adult introspection. Through the plays’ use of the musical genre, it was able to achieve magical dreamlike moments that may have otherwise proved to be a challenge. The main characters’ understanding of her mysterious complex and brilliant father left me feeling a need to understand his obscure sense of aloofness myself. His perhaps deliberately vague characterization left me with a queer desire to learn more about his enigma, much like the way some of us feel about our own fathers.

Amidst all the adult complexities of parental woes and domestic tensions, growing up, navigating college life while discovering her budding sexuality, the main characters constant presence on stage to explain in a literal sense the multitudinal stages of her life effectively kept the audience in on her private thoughts and youthful perspectives that kept spectators engaged and invested. I, for one, was really rooting for her and symbolically rooting for my own childhood self remembering the mysteries of my own parents and homelife. “Fun Home” alleviated the tense moments of the production with a hot handyman in tight seventies short shorts, awkward first dates and sexual encounters that conceivably made some uncomfortable, albeit in a “fun” sexy way.

This play speaks to the phenomena of children wanting to understand their parents better through childhood dreamlike imaginations, wishful thinking and adult realistic reflections conflating to give us a serious study of childhood understanding of adult relationships but in a “fun” way; thus consequently that’s a five out of five stars for me!

— For more information, visit huntingtontheatre.org

Maja Milojković

Eva Lianou Petropoulou 

A Poem Dedicated to All Women 

Žena

Pitala sam se da li sam slobodna.

Da li se ti osećaš slobodnom?

Ne.

Svakog dana hodam ulicom mogućnosti i prilika…

Ali niko me ne gleda.

Jer sam žena.

Neizrecivo je koliko se žena iskorišćava.

Od prvog dana.

Žena je trebalo da vaspitava dete,

da kuva za dete,

da ga nauči kako da misli, govori,

postupa…

Mnogo je toga što žena treba da uradi.

Ali šta se dešava posle?

Šta je sa ženinim potrebama?

Njenom željom?

Ženinom rečju?

Kao da ne postoji.

Sve dok jednog dana

ne pogledaš u ogledalo.

Vidiš svoje lice.

Vidiš svoje srce.

Vidiš svoje telo.

I ne prepoznaš ga.

Jer si toliko iskorišćena.

Iskorišćena odbacivanjem.

Potrošena samoćom.

Iskorišćena lažnim ljudima.

Potrošena lošim odlukama.

Bez vere.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou

Grčka

*******

Women

I was wondering if I am free?

Do u feel free?

Nooo

Every day I walk in a street of possibilities and opportunities..

But nobody look at me

As i am a woman..

It is unspeakable how much a woman is used..

From day one

A woman needed to educate the child

To cook for a child

To learn him how to think.. Speak..

Act.. 

A lot for a woman to do

But what happens after..

A woman need

A woman wish

A woman word

Inexistant person

Until one day

You will look at the mirror

You see your face

You will see your heart

You will see your body

And u will not recognize it

Because u will be so used

Used from the rejection

Used from the loneliness

Used from the fake people

Used from the bad decisions

Without faith!!!

2 poems (***)

***

Dead as a broken moon

Sober as a leaf of a proud tree

Flimsy like pearls of dew in the wind

Tired like evaporated moisture

Free as the yolk in a broken egg

Quiet as a dead man in an evening cemetery

I drink the silence of calm before the execution

***

V. Burich

Wanting love is like lying on the tram tracks

Water is jealous of the density of air in a smoky apartment

You smoke a lot and you’re addicted

I’m addicted to you and your night breath

I’m addicted to your airy body

You’re bending over with a roll-your-own cigarette in your mouth like a sexy snake

Let’s go drink the air of a park frozen in winter time

You won’t come and will continue to smoke alone

I’m also lonely but I don’t smoke

You will die of lung cancer, but I have already died of love for you

We say goodbye lying on two parallel tram tracks

We don’t even say goodbye we just resign ourselves to sleep

GO HOME!

     “GO HOME!”  I heard shouted by a biker as he sped past.  I was bewildered.  I was north of Chicago, visiting the continental Bahá’í House of Worship for North America in Wilmette, Illinois. Located on a ridge of land beside Lake Michigan, it can be seen from some distance. With its ribbed dome rising over the tree tops, it is a distinctive feature of the North Shore. It is a unique structure which attracts visitors from all over the world. All are welcome.

     It is my spiritual home and has been for over half a century. I was not raised Bahá’í, no one is automatically Bahá’í.  That is a choice each person must make for themselves.  It was my choice as a young man out of high school on my own. I had been raised in a conventional Christian church in an unconventional family. My father’s mother was devout, so much so that, living on the farm next to ours, she began to come to our place every Sunday morning as soon as I was old enough to go, and would take me to Sunday School, then the church service afterwards. I was too young to put on my own pants, Dad had to hold them for me to step into, so I may have been just two or three. The sermons were long and boring, so Granma entertained me with quiet games. I eventually learned to sit still. As more children came into the family, they were added in the car too. Sunday mornings were the only times our parents had alone.

     Granma taught Sunday School while we attended our classes. She had been a founding member of the church. Actually, I should say, her husband, son and brothers had been founding members, women were not allowed to vote or serve on the church board. Granma was one of the most active members of that church, yet she regretted that never once in her ninety-seven years of life had she been elected to head any of the many organizations or committees she belonged to there.  She belonged to lots of community neighborhood organizations and had been elected president of them all at one time or another, more often than once, but not at her church.

     Even though I was recruited for the ministry, I had my own reasons for finding another spiritual home. I never accepted the idea that everyone other than members of that church were going to Hell. I always thought God was bigger than that. Bahá’í scriptures teach that the Creator of the Universe (God) has provided Messengers/Saviors to all peoples, so none is left out.  No one is condemned due to geography or time of birth.  When I found the  Bahá’í Faith, I embraced it immediately.

     The  Bahá’í Faith is as different from the belief system of that church, as the church building is from a  Bahá’í House of Worship. For one thing, in a  Bahá’í House of Worship, no preaching or weddings or funerals are undertaken. There is nothing in the edifice to separate people: no images, items or symbols – there are none at all. In this one, but not all, there are some brief quotations from Bahá’í scriptures around the top of the walls, in English because that is the dominant language in North America. No rituals or ceremonies are performed in this house of worship, because Bahá’ís have none to perform. With none of that, there is no altar to perform in front of. Likewise, there is no pulpit for preaching, because preaching is forbidden, as is collection of money. With no rituals, ceremonies or preaching, there is no clergy, no priest to perform these actions. There are brief worship services consisting of readings from the world’s religious scriptures, not just Bahá’í. There is no commentary on the scripture. The purpose of the building is for meditation and prayer. Though it is five hundred miles from my home, I try to go once a year just to keep in touch. There are few of them around the world because more effort, and money, has gone into providing schools in places where governments can’t. There are close to a thousand of them.

     Not only is the building open to the public, but Bahá’ís consider each House of Worship they build as a gift to mankind. These structures are places where people can take a break from the world around them and pray and meditate. Anyone may enter as long as they are quietly respectful of others. It is a peaceful, quiet place for meditation and prayer for each soul.       

Bahá’ís have erected Houses of Worship on each continent and more are being built. All are similar with no distractions for the worshiper, yet each is very different regarding the style of its construction. Some, in tropical climates, are open to the air. All reflect in some way the culture in which they are built. The one in New Delhi, India is in the form of a lotus blossom, often referred to as the Lotus Temple, and has been used by others to represent the entire country.

     Gardens surround the nine-sided buildings (they all have nine sides, in a circular shape, that is the major architectural requirement). The gardens serve as a transition space before entering for worship. In Wilmette, a circling bench is a feature of each of the nine gardens. One does not have to go inside to pray. Each garden has a fountain in a pool to help mask surrounding noises, but they cannot obscure them all. Some of these gardens are next to a major street that nearly encircles the structure. I was in one of those gardens when a motorcycle passed by and words were shouted into the air.

     “BAHÁ’ÍS GO HOME!”

     The biker had rapidly passed before I could process the words. They were not words I had expected to hear. I had actually never heard them before in my presence. Then I reflected.

     ‘Yes, in a few days I’ll be going home, back to Kansas, but I’m sure that’s not what he meant.  I could conceivably ‘go home’ to the home of my ancestors. Several came from Germany, some came from Ireland, but one of those was really Scottish, yet there are others. But part of me IS home! My Native American ancestry IS home!’

     That led to a new train of thought.

     ‘You sir, are more likely the invader. My Native people have been here since some last ice age.  Your people may well have come since then; why don’t YOU go ‘home?’

     Of course, I couldn’t say any of it, and what would have been the point if I had?

     Is this a slight bit of the rejection my German ancestors felt when they settled in the part of Kansas where I grew up and now live, when they tried to build a new life here in the 1860s? They were resented because they tried to make a living by the way they knew from home – making apple cider. They made two kinds: hard and soft. It was the hard cider that was objectionable, associated with drunkeness and unseemly behavior. I don’t know what all else.

     After a century here, my family is well respected here (someone must have liked the cider), so this rejection was a bit startling and slightly amusing. He drove on past with no more than venting whatever he needed to express.

     I thought what an impossibility it is to send people “home” when our only true “home” is planet Earth – and we are ALL home, wherever on Earth we happen to live. And, some people have little choice where that may be.

     The shouter undoubtedly assumed that members of the Bahá’í Faith had come to this country from somewhere else, when that’s only partially true. The first Bahá’ís in America were born here before they knew of the religion. In fact, most Bahá’ís at this time in every country are people who were born there and learned about the religion, then adopted it as adults. The shouter was unaware that one is not born a Bahá’í. A person can be born into a Bahá’í family, with Bahá’í parents, but to be a member of the Bahá’í community must be a conscious choice sometime later in life, usually after age fifteen. One can’t make that decision for anyone else. Parents can’t make that decision for their children.

     The Bahá’í Faith is based on the teachings of Bahá’u’lláh, a member of nineteenth century Persian aristocracy who spent the last forty years of His life as an exile and prisoner due to His teaching such things as there being a Messenger of God after Muhammad, the equality of women and men, and that the human race is one race. He gained nothing for His efforts. He lost all of his possessions and all worldly status. His entire family were prisoners and two sons died under those conditions. He gained nothing and lost everything, but He did not give up.  

     Today, millions of people around the planet read and study His words and use them to improve their lives, their families and their communities. They are demonstrating His teachings that: “The earth is one country, and mankind its citizens.”  The human race is at “home” on planet Earth. We are ALL home; we ALL belong HERE, on Earth!

#  #

NO WAR

Another day cries out its terror,

the earth is red under the rubble.

The silence

of those who do not want to hear

falls upon the earth.

Indifference is gunpowder.

Elisabetta Bonaparte is an Italian poet, writer, lawyer and teacher. Her passion for poetry has materialized in a significant literary production, characterized by a profound sensitivity to existential and natural themes and by a refined, intimate and meditative language, rich in symbolism and metaphors. Elisabetta Bonaparte has participated in national and international literary competitions, obtaining First Prizes, Medals, Plaques, Special Prizes, as well as numerous other literary awards. Her compositions, translated into several languages have been selected and included in literary anthologies and published in national and international specialized journals, both in print and online, in many countries.

Developments

There used to be animals, the latest litter

of kittens being fed on the street by strangers,

or racoons rolling across the uncultivated grounds

along the railroad tracks,

and birds, countless birds, stretched across the sky

perched on high voltage wires, starlings

mostly, but also crows and occasionally

a falcon would show from God knows where.

Now, they are gone. Construction is

mostly responsible. But there was more to it:

ill-informed young men had heard racoons

were always rabid and would attack them,

so, they poisoned them. And they poisoned

the cats, too, because they reproduced;

no one had thought to fix them and that that

would do. And the tall buildings placed where

before there were giant black trees made

the place incommodious to the birds

who used to range their rainbows in the spring.

Oh, how I miss them. Miss them all badly.

How gladly would I replace the people

for their preening and unconsidered living.

How much more than a motel

was the murmuration of those birds.

Listening To The Voice of Virginia Woolf

It was always

reaching a crescendo

then descending

like a shirt ironed

with a hiss from the steam

released like the tide

the rattle of pebbles-

I saw it with my eyes.

It returned always

the way words do

that fill a line

and make it stable-

earth shoveled into

a garden and into

a burial plot, too.

Petals open

our own tiny sun.

Shaking out the sea

it sparkles and bears

witness to the bodily

shape of memories. To some

it is ironclad law that is all

and holds within it

such dread as to not

be considered at all.

Who but a poet would associate

incarnadine with multitudinous

seas? Ah, words went

breathing and traveling

from street to street

picking up habits

remembered for centuries

becoming lips and speech.

The Examination

The doctor’s nurse will lay you down

on crumpling paper on a metal table

and place electrodes on your chest and arms.

She will record your heart rhythms

and be satisfied with the results

if they are regular and recur.

The test has its limits: it tells the heart’s

electrical currents. It does not know

the many hurts it suffered, or when it started

fighting back with all its umbrage.  

I am surprised that they separate the heart

from the rest of the life, as if we did not belong

to an interrelated organism.

Afterwards, she will escort you to a waiting room,

where everyone sits alone and no one

talks or looks around. She will leave you there

where everyone wants to hear

their name called out and their hearts unstimulated

go on beating alone.

Echo of My Words —–

Don’t be angry…

I don’t surrender to anger

And your ideal worlds

Don’t concern me

I am a man with a permit

To cross the thorns of pain

To speak

I do as I please,

I tear the cheeks of lilies,

I strike the face of dew,

I cast my weight upon the moments

I cross the seasons,

I throw love with the butts of my cigarettes

And with all my pride, I depart!!

And I return,

I return to paint hope,

I flirt with the letters anew

I am a knight in the art of words

All the letters

In my chamber, captives

Until the impetuosity leaves me!!

I am a man, you

From the remnants of bygone eras

I carry the books of civilization in my palm,

I brush away the dust of ignorance if it touches my shoulder

Standing tall like a mountain

Untouched by wounds Nor by follies…

I write my mornings

And cast shadows upon dreams!

From the depths of history

I live, I and my voice

I am all images

And all voices

Who are you?

Who are you?!

What are you?

Nothing but an echo of my words!

Poet/ Aisha Al-Maharabi Aden City Republic of Yemen Bachelor of Philosophy, University of Aden Married and a mother Worked in the field of teaching Participated in several Arab festivals in Egypt, Tunisia, Algeria, and Jordan Hobbies: Reading and writing in the field of poetry and literature My works have been published in several Arab and foreign newspapers, and I have had several press and radio interviews. – My poetry collection, “Master of the Evening,” was published in 2013 by the University Publishing House, Yemen. – “And the Daisy Breathed” was published in 2014 by Khalid Ibn Al-Walid Publishing House. – “How to Tame Longing” was published in 2014 by Al-Jeel Al-Jadeed Publishing House. – “Stuck Behind the Eyelids of the Homeland” was published in 2017 by Fikra Publishing House. – “Peace Be Upon You, Dawn” was published by Abrar Publishing House in 2019. – “And Madness Has Its Meaning” was published by the Poets on the Window of the World Foundation for Culture and Creativity in 2023.