Woman Is A Changeling: Redefining Femininity In “Maiden Mother Crone”

But a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape

Just when you think you have it figured out

Something new begins to take

…I am no mother,

I am no bride,

I am King. – Florence + The Machine, “King”

As the topic of gender and sexuality, particularly the recognition of female-identifying, non-binary, and LGBTQ+ individuals’ lived experiences, faces scrutiny in the U.S. and worldwide, it becomes crucial to examine the many stories and realities that make up, or transcend, established gender roles. Simply put, to categorize is to limit, and theatre can subvert socially-prescribed gender norms by inviting us to witness and connect with alternate experiences, role models, and frames of reference. Maiden Mother Crone, a duet of solo shows which played at NYC’s Flea Theater from February 12-23, 2025, centers on this concept, as its two creator-performers share their respective journeys of self-definition, and their efforts to expand and rework cultural understandings of “femininity” through personal narrative.

Jen Ponton in Sugarcoated. Photo by Alex Finger.

The evening’s double bill begins with Sugarcoated, writer-performer Jen Ponton’s heartfelt tale of coming-of-age and coming-out. Her set and person unabashedly decked in frilly pink and glitter, Ponton carries us through her seventh birthday to the present, revealing pivotal moments in her journey toward self-actualization as a queer, plus-sized femme artist. Youthful rhapsodies on birthday cake and Girl Scout camp crushes collide with harsh realities, as Ponton slowly reveals the parental judgement, social exclusion, and inner struggle that led her to realize her physical, emotional, and sexual identities ran counter to outside norms. Nonetheless, Ponton spent her formative years searching for a niche and a community, finding solace and acceptance in early-‘90s “lesbian lounge” online chat rooms, high school forensics clubs, and college theatre cliques.

As stalking, sexual assault, and partner violence marred her romantic life, Ponton sought normalcy in a heterosexual engagement, only to find further oppression when her fiancee’s public affability gave way to behind-the-scenes emotional abuse. Locked into an unhappy marriage, and traumatized from further assaults and her father’s death, Ponton’s involvement with the body-positivity community, and exposure to its lesbian subsects, offered hope— and, more crucially, gave context to her “femme” identity, the understanding of which helped unspool the stereotypes preventing her from defining as queer. When the COVID-19 lockdown prompted her husband’s medical isolation and her return to lesbian chat rooms, Ponton developed the courage to embrace her identity, end her marriage, and find love with a woman she met online.

Ponton depicts each version of herself with humor, awareness, and deep truth. Whether as a patchouli-loving preteen, flame-shoed adolescent, or twinkly-eyed drama student, she’s endlessly endearing, a heroine we can’t help but root for in her search for happiness. This earnestness makes the pain she endures all the more piercing, and her savoring of the “glitter, champagne, and cake” of real love all the more satisfying when she finally finds it. Ultimately, Sugarcoated is a tale of affirmation, a reminder to misfits of all types to celebrate themselves and seek their own happy endings.

Deborah Unger in The Longer My Mother Is Dead, The More I Like Her. Photo by Alex Finger.

Through her reflections on–and portrayal of–her complex, often contradictory mother, Deborah Unger’s The Longer My Mother Is Dead, The More I Like Her similarly unpacks the various roles women occupy throughout their lives, and their efforts to reckon with or subvert the expectations placed upon them. Fittingly, the first voice we hear is that of the show’s subject: Unger, as her departed mother, enters in active defense, quick to share her side of the story and warn us of the biased depictions to follow. The show continues this repartee between past and present, as her mother’s running commentary, and Unger’s literal arguments with these memories, frequently interrupt and subvert her attempts at a clear narrative. As such, the show jumps time and perspective as Unger struggles to piece together her mother’s legacy, their checkered history, and its lingering impact on her life.

Unger begins her story in 2005, when a call from an assisted-care nurse brought her back to her hometown and facing her mother’s imminent death. From her mother’s bedside, Unger contemplates their life together, beginning with her childhood on an Oklahoma army base and her mother’s efforts to balance her daughter’s strong will and her own conflicting desires with the demands of life in a military family.

From grade-school truancy to adolescent foreign escapades, Unger often found herself at odds with her mother, as puzzled by her questionable disciplinary tactics (lying to teachers; hot sauce and mouth guards against thumb-sucking) as by her caginess about a prior marriage and past as a WWII foreign nurse. Their strained relationship carried into Unger’s adulthood, her mother alternately supporting and disparaging Unger’s creative pursuits and resentful of her daughter’s seeming ingratitude. Tensions came to a head when Unger moved home to be with her Parkinson’s-afflicted father; after his death, a vicious fight led to years of estrangement before Unger’s mother herself fell ill, pushing Unger to step in as caretaker. This role reversal, however, had a disarming effect, slowly prompting greater mother-daughter intimacy, respect, and appreciation for their shared courage and drive to grow beyond the worlds that bred them. And, as the show’s title implies, her mother’s death brought both pain and perspective, allowing Unger to step outside the dynamics that bound them in life and appreciate how, for better or worse, her mother’s influence endures.

Cheeky and poignant, Unger shifts tone, characters, and timelines with ease, her mother’s persona as fluid as her memories and as much a narrative force as her own. In doing so, she spotlights our capacity to self-define in relation to others, the social and familial roles that shape us, and the weight of a pivotal figure’s presence, absence, or memory. Humbled as the realities of aging and death may leave us, they also hold the seeds of renewal, fostering new appreciation for our loved ones, empathy for our shared humanity, and the hope of redemption even after lives change or end. Grief may persist, Unger posits, but so, too, does healing.

While Ponton’s and Unger’s pieces speak volumes as standalone shows, presented jointly they form a dialogue on the various identities we hold and our ability to evolve and reinvent ourselves throughout our lives. Though the shows’ storytellers and subjects cover a range of lived experiences, social contexts, and personal perspectives, they share striking parallels: our histories’ impact on our self-concepts; the specter of parental or patriarchal influence; the discoveries time and wisdom can reveal; and the process of personal reclamation after loss or trauma. In a culture that defines women and femmes in terms of familial or romantic relationships; heteronormative notions of desire; age and life stage (often, as the show’s title implies, connected to one’s place on the sexuality/fertility spectrum); and positions of dominance or submission, these influences are especially palpable, allowing little room for those whose truth deviates from the options they present. But, as Ponton and Unger show, it falls to us not only to own our complexities but to take pride in, and power from, the depth they give us. And, the plays demonstrate, by sharing our stories, we create space for them, building a world more capable of holding the many ways we love, relate to, and care for each other.