Valued, Cherished, Loved.

Trigger Warning: mentions of death, self harm, and suicide. Read at your own risk. Thank you!

Those who knew Karin Krenek knew the famous mantra she told her drama students:

"You are valued, you are cherished, you are loved."

I didn't know it as a teenager, but this phrase was like a life raft for the chaos that was surviving Catholic high school. With teachers forcing us to be disciplined - telling us how to dress, who to love, what to do with ourselves and even how to properly sing - it didn't feel like we were valued, cherished, or loved at all. If your personal life was in shambles, it was hard to feel those things from friends, classmates, or parents.

But Mrs. Krenek never failed to remind us how special we were, how we were all her "little angels" even if we were new to the world of theatre.

It's why we all affectionately called her "Mama K."

Valued

I knew of Mrs. Krenek before I'd even learned how to properly act. When I was in fourth grade, I was cast as one of the twelve apostles in my school's production of Godspell. Mrs. Krenek's son, Christian, was a student director who came over from the high school - Donovan Catholic - to teach us grade schoolers how to dance and sing.

Christian was the best. He was gangly, bespectacled, quirky, and could do a variety of silly voices. He was almost magic. Mrs. Krenek occasionally visited our rehearsals to see her son in action, and she wasn't afraid to talk to us kids. I loved Christian, so I immediately loved her, too.

"You have such a beautiful singing voice, Katy," she said to me one day while we were taking a break from rehearsing. She was wearing one of her trademark silk scarves, and the chains of her reading glasses were covered in tiny multicolored beads. "I hope you come to Donovan one day. We'd be lucky to have you."

At that point in time, Mrs. Krenek didn't have much to do with Donovan Catholic's theatre department. She helped with some producing, but her main job was to serve as the school librarian. However, everyone knew she was the perfect person to run the program. She lived and breathed theatre.

From her colorful scarves to the rows of Shakespeare books she kept in the library to a black cardboard cutout of the "fiddler on the roof" at the top of a large bookshelf, everything about her was theatrical. It was her passion. She'd even been a dancer in her youth, and helped orchestrate Donovan's bus trips to Times Square: so students could see Broadway musicals.

My freshman year of high school, Mrs. Krenek finally got the promotion she deserved. After the previous drama teacher got herself fired due to not returning rental props - thus forcing the school to owe the prop house money - Mrs. Krenek was put in charge of Donovan Catholic's fall dramas and spring musicals. Her first show would be Beauty and the Beast.

Rehearsals with Mama K were warm, informative, and very collaborative. I don't remember much of high school outside of her drama club practices. Once every week, Mrs. Krenek would invite parents to cook food for us kids in celebratory "family dinners." Not only were they a great bonding experience, but they allowed for reflection, prayer, and life lessons. I remember one life lesson in particular:

"Y'know there's so much stuff that goes into creating a great show, and so many obstacles that come with it," she said during one family dinner while talking into the microphone on our cafeteria's podium. "I've told the parents and I'm going to tell you all right now: be a willow. Go with the flow of the wind, bend with the breeze."

She slowly swayed back and forth, as if to imitate a willow tree. "We've got challenges right now, but what we can't do is get frustrated over them. We've just gotta stay in the ground, bend with it. Adapt."

One of the challenges Mrs. Krenek was referring to was our rehearsal space. Donovan Catholic didn't have a proper auditorium. Our stage was in the middle of the school's gymnasium, right under a weight room for the lifting team. This meant our Beauty and the Beast rehearsals were constantly bombarded by dribbling basketball players or loud heavy metal music from the weightlifters practicing below. Sometimes, it meant we were kicked out of the gym in the middle of a scene and had to find another space to rehearse.

Mrs. Krenek tried bargaining with the faculty to schedule sports practices and our rehearsals at different times, but they didn't care. Sports were more important to Donovan Catholic than theatre. So Mrs. Krenek channelled her inner willow and found a solution: she invited kids from the sports teams to participate in her shows.

I remember how she'd ask jocks so casually. "Hey! Would you like to stand in for this scene we're doing? Just try it!" she'd say to baseball, football, and basketball players who weren't in practice, just strolling through the gym. Crazy enough, they'd actually help out. And their participation convinced the faculty to take the drama club more seriously.

Usually she'd put the jocks in the chorus just to stand, sing, and fill the space. But sometimes, she discovered new stars through her invitations. John Michael Perreira was one of them. Small and black-haired, he was a versatile athlete that shined on several varsity teams. He played lead roles in most of the musicals, and his skill in movement made him a gifted dancer. He stole the show as Cornelius in Donovan Catholic's production of Hello, Dolly!

After I'd graduated, Olabobola "Bobo" Alako was another talented sportsman she recruited. He was a 6'2'' 270-pound lineman on the football team. Mrs. Krenek was one of the first teachers to say hi to him after he'd transferred from public school. At first, Bobo was reluctant to play an Egyptian bodyguard in her production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. After performing for the first time and learning how to drag the lead actor off the stage for a bit in the show, he soon learned blocking a blitzing linebacker was easier than theatre. Several choir kids told me he was a great friend.

That was the thing about Mrs. Krenek: she didn't care about the rules of high school cliques. Her goal was to break them down. People from all walks of life participated in her shows. Foreign exchange students she taught in the library auditioned for roles. Art kids and parents helped paint sets. Donovan Catholic's pastor, Father Scott, was cast as the bishop in Les Miserables, and the rabbi in Fiddler on the Roof. Several LGBTQ+ kids - who were told homosexuality was a sin in Donovan's religion classes - found safety, security, and pride in Krenek's drama club.

And of course, a casting choice she became famous for: Mama K was able to convince several veterans in town to appear in the final scene for her production of White Christmas. For those who don't know, White Christmas is a musical about two Army buddies turned entertainers who put on a show for their veteran pals at a hotel in Vermont. The school hosted a Veterans Day breakfast as a community service event for the show.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Mrs. Krenek emailed all the vets who attended, asking them if they could perform in White Christmas. Every single veteran emailed her back with dates they could appear. The nights of the performances, veterans young and old waited for their cue, then made their way to the front of the stage - some with canes and walkers - for a heartwarming finale.

The veteran idea was just one of Mama K's many "visions." I remember the first one she had during rehearsals for Beauty and the Beast, while we were running "Be Our Guest."

"I'm having a vision," she said, arms outstretched in front of her like a psychic seeing into the future, "I'm seeing...confetti cannons! For the very end of the number. Yes, confetti cannons into the audience!"

Mike Krenek, her son who she'd recruited to help out with the shows, looked puzzled. "But Ma," he said, "where are we going to find confetti cannons? How are we going to buy them?"

Somehow, Mama K made it work. The opening night of Beauty and the Beast, we were told the confetti cannons would or weren't go off during "Be Our Guest." We hadn't used the confetti cannons during dress rehearsal, so we were nervous to see what would happen.

The final note of the song, it happened. BANG, BANG! As we held poses and bright smiles, a whirlwind of rainbow confetti showered the audience. Parents went crazy, and many of us actors broke character due to how amazing the spectacle was. We used confetti cannons for every spring musical after that.

I think the Beauty and the Beast confetti cannons surprise is what made everyone realize Mama K wasn't just a high school drama teacher, but an artistic genius. She saw the value in everything: whether it was a jock kid who had never acted before, a Veterans Day breakfast, or the struggle of finding confetti cannons. She even saw value in me.

Cherished

I did not have a graceful adolescence. I didn't see mom or dad much my first two years of high school due to an unsuccessful small business they ran in town. The business left my family in financial hardship, and selling it didn't help us make our money back.

We weren't poor, but we weren't rich either. For some reason, wealth mattered a lot at Donovan Catholic. It was a private school, after all. I had friends in drama club, but never felt like I truly belonged because unlike their families, mine couldn't afford to go on summer vacations or throw me a huge Sweet 16 birthday party.

On top of that, I was diagnosed with a class III malocclusion (underbite) when I was twelve. It was barely noticeable in my tween years, but as time passed, the gap between my top and bottom teeth grew wider and wider. My bottom jaw noticeably jutted out past my upper jaw. It brought me chewing problems, painful TMJ, an uncontrollable lisp, and teasing from high school boys. They called me "The Crimson Chin" - like the character from The Fairly OddParents.

My facial deformity made me feel like a monster. Mom and dad said they wouldn't be able to afford corrective surgery, so it felt like a permanent curse. To say I had body dysmorphia was an understatement. By the time I was a junior, I was drowning in depression. My eyes trained themselves to my bedroom mirror, and I'd spend hours just staring at myself, pushing my palms into my lower jaw until my chin, well...turned crimson. I'd even dabbled in self harm.

But acting in school plays made me forget about my deformity. I could escape my troubled life and pretend to be other people for a change. Mrs. Krenek always gave me the roles meant for character actresses. I was never a pretty leading lady...but I played roles that were enthusiastic, very dramatic, or memorable in some way. I was one of Gaston's three "Silly Girls" in Beauty and the Beast, a sleazy charwoman in A Christmas Carol, and John Proctor's wife, Elizabeth, in The Crucible. I even got to play my dream musical theatre role: Eponine in Les Miserables.

Mrs. Krenek also had me and my best friend, Maria, act as dramaturgs for the school plays. It was our job to research the time periods of our shows so every production could be as historically accurate as possible. Maria and I even did our own show on the school's television station. Mrs. Krenek gave us a "dramaturg fact of the day" to promote whatever play or musical was next on the docket. Most kids didn't care. They just called us "the drama-turds."

My junior year was when things started to come to a head. Besides college pressure, underbite troubles, and general teenage hormones, there was a choir teacher named Miss Cindy who got on my nerves. She was the music director for our shows, and although Mrs. Krenek disliked her, they were forced to work together for musicals.

I didn't realize it then, but Miss Cindy was emotionally abusive to students. She'd tease us if we got harmonies wrong, and wasn't afraid to yell over us while we sang. Choir practices always ended in tears. It even made security guards at Donovan concerned due to the sheer amount of teary-eyed choir girls who slogged through the hallways.

I recently had dinner with Maria and her father, who now teaches at Donovan. Apparently nothing's changed with the way Cindy treats kids.

Anyways, it was my junior year and we auditioned for the spring musical, Hello, Dolly! There's a character in the show named Ermengarde who is very clown-like and cries a lot. I auditioned for all the other female leads in the show and prayed I wouldn't be cast as Ermengarde. But of course, I was offered the role.

Because of my underbite insecurities, an evil little voice inside my head told me they gave you Ermengarde because you're annoying, ugly, and emotional, just like her! The day after the cast list went up, I was lounging in Mrs. Krenek's library. She walked up to me. Miss Cindy was nearby.

"Katy! Are you going to accept your role? I just gotta formally ask so I can mark you down," she said. I hesitated.

"Actually...I was wondering if I could have time to think about it?"

Mrs. Krenek looked surprised, but remained polite.

"Oh. Okay! Just let me know in two days, otherwise I'll give the role to someone else."

And that's when Miss Cindy scoffed behind me.

"She'll think about it...ha!" she said in a sour tone. She was implying I was an ungrateful brat for giving a second thought about a supporting role. What gave her the lady balls to be passive aggressive like that to my face, I'll never know. I hadn't even turned down the role yet!

Unfortunately, when I was 17, I didn't have the emotional strength I have now. Cindy's comment triggered a panic attack. My breath quickened. It almost felt like the world was shaking - like an earthquake. I ran out of the library into the pouring rain. A friend of mine, Will, followed me. He gave me a hug, and I told him:

"I wish I didn't have to live anymore."

In that moment, I wasn't implying I'd commit suicide. But to say I wasn't having suicidal thoughts would be a lie. It feels weird to write about this now, but when I was 17, I truly believed I had no real future and was better off dead. It would put less of a financial burden on my parents. No one would have to look at my ugly face. The most concrete plan I made was to someday hang myself from my bedroom door. One time during a walk through town, I felt a sudden impulse to run into the street in the hopes I'd get hit by a car. I didn't do either of those things...but the suicidal thoughts were always there.

So after I told Will my wish of not being alive, I called mom and she picked me up from school. Later that evening, she asked if I wanted to go see a movie. I picked a flick and she drove me through town. But I noticed we weren't heading in the direction of our local AMC.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Mrs. Krenek called me a few hours ago," she revealed. "She wants to talk to you...about something you said to Will?"

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.

Mom pulled into the moonlit school parking lot. In a few minutes, Mrs. Krenek came running out. She knocked on the window, Mom unlocked the car, and she took a spot in one of the back seats.

"Heya Katy, Sue," a tender smile glowed on her face despite the gravity of the situation. I figured she'd give some motherly prattling beforehand, but she got right to the point.

"So Katy," she struggled, "this afternoon, I got a concerning message from your friend, Will." I swallowed in dread.

"Poor boy was crying. He told me you didn't want to live anymore?"

The back of my eyes grew prickly.

"It's okay. You're not in trouble. But as a teacher, it's my responsibility to report it to the school and talk to you," she said. "Honey...what's the matter? Why are you feeling this way? Is it because of the role?"

A Niagara Falls-worth of tears fell from my eyes. I'd cracked. After sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, I told her everything: about how my underbite made me feel like a monster, my "Crimson Chin" nickname, and of course, how Cindy's aside hadn't made me feel any better.

"You poor thing. You're just like my Christian," she said, teary-eyed herself. "He also went through body dysmorphia as a teen. If only you two could see how beautiful you really are. I know your case is different because of your jaw, but...you have to learn to love yourself, Katy. Because there are so many people here that love you."

Her words talked me off the ledge. She was right. "Don't worry about how pretty you are, okay? Hell, I was bullied as a girl 'cause I was the shortest dancer in the group. But I still kicked ass!" she laughed.

"Katy, I want you to know I gave you Ermengarde not because you're annoying, but because I know there's no one else in this school who'd be able to pull it off. I believe in you, okay?"

I tried my best at a smile, got out of the car, moved to the backseat, and gave her a huge hug.

"Okay."

The school gave me two days off due to stress (and the fear I'd hurt myself or someone else). Afterwards, I accepted the role of Ermengarde and actually found she was the funnest character I've ever been able to play. The year after Hello, Dolly! Mrs. Krenek gave me an even wackier role: Fruma-Sarah the evil ghost from Fiddler on the Roof. People from high school still say Fruma-Sarah was the best role I've ever done.

Eventually, I dropped out of Cindy's choir due to the way she treated me and others. It was hard, because I'd known her for ten years and I'd quit choir just before a competition trip to Disney world...but oh well. Mrs. Krenek was proud.

"You had the guts to do something a lot of kids are scared to do," she told me my senior year. We sat on cozy sofas in the library - the only two people in the room.

"Y'know Katy...you're gonna make it in the industry. I mean that," she said. "These other kids, they're doing the plays as a hobby. And maybe some of them will try and pursue it in college. But you're going to make it. Because you're tough. You can handle it."

I was surprised to hear that statement come out of Mama K's mouth, considering there were drama kids who were more talented, could sing better, and were more attractive than I was. For someone who believed anyone could act, it was weird to hear her say I was the only one who would "make it" as an actor after graduation. I sure as hell wasn't 'tough', and I had been rejected from all the college acting programs I'd applied to! But I always kept her words in the back of my head.

And I did eventually make it.

But she didn't.

Loved

I saw Mrs. Krenek a few more times after graduation. Well...maybe several more times. She had difficulty saying goodbye to my class because we were freshman when she took over the theatre program. She'd watched us grow from tiny babies into adults.

Mama K threw an impromptu summer show of Into the Woods just so she could direct us all again (I worked the sound booth with my brother), and even hosted an alumni party where she gave us blue Donovan Catholic blankets. Each blanket was engraved with the roles we had played during our four years of high school.

Once I got corrective jaw surgery and was busy in college, I rarely saw her. The last time we met was when Maria and I took her out to dinner on Maria's college campus. She vented to us about how busy she was, as always. Still, she loved the excitement of putting on a show at Donovan. "I'm not retiring! I'll drop dead there!" she always told us.

It was May, 2018: my sophomore year of college. Maria texted me about a theatre workshop Mrs. Krenek was hosting for the 8th graders across the street from Donovan. They were going on a trip to see Broadway's production of Hello, Dolly! and Mrs. Krenek figured it would be a good opportunity to gather up the alumni to teach the kids about Yonkers in the 1890's. I hadn't been invited, but I didn't mind. I was coming home from school the night before, and needed May 18th to rest from finals.

It was a cloudy, gloomy day. I woke up and checked my phone, like I usually do. Mom burst into my room.

"Did you hear about Mrs. Krenek?" she asked. Her eyes were wide as saucers.

"No. Why?"

"Mrs. Lehmann told me she just died."

What? No, that couldn't be right. She hadn't had any health problems. She was busy running a workshop! I started off the day in complete denial. But as I went about my morning, more people called my mom with details. It was true.

During the Hello, Dolly! workshop, Mrs. Krenek excused herself due to chest pains. She left the second-floor lecture hall and entered a small school chapel that was next door. A student told Mike Krenek she had fallen. He figured she had just broken her ankle. Him and Father Scott entered the chapel to find her lying unconscious on the floor.

Father Scott attempted CPR and a hospital tried resuscitating her, but by then it was too late. She was gone as soon as she hit the chapel floor. Mrs. Krenek had died from some mysterious form of heart failure. To this day, details about her death remain undetermined.

Maria saw everything. She called me as the students from Donovan Catholic and the grade school walked over to the church to gather in prayer.

"Katy," she whispered into the phone. Her voice was so small. "We were in the study hall and...she died. She's dead."

To this day, Maria still struggles with PTSD because of the tragic event.

I tried consoling her over the phone, but it was hard to stay strong in that moment. A part of me feels like I should have been there with her in her final moments. Another part of me is grateful I'd been spared the added trauma of seeing Mama K collapse.

That night, a group of theatre geek friends gathered at my pal Charley's house to sing show tunes and grieve. The following evening, Mike Krenek invited students, alumni, and parents to one last "family dinner" at a local Italian restaurant.

He raised his wine glass in a toast. "Here's to my mom, Mama K," he announced, teary-eyed, "for valuing, cherishing, and loving every one of us. And for those damn confetti cannons."

Mrs. Krenek's death sent shockwaves across town. 1,800 people - including all the veterans she'd casted in White Christmas - attended her viewing at the Carmona-Bolen Funeral Home a few days later. Students got "valued, cherished, loved" tattooed on their forearms. She even made it to the front page of the local newspaper.

Her funeral at the school's church ended with a barrage of confetti cannons as her casket was processed out. If there's any consolation we could take from her death, it's that she died where she did. Not only did she die in a place where she loved to teach in, but she died on holy ground: a blessing for a faithful woman like herself. In her front-page newspaper obituary, Mike Krenek said it best:

"She was a force of nature. She was a hurricane, and hurricanes just stop. They don't blow over, they just stop."

A few days ago was the 3rd anniversary of Mrs. Krenek's passing, and I can't help but think about how right she was about my future. After her death, I got cast as a lead in my first short film. Despite never being accepted into a college acting program, I've been cast in several films around New York City, new media projects, theatre productions, and voiceover jobs. I've even made new actor friends from all across the world.

I wish she was around to see me "make it" in the industry. She's probably smiling up in heaven right now, saying I told you so as I write this. Maybe seeing me with an acting career was one of her many "visions."

Of all the lessons Mrs. Krenek taught us, I think the most invaluable one is about the difference a person can make in their community so long as they follow their passion. Mrs. Krenek was able to make everyone support each other, whether we were on the stage or off. And when her death hit, we relied on that same support in order to carry on.

As I continue to follow my passion for acting, I will always remember how important it is to treat others with respect, to be a willow in times of adversity. I act for her.

There are some roles people are just born to play. Mrs. Krenek's role was a theatre director...and a mother to us all.

Miss you, Mama K. Thanks for everything. You will always be valued, cherished, and loved. xxx