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Notable women in my South Carolina family’s tree include an orphan great-grandmother who secretly bore an illegitimate son, farmed him out to a neighbor, married a rich banker, and raised her bastard from a distance; an aunt who survived polio only to marry an alleged child-molester and become addicted to painkillers; and a cousin who tried to set her (second) abusive husband on fire. Which, and I’m just guessing here, is why the smothering mothers and delusional beauties of Tennessee Williams seem so comfortingly familiar to me. Zoe Caldwell, Rosemary Harris, Estelle Parsons, and Eva Marie Saint will doubtless have complicated thoughts on what makes “The Women of Tennessee” tick when they take the stage in a Kennedy Center symposium on the subject. If you ask me, they’re just a gloriously crazy bunch of dames from the Deep South. Tell Charles Osgood to lob that one at ’em at 8 p.m. in the Kennedy Center’s Eisenhower Theater. $25–$35. (202) 467-4600. (Trey Graham)