Impromptu Challenge

I was in the kitchen when the text from my eighth grader came through. “Mom, I’m in the school bathroom. I can’t breathe, I’m about to have a panic attack.” He’d been experiencing severe depression, and only weeks before had come out to my husband and me as transgender. We were already on months-long waiting lists to get him into treatment for depression, and the startling news of his gender identity made our situation feel even more precarious.

The moment he came out to us, he took a bold step forward into his authentic self, while I took a step back from mine. I wanted to project nothing but unconditional support, but inside, I struggled to process how my daughter was now my son.  

His new name and pronouns were like glue in my mouth—my tongue protested the shape of foreign words. So many questions jumbled inside me. Was his gender identity the root of his depression?  What signs did I miss? Can I keep him safe? What does this mean for his future? For mine? I was a mess of contradictions—straining to morph into the fierce gender advocate my son needed, while secretly googling “what percentage of trans youth change their minds?”

There is only one first moment a child comes out to you. At 14, telling us his truth took unfathomable courage and fortitude.  I wish I had a do-over. I wish I could go back to that conversation and deluge him only with love—and hold back my questions, confusion, and fears.

His text from school felt like my second chance to be useful and supportive. More than anything, I wanted to ease his pain and suffering, and let him know he’s loved and safe.

A tall order for a Thursday afternoon.  

I paced around the house unable to concentrate on anything but how to support him through this latest bout of anxiety.  Finally, I hear the squeak of the school bus brakes, hiss of the opening door, the thud of his feet stomping off snow at the back door.  He walks in, shrugs off his backpack and my attempts to check in with him.  These days, I can’t predict his needs from one moment to the next. His mood shape shifts from despair, to exhaustion, to listlessness. His depression and my fears are growing more powerful. 

No one is more desperate than a mother powerless to save her child. We’ll try anything—even a shallow hit of dopamine-fueled retail therapy.

“How about a quick trip to Target?” I ask, passing him an afternoon snack of sliced apples that I know will go untouched. He imperceptibly nods. I’ll take it. I’ve never been more thrilled to drop twenty bucks on slime and a squishmallow.  

Driving home from the store, we fell into heavy silence. The smallest conversations exhaust him. I bite my tongue to keep from peppering him with questions—trying and failing to quiet the voice telling me if I can keep him talking, he won’t disappear. I catch a familiar tune and reach to turn up the radio.

And I-I believe
Fate smiled and destiny

Natalie Merchant’s haunting voice envelopes us.

Laughed as she came to my cradle
Know this child will be able.

Wonder. Our song. The song I sang during those long, sleepless nights rocking her in the chocolate brown glider. Lullaby, anthem, benediction, prayer.  The song I sang to this child—transforming so unpredictably beside me now—back when I knew every inch. The contour of cheeks so juicy they could burst, every delicious divot, dimple, and roll.   

The music transports me instantly to our childhood nursery. That season felt as exhausting and transformational as this one. Rocking and singing one cold winter night, warmed by the nubby fabric of the glider and my faded blue front-zip sweatshirt I lived in for its easy access to feed her, I grab for the boppy nursing pillow on the floor beside the chair and secure it around my waist. After she latched onto my breast, my tired head sinks back against the chair and I close my eyes. Along with the calming pleasure of oxytocin, a new awareness suddenly floods my system. Looking down at those perfect rose lips on my breast, warmth rises up through me and I connect into a new sensation that I’m suddenly aware of, an ever present, flowing channel of love. This same, specific, all-encompassing, primal love that every mother since the dawn of time has felt for her baby.

Direct knowing cascaded through my body. The protective devotion, promise, and hope channeled into one tiny human—this was the love holding up the world.  How did I not know? Why didn’t someone tell me? I laughed. How could they?

No this child will not suffer.

The perception dawning inside me was beyond language or even reason. It was pure truth transmittable only through the frequency of music. A vow rose up from within me—a pledge as intact and uncompromising as Merchant’s voice. I’ll remake the world and be worthy of this baby and this love entrusted to me.  

Part of music’s power is how it hits the bloodstream immediately. In seconds, lyrics and melody combine to pack a visceral punch. Building to a crescendo, then shattering me at the peak of transcendence.  

With love, with patience, and with faith, she’ll make her way.

Braking cars ahead flood my son and I in red light. On this cold night, I listen to our song with my whole body. My breath deepens and slows, recalling the vow and that love from that winter long ago. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes. My grip on the wheel loosens. My belly unclenches for the first time in days.

A knowing, again, rises up inside me. More subtle than before, yet just as clear. I sit up straighter. Surer. I can face this. Whatever he needs, wherever his gender and mental health journey goes, I’ll go too. No matter what.  

Grateful for the cover of night, I blink back tears and steal a glace. He turns to meet my gaze. God, I’ll never tire of looking into those dark, soulful eyes. He reaches across the seat and grabs my hand. I squeeze. 

With love, with patience and with faith,
He’ll make his way.

I can trust my ability to accompany a different child than the one I thought I had into adulthood, into the world. Out of all the mothers in the world I’m his. Like a friend reaching out in the dark, the song returned me to myself.  The incomprehensible mysteries of my life will come, and I have a renewed capacity to bear all things. 

He reaches down to crank up the volume and smiles. “I love this song.”

He’ll make his way, at least for one more day. And so will I.

“Kammermusik for Intensive Care”

I am out with ballet shoes looking for myself

me in leotard and tights prances spritely
always a step ahead

me in hospital gown follows closely always a count behind

a corps of eight male doctors flits in and out of my delirium

I the dancer will not wait I the patient fall behind

I am apart
I am not whole

pain like melody flows through me

I am still the music I am still the dance

The pandemic-ridden year of 2021 was a tough one for many physically and mentally. The emotional turmoil was especially overwhelming for me, an international student coming from China, the original place where the COVID-19 virus was identified. I was disturbed that millions, including my parents, my close childhood friends, and myself, were under the threat of not only the virus, but also hate crimes, joblessness, and other devastating consequences of prolonged lockdowns.  I felt like a survivor, powerless that I could do nothing about the deaths and the sufferings of people who looked and lived like me in and out of my Heimat.

Talking about “healing” in light of such tragic events was incredibly selfish. What was there to heal about me, who was able to walk around freely, when so many people were dying? To this day, I am still not completely free from stinging feelings of guilt whenever I think about the pandemic.

***

But then a little song by Franz Schubert, brought by Mark Padmore and Mitsuko Uchida in their March 2022 recital at Princeton University Concerts, gave me a slightly different perspective as I navigated my emotions.

This bright and cheerful song in G major, Die Taubenpost, is thought to be the last song of Schubert. It is about a loyal carrier pigeon who tirelessly sends letters to a beloved girl. They don’t even have to be letters, the song goes, the pigeon delivers tears as well! As the word “tears” (Träne) appears in the lyrics, the music veers from G major to G minor before settling on a rather compromising B-flat major, betraying an undercurrent of pain and planting the suspicion that the pigeon isn’t real after all. The riddle continues in the next stanza (back to G major) until it is finally revealed to the audience that the carrier pigeon is a symbolization of longing (Sehnsucht).

The lyrics, by themselves, are in fact extremely heartbreaking: the lovely pigeon is imaginary, and the protagonist’s love is probably never answered. Thus, it was absolutely surprising for me that Schubert, terminally ill at the time, chose to set them to such a marvelously triumphant tune. But as I listened to this song many times after the concert, I kind of figured out why. Schubert believed in the realness of the inner world, that whatever we imagine, and hope for, has a veritable life of its own. Regardless of circumstances in real life, he treated the existence of Sehnsucht itself as something to be cherished, praised, and celebrated. It is as if the idyllic melody says: I no longer need my letters to be replied to; I am content that I have this pigeon as company; I am proud that after all the harsh things in life, I am still able to harbor Sehnsucht in my heart.

***

And maybe, just maybe, what I felt for my suffering compatriots was also a little pigeon that merited a little song in G major. Yes, my sympathies were flimsy, feeble, powerless, and perhaps even cheap. I still could do nothing about the lost lives except reposting candle emojis on Twitter and attending vigils thousands of miles away from where the tragedies happened. But Die Taubenpost showed me that the fact that I honestly cared, in my own inner world, under my mask, was sometimes already important enough. While the pandemic seemed intimidating, it could not overpower the inner consciousness of each individual, our hope, our solidarity, our capability to feel pain together.

I am not sure if I have been healed by music. I still think talking about healing in my case is selfish. But as in An die Musik, I thank music for showing me the possibility and the realizability of a better world: one that is created by our common imagination of the right and the beautiful.

The Fender Rhodes with
New bumps and felts
Is set to ride on the storm
Next refurb is the baby grand
For Hospital Beds
By a Cold War Kids cover band
I scrub in
Put the implements on a tray
Ready for surgery
I reach into the piano’s sacred space
And place a gauze sponge on the surface
Of some bass strings
I weave a face mask over and under
The string tops
Of the upper register
I apply a clamp to a middle register string
Then finish by resting suture scissors
A scalpel and forceps inside
I start to play and
Am met with jangly timbres
And percussive metallic rattles
Time to get the band back together
Rock out to Roundabout by Yes
And throw this new cacophonous sound
Into the unready world

I have the great fortune of letting dance move through me often.
It comes about suddenly, all at once on the kitchen floor while the soup pot simmers.
On a walk when the wind blows through the trees.
After I’ve been given cause to celebrate something or someone. And even when I’m wallowing away.

I can’t help but dance as my bridge and outlet through daily transitions. From item to item on my to-do list and from elation to anger to sadness to peace. The whole spectrum and range of emotions are invited to move through me. Through dance.

The last time I danced, it was a kitchen scene.

Classical piano moves me more than most other music (and I like to dedicate this attribute about myself to the doctor who helped deliver me in the hospital promptly exclaiming upon birth: “She’s destined to be a pianist with these long fingers!”).

Certain classical piano songs speak to me more than others…and Liebestraum (Love Dream) No. 3 in A-flat Major by Franz Liszt is one such song. Lang Lang plays an absolutely beautiful rendition that is almost instantly transportive for me. In fact, it’s a frequently played track on my “keys to my heart” (pun intended) Spotify playlist, an ever-growing collection of piano tracks that make me swoon time and again.

A mundane weeknight dinner featuring a can of Tom Kha soup and rice simmering gently on the stove suddenly transforms into a swirling ocean of movement – my body yearning to express the emotion this song stirs in my heart so much that it must be professed on the kitchen floor of my apartment in that very moment, wooden cooking spoon still in hand. My dog watches reverently from her bed – knowing not to interfere with this prayer in motion.

Something about Liebestraum strikes a chord in my heart that moves through my spine and flutters out through my fingertips. If love was taking flight this is the song that would play. A soft but passionate cascade of keys mounting in exaltation as my feet lift from the ground. The excitement, the beauty, the tenderness, the softness. The notes move through me lovingly, leaving me reminiscent of a time when love blossomed in me in just this kind of way – giving me wings – and simultaneously leaving me hopeful that this kind of love will find me in this lifetime yet again.

A glassy-eyed feeling stayed with me. As the song concluded, my body stopped waving around and found a moment of stillness – returning to the soup pot – returning to the mundane – but this time with a fire kindled in my heart. But this time with a prayer of love resonating in the airwaves.

This song reminds me to be kinder to my body. To move with more intention – which often means slowing down considerably – instead of simply throwing myself from one activity to the next.

Dancing reminds me that every movement we make can be an act of beauty. Of grace. Even if expressed through seemingly violent or aggressive motions. There is beauty there because there is presence. Presence with exactly what is in that very moment.

Instead of running away from it – I run into it. Dancing is an act of bravery. And a reminder that I can live in this way at all times. And for any time I need a reminder – I can simply start dancing and my body will whisper it in my heart’s ear yet again:

“This is who you are at your core.”
You brave, soft, beautiful, radiant human you.

Dance does this for me.
Music does this for me.

And when spontaneously combined together on the kitchen floor whilst cooking, one can only imagine how much more delicious a dinner of canned soup can taste afterward.

It is a Wednesday evening. One unsteady step at a time, I awkwardly descend the narrow staircase, careful not to bang the top of my guitar case into the low ceiling. The first thing I do when I walk into our band space is turn on the twinkle lights, a signal of transition from one life to another. I now hear Rebekah’s footfalls on the basement stairs. She takes her bass off her back, hangs up her purse and fabulous hat, and shakes off the day with a sigh and smile. We tune and tug, push and pull in our setup rituals, always acknowledging the miracle that we got here after a long day of work or sleepless night up with a child. As the amps awaken, we hear the three tea mugs in our drummer Leila’s tote bag clink their way down. Leila, who always greets us with a dinner plate in one hand and a hug with the other, once said, “It is the sound of the set up, of us all moving around and getting ready, that really makes me feel like we are a band.”

In March of 2016, Rebekah, Leila, and I met at a fundraiser for Boston Raising Powerful Musicians whose mission is to “empower girls, women, and gender-expansive youths and adults to believe in themselves by building a supportive community that fosters self-expression, confidence, and collaboration through music education and performance.” In just three days we learned how to play instruments we never played before, co-wrote and arranged a song with our band, MaDamn, and performed the song live at The Middle East, a hip venue in Cambridge, MA. This was a weekend where women of all ages and backgrounds came together to “build each other up” and chant “YOU ROCK” louder than we had used our voices in a long time.

In a quieter moment amidst the shuffle of the weekend, Leila suggested we start our own band. At first I thought about all the barriers to this idea— demanding job, young children, fear of failure—but there was no way I was going to say no to an opportunity for that weekend to live on. The following week Leila, Rebekah, and I met for the first time in Leila’s basement, where we would play the first notes of our story.

And the first notes were a very slow version of “The Weight” by The Band — but every chord and beat carried our potential. It was the beginning of Rebekah’s quest to learn all the notes up and down each fret of the bass. It was the beginning of my obsessive drive to make guitar chord changes in time. It was the beginning of Leila’s determination to coordinate all four limbs, hold us all in a steady rhythm, and learn the ergonomics of how to be a drummer while managing chronic pain.

Our children watched us break out our instruments at all times of day to practice the same thing over and over until we couldn’t ignore their hunger anymore. They witnessed us make mistakes and get frustrated, and then keep going. With a child screaming “Mommy! Mommy!” in the background, we were lost in the communion of hands, guitar necks, drum sticks—a deep camaraderie, a maternal musical kinship.

Becoming a musician, especially as an adult in your forties, is a whole lot more than learning how to play an instrument; it means facing the expectations you have of yourself, the disappointment of not yet meeting them, and, as Kenny Werner says, “let[ting] go of the need to play good.” Once we said, “if only we had met in our twenties, we would have had more time to practice and devote to the band,” but with age comes wisdom and coping skills. We came to this process with a stronger sense of who we were, what we wanted out of this experience, how to communicate better, and how to let go of ego in service to the music and our friendship.

After a few months of playing covers, my fingers calloused from learning how to play Riptide, we started to write our own songs. We wrote while cooking dinner or driving to work (or — shhh — at work), shooting voice memos back and forth all day long; one by one, something burst in each of us. Stories from our pasts stirred within us, pouring into verses, choruses, and – our favorite – the bridge! We were enthralled by writing bridges, those moments of realization, just like what we were experiencing right then! We would always give each other a heads-up – “Snippet alert!” – and share a new melody, rhythm, lyric, or just a songwriting reflection or plea: “HELP! I can’t think of a melody for this refrain!”

We responded to one another’s generative ideas on the side of the road, at night waiting for our children to fall asleep, in grocery store lines, between work meetings. It was like finding time for a new romance. Everyone always asks us, “How do three full-time working moms find the time and energy to be in a band?” The answer is really about the “in-between” moments. It’s about making space and time to listen to the stories, the big moments from the past that linger, to say the things we’ve been afraid to say, and to speak our truths … even when those truths are a sensitive subject.

Our songs are the culmination of long hours in the studio, yes, but so much more. They are the offspring of stolen time, finishing verse two in the middle of washing dishes and helping with homework; of Wednesday evenings (thank you partners!) in our woman-cave, trying to figure out exactly how long to pause before the bridge; of trial and error and error and error (and laughter) with a cowbell; of throat-coat tea, seltzer, and listening to one another after hard days we thought might break us. Early in our songwriting infancy, Leila wrote:

Everyone feels pain. Take the sun and the rain.

Our album, It Suits My Weather, is the sun and the rain in our lives, our hopes and disappointments, our acceptance of what is, our relentless pursuit to realize our dreams. Even in the stormiest weather we have found our warm, safe, creative space within and beyond the basement, with lights shining at any hour, hot tea, and friends to listen to what you have to play and sing for the world.

Shannon H. Mannon, from Phoenixville, PA is the founder of 3-Minute Storyteller and Director of Storytelling for Social Impact at WD Communications. She is currently writing a book for fellow parents of transgender children to help them understand that the child they didn’t expect can lead to transformation they never imagined. In describing her writing process, she shares:

“When I sat down to respond to the prompt, I was surprised at how many moments of healing through music came up for me. It was hard to choose just one. Ultimately, I felt the call to mine this delicious memory of being in the nursery with my baby, and to try to put words to such an ineffable, almost mystical experience. It wasn’t until I started writing that I realized how much music helped transmute that feeling into form. I’m obsessed with the human potential for transformation. We have all of these untapped powers of co-creation, yet only seem to discover them at moments of the most profound suffering. That paradox is at the heart of my writing, my work, and my life. I journaled incessantly while accompanying my child on his gender transition, through the darkness of his suicidality, through the pain of surrendering my projections and preconceptions of who I thought he was. In that awful tension of facing his possible death at his own hands, and shedding what I thought I knew, I created space for something more honest and real to emerge—my son’s authentic self, and mine.”

Lara Dolphin, a nurse and thyroid cancer survivor from Hollidaysburg, PA, participated in the Impromptu Challenge because she enjoyed the process of reflecting on the prompts and because she believes that “through music, we can access our deepest emotions and that this can be an important piece in the healing process.” She is most passionate about poetry, music and art, and loves to sing in the chancel choir at St. John the Evangelist Church in Altoona, PA.

Haina Wang, a graduate student in the Chemistry Department at Princeton University, is passionate about “the unique power of carbon-based creatures in the discovery and creation of knowledge.” Having played the violin since she was four years old, she now enjoys writing music reviews and composing songs with her friends. An avid Princeton University Concerts attendee, tenor Mark Padmore and pianist Mitsuko Uchida’s recital in 2022 inspired this entry, combined with a desire to contribute “something good to music.”

Heather Saba, a writer and herbalist from Naples, FL, is also a passionate dancer who loves “exploring the way different types of music and sound move through [her] body.” She studied Nihon Buyo, a traditional Japanese dance form, for four years when she was in high school, greatly enjoying the group of Japanese grandmothers who took her under their wing, feeding her copious amounts of homemade Japanese food and coaching her first big stage performances. Heather is also fascinated by how nature informs who we are as people relating to the world around us, and the way in which music, resonance, and sound are woven into this process.

“Thank you Suleika, The Isolation Journals community, and Princeton University Concerts for coordinating such an inspiring contest. It’s an honor to have my writing read and resonate with so many others.”

Adina Schecter, a Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Belonging Coach for the Milton Public Schools in Massachusetts, is a strong believer in how the creative arts can be used to empower and liberate individuals and communities. She entered the Impromptu Challenge because she wanted to reflect on and share the story of how her band of three women, who had never played instruments before, dedicated time and soulful energy to creativity, collaborative music making, and reclaiming their identities as artists. The contest prompt ignited a desire to capture the intricate and sacred details of their band space, and all the learning and growth that followed. She is currently writing a young adult fiction novel that encompasses the theme of creativity and healing.

“Music is a powerful force of connection, love, healing, and survival in my life.”