Prompt 260. Our American Symphony
Discover more from The Isolation Journals with Suleika Jaouad
Prompt 260. Our American Symphony
& a back-to-school poem and prompt by Arden Brown
Hi friend,
I have exciting news to share with you today! Last weekend, a project that my husband Jon and I have been working on for more than a year made its way into the world, when our documentary American Symphony debuted at the Telluride Film Festival.
The project unfolded in secret, though not intentionally. Only weeks after I learned of my leukemia relapse, we started filming from sunrise to long past sundown with our friend, the Oscar-nominated and Emmy-winning director Matthew Heineman, to make a documentary about Jon’s Batiste Symphony No. 1, which later premiered at Carnegie Hall. At the time, I was reentering treatment, not seeing or even talking to many people and unsure of what my role in the film would be. But as the weeks and months passed, as we rode out the highest highs and lowest lows of our lives, the story morphed from a straightforward music documentary into one about love and art and survival—about what happens when the human spirit is tested again and again.
Jon and I attended the festival and made it to several screenings. The last was held in a city park, where about 2,000 people gathered in camping chairs with blankets to watch it projected on a big screen. It was surreal and a little overwhelming. Our voices were literally echoing off the canyon walls, and Jon was so unnerved that he kept his face buried in my jacket for the majority of the film.
That said, we’re so happy with how American Symphony turned out. Matt is a completely brilliant filmmaker and did such a beautiful job, and it was a joy to see how positively people responded to it. I’m especially excited for my beloved Isolation Journals community to see it, as it gets at the heart of the work we do here—reimagining survival as a creative act and transforming life’s interruptions into creative grist. I’ll let you know when it’s available to watch, and I may even try to cook up an early screening for paid subscribers!
We flew back from Colorado on Labor Day, and since then, I’ve been so tired and so happy to be home. Even though we’ve been riding out a heat wave in New York this week, I’ve been feeling an energetic shift toward fall, which is my very favorite time of year. Autumn’s back-to-school energy has always felt so powerful to me; I always see it as a time of creative possibility and an invitation to refocus. So as soon as I got home, I ordered some supplies—a bevy of books, some journals, and new paintbrushes—and I’ve been getting myself organized. Jon will be on the road for the next few weeks, and as much as I’ll miss him, I’m also excited to hunker down and work on a new book that’s been percolating all summer—in other words, to stop procrastinating (see The New Yorker cartoon below)!
Today, in honor of all things back-to-school, and especially the beloved teachers who populate our school-day memories, I have a very special list poem and prompt for you. It’s from ten-year-old Arden Brown, who just started fifth grade but can’t seem to shake the memory of her fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. R—. It’s so precise and hilarious and is a great reminder that teachers, who give so much to their students, are complex humans, with their own rich, fascinating lives. May it make you laugh and bring to mind a beloved teacher from the past. May it also help you recall the impact they made on you—and maybe even inspire you to reach out and say thank you.
Sending love,
Suleika
Some Items of Note—
Earlier this week, I sent out a video replay of our workshop with my dazzling friend, the brilliant author Elizabeth Gilbert. In it, she shared her spiritual practice to cultivate self-friendliness, Letters from Love, with paid subscribers. It was “beautiful, tear-inducing, and life-affirming,” as one community member put it. Click here to experience it yourself!
We’ve scheduled our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers. It’s the third Sunday of the month—so next Sunday, September 17, from 1-2 pm ET. Carmen will host and help you develop a fall reading list and integrate your reading life into your journaling. Mark your calendar!
By popular demand, we’re bringing back our custom-designed Isolation Journal—plus a second, extra special piece of merch. Paid subscribers get early access—if you haven’t upgraded, you can do so below!
Prompt 260. My Teacher, Mrs. R— by Arden Brown
Mrs. R’s first name is Ann. She teaches fourth grade. She also runs marathons. She has run Boston and New York City. Mrs. R hates the Jersey Turnpike and the drivers on the Jersey Turnpike. She also dislikes metal water bottles, and the words "snow" and "satisfaction." She doesn't like children needing to use the restroom or her cat Otto tripping people. There used to be a very large tree in Mrs. R's yard. It was cut down. Mrs. R has two sons. They are both single and both live in Colorado. W— is the younger one, B— is the older one. One of them (I don't know which) is a designer or sometimes an architect. W— is bad at getting up in the morning. Mrs. R bought him an alarm. The alarm has a helicopter on the top. The helicopter flies off of the alarm in the morning. Then it beeps until you put it back on the alarm. Mrs. R's mother is in her 90s and dating again. She once made a very spicy soup. She added three times the spice called for. Mrs. R and her family had to eat it because they were poor. Mrs. R speaks with an American accent with some British thrown in. She says VAH-ses instead of VAY-ses. Mrs. R's husband is a surgeon. Mrs. R will faint if she sees blood. She makes him keep his papers out of the house. Mrs. R is neat. Her husband is messy. He leaves things everywhere. Mrs. R met her husband at a burger shop. She was an employee. He was a customer. Mrs. R loves burgers. Otto once tripped Mrs. R's husband at the bottom of the stairs. Otto is a bad kitty. Mrs. R says she is a rule follower, but that she did some bad things in college. Her worst was driving a car without a seatbelt. The car didn't have seatbelts.
Your prompt for the week:
Write about a teacher, cataloging what you remember (good, bad, and otherwise) and how you saw them as a child. Then write about them as the student of life you are today.
If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.
Today’s Contributor—
Arden Brown is a fifth grader living on a farm in central New York. She has a dog named Oban and a cat named Coco. She spends her free time reading and playing the violin.
For more paid subscriber benefits, see—
Letters from Love, a video replay of our workshop with the bestselling author and speaker Elizabeth Gilbert, where she shares her decades-long spiritual practice for combating self-criticism and tapping into an ocean of unconditional love
Marriage Vows & the Myth of a Good Catch, an installment of my advice column Dear Susu, where my husband Jon and I tackle the question, “Is it selfish to ask someone to marry you if you’re ‘broken’?”
On Matters of Life and Death, a video replay of my Studio Visit with the brilliant poet and extraordinary teacher Marie Howe, who imparts essential lessons about reading, writing, and life
Prompt 260. Our American Symphony
First, my compliments to Arden. Mrs. Hoxie was my second grade teacher at Occoquan Elementary school in Virginia. She was beautiful, with her dark hair, always up in stylish way. She wore mini dresses with flowers, colorful tights and shiny flats. My dad was in Vietnam that year as was another kid's dad. She had, in the right hand corner of her blackboard, Dad's name (LTC McKnight) and the other dad's name with the number of days until they came home. Each day, she would erase the the two numbers, to one less. I adored her. She always smelled like lemons and love. Today, so many years later, I recall the tender hearted woman who made me feel special, and hopeful about my dad returning home. Her stylish dress choices influenced my own style and as a teacher myself, I personalize my interactions with my students so that they know I know how important the people, the loved animals are, their interests and fears are to me. Thank you, Mrs. Hoxie, for loving me as an 8-year-old in second grade. For giving me Valerie Bozman as my buddy to eat lunch with and play with at recess from my first day in your class, to the last. Thank you for playing, "Hey Jude" one day on the record player and telling us about the Beatles. I collected each of their albums and this influenced my obsession with music to this day. You were, and always will be, the angel on Earth for my tender heart.
Zoe FitzGerald-Beckett
In 1962 I was an eight-year-old third-grader at St. Anastasia’s Roman Catholic School in Queens, NY. and I loved my teacher, Mrs. Abbadessa. Firstly, I loved her name. It sounded like a magic spell. And secondly, because she wasn’t a nun in a severe black habit and wimple that I found scary. Mrs. Abbadessa wore pretty clothes and spiked high heels and make-up. I loved her bright pink lipstick. Her jet-black hair was usually up in an elaborate French twist or a beehive hairdo. I thought she was beautiful.
One day we were having a test from our “Fun with Phonics” books. Any third grader could tell you phonics was not fun. I liked to read, but not the dictionary. All those little marks breaking up the words were confusing. And who could remember where they were supposed to go on a test?
As I sat glumly staring at those hieroglyphics during one such exam, Jeanie, a classmate two seats in front of me, created a welcome diversion. She raised her hand and said she felt sick – and got excused to go home. Well, that seemed like a good idea to me. I waited what I thought was a decent interval while trying to look studiously engrossed in my test paper. Then I raised my hand, and said I felt sick too.
I can still remember Mrs. Abbadessa’s face as I stood there shamelessly clutching my stomach and telling her I was going to throw up, with some 40 plus pairs of eyes on me wondering if I would get away with it too. (Yes, there were that many of us baby boomers in that one class!). She didn't smile, but I could see it in her eyes. Maybe she was impressed with my blatant lying. Or perhaps she pitied me my stupidity in making the attempt so quickly after Jeanie's successful bid to break out of phonics prison. But she didn’t shame me in front of my classmates and send me to confession for lying. Or rap my knuckles with the dreaded copper ruler I had seen some nuns use for smaller transgressions . Instead, she sent me home! How could I not love her?
Why are some memories so easy to recall? Sixty years later, I can still see her face, made up and beautiful. Her smile. Her hairdo. I think of her patience trying to teach such a crowd of bored, restless children five days a week. I I marvel at her ability to appreciate my childhood silliness and her kindness in just setting me free that day. Of course, I loved her. Mrs. "Abracadabra" Abbadessa.