Hit the Damn Ball!!

One of the most excruciating film clips I’ve ever seen was a W.C. Fields short called The Golf Specialist. At some point in the film, he offers to teach a woman how to play golf and steps up to the tee to demonstrate the proper technique. He wiggles his hips, checks his grip and gets ready to swing, but everytime he is about to swing, something happens. The ball falls of the tee, his caddy’s squeaky shoes distract him, the wind blows papers around him, he steps into a pie his caddy has brought him. Time and again, just as he is about to hit it, he doesn’t. 

 

The tension that creates is unbearable. You expect one thing to happen— he hits the ball— and it never does. When I first saw this, I felt the stress and strain of unfulfilled expectations mounting and I was right on the verge of jumping up in my seat and yelling, “JUST HIT THE DAMN BALL!!” when something happens and the film ends. (Hint: He never does hit the ball!)

 

Today walking through Ueno Park with Zadie, I relived this torture. I had hoped to stumble into a Setsubun Festival and lo and behold, we saw a crowd gathered in front of a Shinto Shrine with dignitaries up on a stage looking like something was clearly going to happen. So we waited patiently, watching them move tortoise-like from one area to another, get their picture taken, then a new group comes in, and then another and then another. Chairs are moved, sat in and taken away. People cross from one side of the shrine to the other to discuss something with someone and then back again. I kept expecting some ritual performance to begin at any minute and it kept teasing me— “Not yet. Let me adjust my collar here.” 

 

Finally, after 45 minutes, I hear 3 beats of a drum and snap to attention. “Now they’re ready!” Nope. More fussing and bowing and adjusting this or that and finally, a woman speaks into a microphone Everyone in the crowd bows their heads while the Shinto priestess and priest apparently are doing some ritual gestures inside of the shrine. She speaks again and all unbow. This happens three times and the third time, our heads are bowed for 10 minutes! Not a happy position for the human body. Off to the side, I see some kids waiting for their part to play.

 

By my side is my teenage granddaughter, who from the beginning asked to leave because she was tired, and kudos to her, she put up with it as long as I did! Finally, we slipped away, but I felt cheated that we had never seen the ritual ball hit. So we walked away for five minutes and came back in hopes that now things were in full motion. Not a chance. For all I know, they’re all standing there still one hour later. And just like the W.C. Fields movie, the extreme tension between expecting something to happen and nothing happening was unbearable. I’ve paid my dues with the slowness of Zen ceremonies, but I know at the beginning what to expect and how long to expect it. This was something different.

 

And because of this extraordinary moment in my country’s history, every little story has a parallel political metaphor. From the Muller Report to the Epstein File and some 30-50 opportunities to remove/jail the monster, the cumulative effect of thinking “Now it will happen!” and then nothing does, makes so many of us want to stand up and scream, “HIT THE DAMN BALL!!”

The long-term effect on our psyches is anyone’s guess, but if you want a condensed version, so watch The Golf Specialist.  

Small Gestures

We stepped out of our little Tokyo apartment around 10:30 in the morning and when we returned at 7:30 pm, granddaughter Zadie and I had walked over 8 miles through four different neighborhoods. Got off the Ginza line at Shibuya and wandered our way to Harajuku, with its crowded narrow street of pedestrians- only with trendy stores and a host of animal cafes. We went to the Cat Café, which truth be told, was a little underwhelming— mostly sitting amidst many cats, petting one or two, feeding another and drinking one free drink. Nearby were others featured Samoyed dogs, capybaras (the world’s largest rodent, whom I had seen in Brasilia), piglets and a host of other four-legged creatures.  We stopped to sample Marion’s crepes, a cheese corn dog and potatoes on a stick (see photo) and just generally be part of the youthful scene. 

 

After all that urban intensity, we made our way to the welcome spaciousness of Meiji Jingu Shrine, a Shinto shrine particularly honoring the Emperor Meiji who first opened up communications between Japan and the West. While strolling, I reviewed the 5 major religions of the world with Zadie and told her the story of Buddha and how Buddhism is unique in that Buddha never intended to be revered as a god. She indulged me by listening politely and then asked where we were going next. 

 

So from the tranquility of the park, back to the hustle and bustle of Shinjuku, with its giant screen with videos of a cat and an enormous Godzilla sculpture peeking over a building. More wall-to-wall people and now night, so the lights were on, evoking a combination of Las Vegas and Times Square. Zadie had been fairly introspective all day, a combination of personality, jet lag and being 14, but as we stood at a light waiting to cross, she looked around at all the glitter and exclaimed, “It’s beautiful!”

 

We stumbled into the perfect restaurant, a small Japanese place serving dumplings and gyoza, two of her favorites. And they indeed were delicious. Whenever a customer entered through the door, the chef called out “Irasshaimase!” (“Welcome!”), a ritual I remember from previous visits and had forgotten. Just the kind of little cultural gesture that we all might consider. (Picture that at your local Macdonald’s/ TGIF’s/ Starbucks). 

 

I remember another small gesture of being aware of others, an etiquette that when sitting at a table drinking beer or wine or sake with a group, that you yourself should not refill your glass when you need more, but that one of the others should notice and pour it for you. It is the understatement of the year that we need to cultivate small acts of kindness and welcome and such gestures can add up to an increased awareness of each other. Thank you, Japan!

 

On to Day 2. 

Proud to Be an American?

For most of my life, the American people I don’t know have often disappointed me, especially on Election Years. Though there have been some inspiring upswings— first the Clintons and then (especially!) the Obamas— my general sense of trust in the common sense, decency and intelligence of the voters has often felt like Lucy snatching away the football. Against my wish to do so, I couldn’t help but agree with whoever said, “Never underestimate the stupidity of the American people.” Time and again, they proved that right and none more astonishing than the re-election of not only the worst President in our history, but one of the most sub-standard human beings to ever walk the face of the earth. The kind of person—and the people he’s gathered around him and enabled him and voted for him—that makes me ashamed to be in the same species as him. This could be perceived as arrogance, but when you know the facts, it’s an understatement. 

 

So why the above title? As he keeps lowering the bar below the 7 regions of Hell, recklessly and carelessly throwing his weight around because nobody seems able to stop him, there are so many signs that he has finally stepped over the line and people who sacrificed their integrity and sense of decency are finally having second thoughts. (My gosh! Marjorie Taylor Greene?!!!!) Those perfectly comfortable to stay silent and watch their favorite shows knowing no masked Gestapo-like ICE agents will come knocking at their door are suddenly showing up at rallies— in sub-zero temperatures! Even as its clear that that the party atmosphere of the gatherings has turned deadly serious and the consequence could be death. 

 

The artists have refused to perform in Kennedy Center and now it’s closing down for “renovations.” The film reviewers are laughing at the Melania movie. 

Jon Stewart/ Stephen Colbert/ Jimmy Kimmel/ Seth Myers etc. are managing to stay afloat. And then the extraordinary (ie, decent) people of Minnesota, now nominated by a newspaper for a collective Nobel Peace Prize and deservedly so and another movement surfacing in the icy terrain of Maine. A recent General Strike in San Francisco with high school kids out dancing and singing and teaching us the lesson the schools have failed to teach them. No Kings Rallies with over 7 million people in every state and now another one coming that will most certainly surpass that. Music teachers on Facebook whom I know that have mostly asked for a good lesson plan now using that venue to report on the atrocities. 

 

In short, finally it feels like a groundswell of long overdue resistance and people who have never been involved this way suddenly stepping out and speaking out. And what are they saying? Well, the group Twisted Sister wrote the song for them back in 1984:

 

We're not gonna take it
No, we ain't gonna take it
We're not gonna take it anymore

[Verse 1]
We’ve got the right to choose, and 

There ain’t no way we’ll lose it. 

This is our life, this is our song
We'll fight the powers that be, just
Don't pick our destiny, 'cause
You don't know us, you don't belong

[Chorus]

[Verse 2]
Oh, you're so condescending
Your gall is never ending
We don't want nothing, not a thing from you
Your life is trite and jaded
Boring and confiscated
If that's your best, your best won't do

 

We're right (Yeah)
We're free (Yeah)
We'll fight (Yeah)
You'll see, woah-woah (Yeah).

 

My fellow Americans, keep standing up and speaking out and let’s turn this thing around! And for all of you who do, and have, and will, I’m proud to know you!

 

 

Then and Now

Back in Japan. I’ve come here four times to teach—2011, 2012 and 2016, to be exact. But my first visit here was another lifetime ago, in 1979. It was the end of a year-long trip around the world with my soon-to-be wife that included 2 months in Europe, 5 months in India, a transition month traveling in Nepal, Bangkok, and Singapore en route to Java and another 3 months there (including a side trip to Bali). Japan was our final two weeks before returning to marriage, kids and 40 more years at the school where we taught.  Here was my first impression: 

 

July 15, 1979:: Kyoto, Japan— And so we begin our final cadenza. Off the plane at Osaka, through friendly customs, onto a bus to the train station, helped by a man eager to practice his English. Osaka feels like New York—raised freeways, glittering lights, endless concrete— and funny how at home I felt with it all. Off the bus, passed along from one friendly man to another who got us on the right train. Out in Kyoto at 11:00, called Karen’s Michigan acquaintance Bridget (How did we do that? Use a Japanese pay phone with the right coins and the right number? Extraordinary!), took a taxi to her house and sat over green tea talking with her and her Japanese friend until 3 in the morning. She selflessly offered us her tatami-mat floor to sleep on for a week in her small Japanese-style apartment with sliding screen doors.  

 

July 16— Like a fish thrown back into water, I’ve come back to the world in which I move best. Yesterday a Noh mask exhibition and paper-cut paintings, both exceptional and beautifully displayed. A papercut of two Zen monks walking in front of a temple that took my breath away— felt like meeting a best friend after a long separation. The wonder grew yet wider as we approached Heian Shrine, a beauty so thick I felt I could reach out and touch it. My breath churned up from the depths and my eyes on the verge of tears. Bali and India were extraordinary encounters with the new and unfamiliar, but somehow this was home after a long exile. The pine trees, sense of space, the miso soup and rice— after months of travel that took time to move from the strange and exotic to the comfortable and familiar, this is no effort whatsoever.

 

Not quite the same sensation I had this morning waking up in my airport hotel, but when I went out for a walk, stumbled on to a bustling neighborhood with food shops and then a series of temples with people out wafting smoke into their faces and paying their respects. Back to the airport to meet Zadie and Hurrah! We connected! First hurdle past.

 

Then off to buy a Skyliner train ticket and get us set up with the equivalent of an SF Clipper Card (Suica) and managed to do both. Second hurdle.

 

Out at Ueno Station and here was the ultimate challenge, getting to our obscure address that was our Air B&B. My first thought was to get a taxi and leave it up to them to find it ,but figuring out where and how to hail a taxi was in itself a challenge. My Google Maps wouldn’t connect, but Zadie’s did, so she led us down back alleys to a place that didn’t quite make sense. A man stopped his car and got out to help us and we figured out she had put in the wrong address. Off we went again and miraculously found it and miraculously the lock box that didn’t quite seem to work suddenly did (thanks, Zadie!) and we got into our cozy apartment. Found a nearby market, came back with arms filled with Inari sushi and rice balls and egg rolls and matcha tea and mandarin oranges and that was enough to tide us over before Zadie could finally lie down after her 14-hour plane flight. 

 

A different time, a different city than Kyoto, a different culture, a different way of navigating, than our Japan initiation almost half a century ago. How could I have imagined back then that I would be back here with my granddaughter!!!

That was then, this is now, both glorious in their own way. No plans yet for tomorrow, we shall see what the day brings.

From Lisbon to Tokyo

I was teaching in Lisbon when I got the news that my first grandchild, Zadie, was born. That night I went to a Fado Music Club and wrote a letter to her welcoming her to this Earth and promising that I would take her to this club when she turned 15. A promise that gave us both something to look forward to.

 

14 years later (not 15), here we are, about to share an adventure together in her first time out of the country. But instead of Lisbon, it’s Tokyo, by her request. I write this at the Bangkok Airport, about to fly to Japan. She should have arrived in San Francisco by this time, picked up by her Aunt Talia to spend the night before either Talia or my wife Karen will take her to the airport tomorrow for her flight to Tokyo. I admire Zadie’s bravery in flying alone all that way and appreciate that I didn’t have to fly all the way back to San Francisco and turn around back to Tokyo! Instead, I’ll spend the night at an airport hotel to make sure I’m ready to greet her when she arrives tomorrow. 

 

While I wait for her, I plan to wade through all the suggestions multiple people have made about what we should do and where we should go and what we should see. It seems like virtually everyone I’ve mentioned this trip to—in San Francisco, in Singapore, in Bangkok—has been to Tokyo and fairly recently at that. All without exception light up with enthusiasm, sharing how much they enjoyed it. 

 

The challenge is balancing the things an old Zen meditator/ haiku-reader/ Kurosawa movie fan, would like to see with a 14-year-old’s fascination with anime, manga, food machines, and pop culture. I’m perfectly fine mostly following her lead, but of course, will insist on a temple or two and a walk in a park with plum blossoms and maybe even a Bunraku puppet performance. 

 

I began this post in Bangkok and finish it here in Narita Airport, waiting for my airport shuttle bus. It’s cold!!!!  After two weeks in short sleeves and shorts, I’m back in blue jeans and my puffy jacket and eagerly waiting for the sweaters Zadie is bringing me tomorrow!

 

And so, a 14-year-old promise/dream about to be fulfilled. And who knows? There’s probably a Fado Club in Tokyo!! 

Insisting on Hope?

Imagine my surprise and delight when a literary consultant recently e-mailed to me her  glowing review of my book Jazz, Joy and Justice! Here is what she wrote: 

 

“Jazz, Joy and Justice is a stirring and necessary work that blends music, history, and moral responsibility into a vision for education that truly matters. Doug Goodkin writes with passion and clarity, inviting readers to hear jazz not just as sound, but as story, resistance, and resilience. As I read, I felt the rhythm of history itself moving through the pages, carrying both celebration and reckoning.

 

The strength of this book lies in its ability to connect art with conscience. Goodkin honors jazz as a uniquely American creation while illuminating the lives of the musicians who shaped it, not only as artists, but as individuals navigating and resisting systemic racism. By weaving musical listening suggestions with historical insight, he transforms jazz into a living classroom where joy and justice are inseparable. The book doesn’t shy away from pain, but it insists on hope, inviting young minds to learn through beauty, honesty, and courage.

 

This is a book that belongs in schools, conversations, and public forums. Its message makes it especially well-suited for speaking engagements, educator workshops, and podcast discussions focused on arts education, social justice, and cultural history. Jazz, Joy and Justice is both a call to action and an invitation to listen more deeply, reminding us that jazz has always been about freedom, expression, and the ongoing pursuit of a more just world.”

 

What a pleasure to read those words. I felt seen. I felt known. I felt renewed hope that this book that I imagined could make an impact might finally get to the kids, teachers and adults who would benefit from it. And then…

 

The doubts crept in. Did a person write this or was it chatgpt? Was it sincere enthusiasm for helping me reach more people or part of a scam to help me buy into the promotion offers that followed? I shared it with some trusty people (like my daughter) who thought my suspicions were correct. On one hand, even I was impressed by the eloquence of AI, but where is the glory in that? To be “known” by a machine. To seduce me and impress me with the promise that the company will help me if I pay them—of course— a certain amount of money. To feed into a culture where no one can trust anyone or anything anymore. While the review celebrates "insisting on hope," the machinery behind it lifts mine up and then dashes it down. This is so damn depressing. 

 

That e-mail came on the exact same day that the publishers of the book, who have been 100% unsupportive from Day One, doing absolutely nothing to promote it, wrote to me that they were dropping it because it hadn’t sold well, I can either buy the remaining books from them or they’ll pulp them. Pardon me for imagining that the world was ready to celebrate jazz, its legacy of joy, its history of justice and resistance, that teachers would heartily welcome the opportunity to educate children to one of the most inspiring and powerful strands in our broken history. Foolish me.

 

Oh well. I tried. 

 

PS If anyone is inspired to get it before it’s thrown on the trash heap, order soon!

 

Canaries in the Coal Mine

Another uplifting course completed, with 40 lovely international school teachers eager to upgrade their teaching while remembering their own delight in joyful music and dance. They were deeply appreciative of both the material and the seamless process of developing it. But when it came time for questions, the sentiments that surface time and time again were the issues of reaching reluctant or defiant or unfocused kids. I did two demo classes with the 6-year-olds and the 5^th grade, so they did get to see directly how I handled certain situations. My first answer, in both my thinking and my teaching, is simply to love kids, expect their foibles, invite them to play rather than scold them to work, give them engaging worthy material that effortlessly attracts them, give them space to not be perfect and so on. 

 

But it was indeed alarming to talk informally over lunch and hear stories like these:

·      The 6-year-old getting kids to pay him for him to play with him at recess. (New Age bullying.)

·      A teacher telling a kid he’ll have to talk to his Mom to get permission for the kid’s request and the kid (also 6) answering, “ Oh, my mom does whatever  I say.” (Not also the absence of the Dad.)

·      Teacher screaming at kids.

·      A Head of School driving a Ferrari bought from his school salary, but no money in the budget for teachers to buy paper.

·      Girl who’s one refuge is music punished for something else by taking away the chance to participate in music. 

·      A 2^nd grade kid habitually hitting other kids, breaking things in the classroom and even hitting the teacher without consequence because the adults are told to “honor his trauma.” 

 

And these are the stories from expensive private international schools where parents pay high tuitions!

 

Kids are the canaries in the coal mine, warning us of the dangers of imminent cultural collapse. That expression comes from derived coal miners using caged birds to detect toxic gases like carbon monoxide in mines. Due to their high sensitivity to fumes, the birds would stop singing or die, allowing miners to evacuate. Immersed in the toxic fumes of our poisonous cultural practices and the narratives that sustain them, the children have stopped singing the delights of childhood. Instead, they shout or scream or hit or remain mute and we guardians have run out the door and left them alone. 

 

But kids are also remarkably resilient and if you give them the fresh air of a glorious Spring day in the countryside, they will sing their beautiful songs. Soon after writing this, I worked for an hour with twenty 5^th graders and naturally, some kids fooling around a little bit or not fully participating and such. They’re kids. But I’m onto them in seconds and when I playfully redirect them and they realize that everything I’m teaching them— some cool body percussion patterns, a clapping play with a partner, a dance, a little drama acting out (without physical contact!) the older version of the Home Alone movie, Step Back, Baby, they’re with me 150%. I thread those four things together into one exuberant performance, check in with them constantly as to how they’re doing (with my thumb-o-meter), ask at the end who got better, who knew what their next step toward mastery will be, who enjoyed it, they were right there with me. Twenty singing canaries testifying that when adults give kids things worthy of their time and attention, they’re right there with you. 

 

So while the stories I heard are sobering, my actual experience with kids is always uplifting, thanks to 50 years of practice as to how to help kids sing their song. As are my workshops with teachers offering new perspectives on how to engage, support and love their students. 

 

And so I continue.