Famous

My host in Bangkok just wrote to me and said the Board at the school where I did a five-day in-service with both kids and teachers was impressed with how famous I was. Ha! Taylor Swift cuts her nails and 10 million fans applaud. I write a piece from the depths of my soul to post on my Blog or Facebook and if I’m lucky, get 100 responses. 

 

But I’m not complaining. As I often say, I’m just famous enough to get more work and the opportunity to do what I love— helping make kids and teachers just an inch or two happier. I thought of a beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye and how eloquently she names the kind of fame I care about it. 

 

FAMOUS

The river is famous to the fish.

 

The loud voice is famous to silence,   

which knew it would inherit the earth   

before anybody said so.   

 

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds   

watching him from the birdhouse.   

 

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.   

 

The idea you carry close to your bosom   

is famous to your bosom.   

 

The boot is famous to the earth,   

more famous than the dress shoe,   

which is famous only to floors.

 

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it   

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.   

 

I want to be famous to shuffling men   

who smile while crossing streets,   

sticky children in grocery lines,   

famous as the one who smiled back.

 

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,   

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,   

but because it never forgot what it could do.

Chopsticks, Hangman and Bill Evans

 

Both freestyle rappers and comedy improv. folks often ask the audience for two or three words and then proceed to spontaneously improvise a rap or sketch around them. I’ve always been astonished by their ability to do so. At a slower pace, an English teacher might do the same. “Using the title above, write a short piece incorporating and connecting these themes. Go!” You’re welcome to try it! Meanwhile, here’s my little piece based on my actual day yesterday. 

 

To catch up, I should start with the day before. Knowing I was going to Tokyo, I discovered that a teacher who is coming to study with me in Level III Orff training this summer is teaching at an International School here. I didn’t know her, though it turns out that she took Level II in Memphis at the same time I taught my Jazz Course there last summer and was inspired to finish her training with me. So she agreed to my proposal that I do a morning of teaching at her school—ASIJ, The American School in Japan—and set aside three classes for me. I thought it could be sweet for Zadie to watch me teach a bit, see an International School and maybe do some of the homework from her school (she’s missing a week of classes) that I imagined her teachers would assign her. 

 

But when I discovered that ASIJ was 90-minute commute three train rides away and that my first class began at 8:30 and would require a 6:00 am wake-up, I imagined Zadie would not be thrilled. I was right. So I let her sleep in and stay alone in our place until I returned in the early afternoon. The three classes were delightful and for one of them, I needed the kids to guess my middle name that begins with M. Some answers include “Mozart? Music-man? Magician?” before one actually hit upon “Mark.” (This was my introduction to the Slovenian song “Marko Skace.”) I was happy to be with kids yet again and enjoyed the challenge of figuring out the three trains and seeing a new neighborhood on the edge of Tokyo.

 

My homework for Zadie in my absence was to look up things to do and be my tour guide for the afternoon. When I finally returned back at 2:00, I was eager and ready to set off, only to discover that she had done nothing of the sort. Grrr! So I looked in the guidebook and saw something about a boat ride on the river in Shinigawa and off we went. To use Google Maps, you need Wi-fi and often Tokyo can connect you anywhere out on the streets. But in reality, it’s hit and miss, and so we spent time around the train station trying to figure out which way to walk and were feeling frustrated. After a little while of confused wandering, Zadie asked when we were going back home. 

 

So I calmly made it clear to me that this was a hard trip for me because I love being a tour guide in places I know, but even though I had been in Tokyo four other times, I didn’t know it that well and was dependent on all these suggestions on the Internet. I needed her help. We needed to research as a team so that each day had some kind of destination. She listened and seemed to understand my point. On we wandered and we did find the river and bridge pictured in the guidebook, but there was no boat cruising around. Still, it was nice to walk by the riverside and at one point, she spontaneously took my arm as she sometimes does as we walked side by side. A gesture always deeply appreciated by this grandfather walking with his teenage granddaughter. 

 

We did manage to find a Soba noodle place that also had great tempura. I love that the restaurants we’ve gone to either have some shamisen music playing or more often, some good jazz. Not a thumping disco beat in sight. Heaven. 

Coming back home, we had time to play some Rummy 500, one of our go-to card games and it reminded me that playing games together is the best way to connect, a thousand times more satisfying than attempting serious face-to-face conversations where I ask her questions about her life and she responds with typical teen one-word answers. Before turning in for the night, we agreed that we would look at tomorrow’s options together and decide on some options.

 

And so in the midst of a leisurely morning yesterday, I came upon two possible options and she was up for trying them both. One was a Chopstick-Making Class. That sounded different! We returned to the Times Square/ Las Vegas neighborhood of Shinjuku and it was Zadie’s turn to navigate us to a room on the 10^th floor of an obscure building. We got there and alongside some 20 other people, proceeded to make our first pair of chopsticks. For the first time, we (well, I) conversed with some fellow travelers, like the couple sitting across from us from Michigan and the mixed-race African-Japanese young man who was our teacher. A fun, convivial atmosphere and at the end, lo and behold, we each had made a working pair of chopsticks!

 

From there, it was back through the maze of the fabulous subway system, so user-friendly and well-marked with different colors for the lines, numbers for the stations, Japanese and English signs and announcements naming both the stops and the lines you can transfer to at the stop. We’re becoming experts and it’s fun to feel confidence in your ability to navigate a city like that. 

 

The evening activity was a dinner show with a little theater piece about a famous samurai. We arrived at the site, Kanda Shrine, an hour early and Zadie suggested sitting somewhere for a coffee or tea while waiting for the doors to open. We found the loveliest little spot nearby and when our drinks came, I suggested that neither of us take out our phones and just talk. So I starting asking those direct questions that inspire those curt one-word answers and then got the idea of playing hangman on a piece of paper I found in my pocket. 

Brilliant! The energy shifted immediately and we had so much fun in the way that works best for her—and me! And the icing on the cake? The café was playing some background jazz and it was —The Bill Evans Trio!!! So there you have it—chopsticks, Hangman and Bill Evans.

 

After an hour there, we went on to the dinner place and played a bit more Hangman and other word games waiting for the show and then at 8:15, it finally began. I didn’t have high expectations, but I hoped it might have some live music, fantastic costumes, intriguing story line. In fact, it was 0 for 3 and one of the most dismal entertainments I’ve sat through (for way too much money!) with a non-stop high-decibel recorded rock soundtrack and an hour of people grunting and fighting and crying and fighting and shouting and fighting and… well, you get the idea. 

 

But no matter. Zadie wasn’t judging the show like me with my high-browed artistic lens and thought it was mildly entertaining. At the end, they had audience members come up to get their photo taken with the troupe and when I looked at Zadie with a quizzical “Shall we?” she shook her head emphatically “No!!!” And then five minutes later, decided on her own that we should—and we did! Sweet! We walked back to the subway only to find the entrance closed and that precipitated a little adventure. Found another entrance, also closed! I asked for help at a 7-11 store and finally found the one that was open. And so ended Day 4. 

 

Today is a trip to Yokohama where we’ll meet up with an Orff teacher I’ve trained who is also a jazz singer. (And also one of two other triplet-sisters! One time I met them all!) Arranging our rendezvous, it came out that she’s the sister-in-law of a fabulous jazz singer I’ve heard and admired. I couldn’t believe it when she told me, but then —duh!— they do share the same name! Her name is Sheryl Bridgewater and the singer—Dee Dee Bridgewater! 

To be continued.  

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!!