Turning the Page

I was so proud that at the beginning of my travels over four weeks ago, I arrived in Singapore, slept through the night, walked and swam my first day and miraculously entirely circumvented jet lag. “Not so on my return!” he says at 3:00 am in the morning on Wednesday and also yesterday on Tuesday. Not a bad time to catch up on business in a quiet house, but not my first choice!

 

Our Zipair 9-hour flight home was fine, though no movies! We left at 10:00pm from Tokyo and I believe I slept a total of one hour. Out the San Francisco airport to a sunny day and newly appreciating the feeling of space, the ocean, the greenery, a marked contrast to the urban jungle of steel and concrete and flashing videoed billboards that is Tokyo. As I wrote in one Facebook touch, “Tokyo is a place of contrasts, the space and serenity of a few shrines and temples side-by-side with the Times-Square-on-steroids neighborhoods (Shinjuku/ Shibuya) that make you feel like you’re inside a giant pinball machine.” Like New York City, a fun place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. The balance of city and country in San Francisco is much more my cup of tea. 

 

Usually, I leave a place with a summary of appreciations and amongst the things I noticed and enjoyed were:

 

• Jazz as the default background music at restaurants! At a volume possible to talk over. Not a single thumping disco beat! Thank you, Tokyo!

 

• Clean streets and a bit mysterious as there are very few public trash cans and a lot of food wrapped in plastic wrappers.

 

• No (visible) homeless people. It’s possible.

 

• The aforementioned blend of the hyper-urban and the old-world serenity of shrines and temples.

 

Upon returning, Zadie and I had a nice Mexican meal prepared by my wife Karen and Zadie’s Aunt Talia (Tita). Nice short family reunion, finally get horizontal, middle of the night 3-hours awake and next morning, take Zadie to the airport to fly back to her home in Portland. It was my colleague Sofia’s birthday and she was down with the flu, so I went from the airport to my old school to sub for her and teach a Bulgarian piece in 15/16 meter to the 6^th graders, many of whom were my last 5-year-old class when I retired in 2020. Such a pleasure to see their growth and progress, physically, emotionally and musically. Then I got to share an elementary school singing time (always a favorite) with my colleague James and our Valentine’s Day repertoire. 

 

So I hit the ground running, back to teacher mode, and will return today to do some old favorites with 4-year-olds and 1^st graders. A rather choppy schedule lies ahead, with a calendar dotted with things like my nephew’s play, singing at two elder homes, a short trip to Yosemite, a school alum teacher hike, my wife’s birthday, a ritual annual New Year’s walk with friends and more. Turning the page from a marvelous time in Singapore, Bangkok, Tokyo, to my life in California. Enjoying the plot of the book and the characters, and ready for the next chapter. 

Navigating the Maze

I was not a model airplane kind of kid. Anything that involved sequential instructions— the model airplanes, the erector sets, later, biology lab— was just not my wheelhouse. I can justify it by saying that my imaginative mind saw multiple ways to interpret a direction and that might be true. But maybe more honest to just admit that this wasn’t one of my intelligences. And it followed me into adulthood. 

 

However… having to learn how to navigate a computer and stay on top of the proliferation of devices needed to keep my work afloat— not teaching, of course, but arranging the teaching, making my way through aps and QR codes and GPS directions and beyond, has forced me to come to terms with navigating the maze of unforgiving detailed instructions that have one solution only. Where a cap or a space between words or unfound code can send the whole mess spinning into disaster. And as a result, I can finally admit I’m intelligent enough to do it. My confidence has increased and my ability to breathe through things that don’t work at first rather than throw my hands up in dismay has improved.

 

Today, for example. Zadie wanted me to get an extension of our 10 am check out time so we might watch the Superbowl. I navigated through my new Air B&B ap, figured out how to message the host and where to find the reply and managed an hour extension. Then Zadie, ever-fearless in this world, did the lion’s share of figuring out how to get the ap to watch the Superbowl and connect it to the TV. All I had to do was pay the 50 cents fee. We got to watch it all the way through the 3^rd quarter— "Go Seahawks!" and “Good Job, Bad Bunny!” and then set off with our luggage to Ueno Station. 

 

There we found a money-changing machine to get my last 8,000 yen from my $50 bill. Found the lockers, switched to the English instructions, put in the money, opened the locker and got the slip with both a number and QR code to unlock it at the end. Things were going well!

 

On to a walk in the park with no GPS, following my newly-found-familiarity with the territory. We took a pedal boat out on the lake. Walked back to the neighborhood I went to alone the other day where I had stayed 10 years ago, with the hope of lunching at a restaurant I passed. Alas, closed and many places we found were (Monday thing?), but finally found one that was open, would only take cash and we spent the last of our yen down to our coins counted out on the table. A stroll to the Nezu Shrine and walk through some 100 Tori gates, soaking up some sun and serenity with the five hours remaining before heading to the airport. 

 

Made our way back (still no GPS), returned to the lockers and punched in the numbers and it worked!! Then to buy the Skyline Ticket to the airport, found the place and the line and our car number with our seats and on to the airport. Got our boarding passes, checked our bags (both on machines), through security, through Immigration and walking to the gate, Zadie turned to me with a smile and said, “Well, that went smoothly!” 

 

And it did. All of it. The whole trip. So many unknowns, so much thinking on our feet, so many decisions to make every day—"What to do? When to go? What to eat and where? What little gifts to buy? Which train to take? How much money left on our cards?" On and on and on. 

 

Trusting in our intelligence, we did it all. And here let me publicly state that my 14-year-old granddaughter and I are good traveling companions. Yes, there were moments when I felt I had to drag her out of the house and aim for some cultural immersion, and yes, the moment we got home, she often retreated to her room with her phone. But hey, she’s 14 hanging out with a guy 60 years older, so one should keep expectations mild! But in general, we enjoyed each other’s company, shared some lovely planned and unplanned moments, and didn’t get into a single fight or argument over our eight days together. 

 

Well, there’s still the flight ahead where she insists that she should get the aisle and me the middle seat. And while I’m writing this at the airport, she’s anxious to find some shops to load up on snacks. But all in all, it has been a special time together that I think will echo on in the years to come.

 

Okay, off for the snacks! 

Elvis in the Snow

Woke up to our last full day to snow that was heavy enough to stick. I was enchanted by it, especially since I rarely am in a place where it snows. But my delight was brought down a peg when my friend who we have visited in Yokohama called to warn me that Tokyo gets paralyzed in the snow— no trains run, planes don’t take off, etc. That it would be good to try to book an extra night in a hotel somewhere to prepare. 

I took it all in a stride, with a certain Zen equanimity— “Let’s see what happens.” However, I was determined to see the Elvis impersonators in Yoyogi Park I had heard about and it was hard to pry my traveling companion out of our cozy apartment into 30 degree temperatures. Nevertheless, I persisted and when the snow actually stopped around 1:30 pm, so after a brief lunch at a neighborhood café, off we went to brave the elements. About a 30-minute Metro ride to Shibuya (the trains were running!) and out into the river of people as dense as in nearby Shinjuku. I followed my intuition as to where the park was and miraculously, found it! But I had read that the Elvis gathering begins around 2:30 and now it was nearing 4:00. We entered the park and the gods were with us— there were three Elvis’s twitching their hips to rockabilly music recorded by some Japanese band.  Score!

Zadie was cold and pleased to go home, but I pressed forward to find Harajuku where we had been the first day and again, intuition proved more reliable than Apple Maps, especially since the latter needed Wi-Fi and after getting it easily out on the streets the first few days, it suddenly stopped working for me. We returned to Marion’s Crepes for a treat, found a gift shop to get a present for a third friend of Zadie’s, passed the Piglet Café and I couldn’t hold out any longer against Zadie’s pleas to get home to our warm place and a final dinner from our special neighborhood market. 

 

I had been feeling a bit stir-crazy staying inside all morning, but having once gone out into the cold, I felt a renewed welcome from its warm presence. A few Rummy 500 games ahead and tomorrow we wake up to a last day with a lot to figure out. Where to store our luggage, how to watch the Super Bowl if we can get an extension on our check-out, what to do all day if it’s cold and our plane not leaving until 10:30 at night. It has been a welcome challenge to learn how to navigate around a new city— I’m a Metro expert!— a bit more stressful challenge to come up with things that will engage and entertain my 14-year-old granddaughter with strong opinions about what’s worth her attention, an ongoing task to figure out food and money exchange and QR codes and GPS directions and I’m proud to say I’ve done pretty well with it all. 

 

But I’m most definitely ready to return to my home turf, with my familiar stores and friends and routines and not responsible to anyone else for a while except my three good friends—me, myself and I. Meanwhile, we shall see what tomorrow brings. 

From Indignation to Action

To be honest, I think Zadie and I could have been content to leave Tokyo today. Feels like we’ve reached the end of “attractions” and while it was briefly exciting to see snow flurries today, it doesn’t exactly entice us to wander the parks. Today I did go out to find a Japanese Inn (Ryokan) I stayed in some 10 years ago while Zadie stayed back, and lo and behold, I found it! The area near Nezu station has a more down-home community-feel and the Ryokan itself is lovely, as was the man who greeted me. I had the inspired idea of spending our last night tomorrow night there, but alas! they were full. 

 

When I got back late afternoon, I got Zadie mobilized to search out dinner in the Asakusa neighborhood two subway stops away. We found a quaint little shopping area with many restaurant choices. Including a gift shop where she bought little gifts— well, I bought little gifts!— for two of her friends and we had our first ice cream of the trip on the coldest night of the trip. Green tea ice cream of course. Then back home for four spirited rounds of our nightly Rummy 500 game, taking turns jumping ahead and falling back. 

 

This whole trip I’ve been connected, like it or not, to the drama back home, and after reading more Facebook expressions of outrage over the latest depiction of the Obamas, I felt compelled to chime in. Nothing earthshaking, but hopefully worth saying out loud. Here it is below: 

 

I think it might be worthwhile to express your disgust on social media at what the current regime says, does, thinks, excuses. The racist Obama clip, the ICE murders, the Orange-Man in an interview wondering why people were upset because it was only 2 people murdered while thousands were allowed to stay alive, the latest Epstein revelations— need I go on?

 

But really, why is anybody surprised? If we don’t know by now what to expect, it would seem like some naïve notion that these people actually mean well but have just made a few mistakes. We know exactly who they, who their supporters are, who their enablers are, and nothing they are doing should surprise us. We none of us could believe it get any lower and that was some one or two hundred “lowers’ ago. 

 

Yet they are all on the losing side of history and the world is waking up to it. JD Vance booed at the Italian Olympics, Bad Bunny at the Superbowl, Kennedy Center closing down from artists’ refusal to comply.. And most inspiring, “red” communities in Virginia, Maryland, Arizona, Missouri, Texas, Georgia, New Hampshire, New Jersey and more going to the streets and town halls to prevent the next ICE Prison Camps being built in their town, (see this remarkable report by Rachel Maddow. Worth every second of the 30 minutes.) https://youtu.be/Hjimit-HvWg

 

It’s happening, people! So instead of using our voice to express our next outrage, let’s shift our reaction from righteous indignation to action. Let’s organize, keep the momentum going, get the people out to the town halls and to the streets, keep up the general strikes and make the upcoming No Kings Rally double the size of what already was the largest protest in American history. Keep the stories coming of people’s thousand acts of resistance, share ideas, offer support. We can do this! Not as soon as we would like nor as widespread as we would hope for, but one small victory at a time that rebuilds the moral backbone of our crippled country. And as the old jazz tune suggests, “side by side.”

 

  

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!! 

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.