Music, Sorrow, Healing

The 8^th grade just shared their reports about Jazz and Social Justice. One theme that came up was the reluctance of early jazz musicians like Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole and others to engage directly in the fight for Civil Rights. They kept focused on their music and their life of uplifting audiences through performance.

And yet in a climate where de-humanization was central to racism and oppression, their efforts to claim the humanity of black folks through music, indeed, to show the genius and stamina and dignity and triumph of a people trumpeted out in notes and words, was an extraordinary contribution to help turn around the mechanism of institutional oppression.  And like all of us, they were just struggling to survive and keep their opportunities open to continue careers that got the music to the people. And it is worth noting that each of the above eventually had at least one moment when they used their status to speak out and be heard about social justice issues.

After the 8^th grade class, I walked through the 7^th grade class where they were rehearsing a version of the Barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman. No social justice theme here, but the power of music to heal and uplift humanity in big and small ways is the reason Armstrong, Ellington, Nat Cole and Offenbach dedicated themselves to their craft. As a music teacher and musician, I’m always looking for yet more affirmation of music’s grand contribution and I remembered a poem I wrote about this very subject back in 2008 when my father began a long six-month march to the exit door.

Here it is:

LISTENING TO THE BARCAROLLE FROM THE TALES OF HOFFMAN

Driving home from the Marin hospital.

Another day of coaxing my father back to life after heart surgery,

worrying about my too-young friend edging closer to her death.

My back in pain and a three-week sickness that won’t let go.

My mind is fixed on the great matters of birth and death when the city

comes into view, shining in full resplendence in the light of dusk.

On the car speakers, two repeated notes tentatively announce the beginning

of something worth attending to,

answered by the strings, who charge that little bird song with confidence.

Flutes and oboes and more strings join the chorus, swelling

and then settling for just a breath,

when the first voice enters,

rising over it all with the majesty of a lone eagle over a twilight sea.

My spine begins to tingle.

When the second voice joins,

I am lifted out of my mortal body, released from all the persistent pain, the gravity of

grief and the soul’s sorrow.

I am soaring over the Golden Gate Bridge,

weightless,

free.

It lasts for four minutes and one second.

And I think—

This is all the immortality we will ever get.

And all we will ever need.

Head in the Sand

This appeared in Facebook. It generated some 150 plus comments! No surprise. Nothing hits home like the inhumanity of tying healthcare to dollars, the cruelty of saying we’ll take care of you for lots of money and let you rot if you don’t have it.

One of the comments, from someone named Jeff.

I hate to say it, but I would rather be bankrupt and have the best medical care in the world than being in one of those countries and get mediocre socialist care and die four years later anyways.

That comment got 26 replies, one of which was:

You don’t own a passport, do you, Jeff?

And Jeff replied:

No, I don’t. Why?

 Let me pause here. Do you see what’s going on? Not only does Jeff make an assumption about the “mediocre socialist care” in other countries based on nothing whatsoever, but he doesn’t even get that it’s an issue that his world is so small that he doesn’t know what the hell he is talking about.

Of course, that “nothing whatsoever” is the insidious mythology that America is the greatest, has been the greatest and will always be the greatest— in everything. Despite the fact that the World Health Organization ranks it 32^nd in the world in terms of health care. And if you actually read factual statistics about our standing in terms of education, infant mortality, gun violence, people in prison, etc., etc. and yet again, etc., you would see there’s a disconnect between our perception of our omnipotence and the reality. Yet another facet of the “I’m normal, you’re a jerk” mentality that permeates our country. Making arrogant judgments and proclaiming overviews of situations with our head in the sand. Not much of a view down there. Pull it up and look around. Better yet, walk around. With a passport. 

Or at least see Michael Moore’s “Sicko” or “Where to Invade Next.” Check it out, Jeff, and then let’s continue the conversation.

The New Normal

Here’s one definition of quality education and culture:

Expanding one’s view on what’s normal.

We are all born into a family and surrounding culture that creates our perception of normal. No way around it. It’s normal! One group of people think it’s the norm to sit around for 4 to 10 hours a day staring at screens, another stops all activity five times a day to kneel and pray, another’s idea of fun is to writhe and bounce around to ear-splitting music and catatonic flashing lights. Who’s to say what’s normal?

“Other villages, other ways” was a saying I heard in Java, where even provincial rural folks had a sense that their way of life was relative, not absolute. Naturally, we identify with what we inherit, think of it as at least a little bit more normal than other ways, become hardwired to mostly prefer it to other ways. Or not.

Part of the grand adventure of life is to discover things that initially appear “exotic” because they’re at the far end or off the chart of a culture’s normalcy. From escargot to blowfish sushi to corndogs, from yoga to mudwrestling to speaking in tongues, from Chinese opera to punk rock to Ethiopian armpit music, we discover that the world is much larger than our narrow view.

And sometimes this turns our world inside out and upside down and sets us on the path to discovery far beyond the life we thought we had to live. Someone bored with the Christian church becomes convinced that spirituality is not for them and then they discover Buddhism. Another who is failing at classical percussion finds out that they love and have an aptitude for tabla or taiko drumming. Someone who feels perpetually alienated growing up in a Connecticut suburb goes to Italy and feels instantly at home. And so they adopt a new normal. At least until something else comes along that catches their spirit.

So the question at hand is how to understand that one’s inherited normal is fine as far as it goes, but that it never goes quite far enough and we would do well to keep peering over its edges. I have peeked into many, many cultures, tried to play some of their music, eat their food, get to know some of their people and have found something worthy in all. And also have yet to find one that doesn’t have more work to do. In one place, all the people are musical, but they have strict taboos against and harsh treatment of homosexuality. Another has many good political institutions, but lacks a certain spark and rhythmic vitality in the people. And almost every culture on the planet has more work ahead in its perception of and treatment of women. There’s always something beyond the horizon.

All of this is on my mind from a less happy reason. Reading James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time and Ta-Nehesi Coates Between the World and Me (a great 1-2-punch combo), it’s clear that so much evil persists because people have been brainwashed into seeing brutality and oppression as normal. Read about a policeman shooting your neighbor’s kid and getting off scot-free and if you’re white and the kid was white, you’ll be shocked and outraged, with support from blaring newspaper headlines. But if it’s a black kid, well, that’s just what happens. (Hence, the birth of Black Lives Matter). The normalization of an artificial category called race and the subsequent racism that became accepted and normalized is still at work today because we have not challenged or expanded our definition of normal.

And our allegiance to our perception of normal taken to extremes carries other dangers. We become freaked-out when that perception is challenged because we were never trained to look beyond the horizon, to question, to discover, to seek. We were taught to be compliant and cling to a relative truth as an absolute one and when that is challenged, we feel threatened. That’s why hate groups who habitually hated each other (like Ku Klux Klan and neo-Nazis) are starting to get together to form an alliance of White Supremacy. (Recent news from Georgia). That’s why Donald Trump. That’s why Civil Rights in the 50’s caused “normal” American citizens to spit and cuss and torment and torture innocent black children entering their schools. They had built their identity on a way of life that called lynching, rape, enslavement, segregation “normal” and felt the earth move under their feet when called upon to change. And similar people today feel so threatened by transgender bathrooms because it defies their notion of normal, but are perfectly fine with the NRA pushing for carry and conceal assault weapons—that’s just normal.

More on this soon, with quotes from folks like Baldwin and Coates who are more articulate than me and lived through this nightmare. For them, challenging perceptions of normal and seeking larger, more inclusive identities is not a pleasant pedagogical possibility, but a necessity for survival.

Meanwhile, every act that transforms the exotic to familiar, the them to an us, the discomfort with newness to the excitement of newness, the stagnant pond of “you can’t change me” to the flowing river of “who else can I be?” is a revolutionary act, bringing healing and political change alongside a more vibrant and colorful life. The desire to be just a little bit better, larger and brighter tomorrow than we were yesterday is…well, normal. 

Everything But Ghana

When the party’s over, it’s time to do the dishes. Two weeks of intense focus preparing for my wife’s retirement gathering, our school’s 50^th Anniversary and attending to my visiting brother-in-law and his family, my daughter and my two grandchildren— and suddenly it’s over. The house is strangely quiet, the floor not littered with toys, the table not covered with the leftovers of the 10-month-old’s eating habits. After being thrown back into the storm of life, with laughing and screaming children, bubbling and babbling conversation, big meals and lots of pots and pans to clean, it’s back to the empty nest. It’s a welcome quiet, but I still love the color and the noise.

Woke up this morning and made a list of “must do’s,” got the 50 e-mails down to 10, sent off the Pentatonic Press invoices, cleaned my desk and balanced my checkbook. Found six letters from Kaiser telling me I owed them $10, two people who signed up for my jazz course and other assorted flotsam and jetsam of the tides of daily life. A certain satisfaction attending to the little details of life, business and money, but I sure wouldn’t want to spend all of my days like that. And of course, I did sneak away to the piano and reunited with Bach and Bird, both of whom probably didn’t miss me, but somewhere might be happy that I’m struggling up the stairs again to try to meet their genius.

Now it’s 1:30 and the body is shouting, “Move!” Regular exercise has disappeared and next to compulsive eating, not the best combination. So ready to head out the door and let the list alone for a bit—well, after the bank and post office. But as much as I’ll enjoy walking on this lovely day, the dark cloud of Ghana will follow me. Meaning I really need to get my plane ticket for the summer course we're offering in Ghana, need to work on the complicated online Visa application and all the annoying things it asks for like passport size photos and money orders and return envelopes and such. But I simply can't deal with it now.

Well, as the saying goes: "Here today, Ghana tomorrow." 

Living Chess

In today’s episode, you will meet the following characters:

KAREN: An art teacher at The San Francisco School about to retire after 42 years.

DOUG: Her husband, music teacher of 41 years at the same school.

KERALA: Their first daughter, currently living in Portland, Oregon.

TALIA: Their second daughter, 5^th grade teacher at the same school.

ZADIE: Kerala’s 4 ½ yr. old daughter. (D & K’s granddaughter).

MALIK: Kerala’s 10-month old son. (D & K’s grandson).

BARCLAY: Karen’s brother.

LORI: Barclay’s wife.

EREN: Barclay and Lori’s 25-year old son.

GINNY: Doug’s sister.

MARLENE: Karen’s friend for over 40 years.

Here’s their story.

On Friday, April 29^th, Kerala, Zadie and Malik, visiting for the week, woke up at Ginny’s house in Sebastopol, CA, an hour and a half north of San Francisco. That morning, Doug went to school to teach, Karen stayed at home.

Around noon, Marlene arrived at Karen’s house in San Francisco from Davis. Barclay and Lori, coming from Wisconsin to surprise Karen at her retirement party/art show,  arrived at the SF Airport around noon. An hour later, their son Eren flew in from North Carolina. Two took a cab and one took Uber to arrive at their hotel near Karen’s house. Ginny drove Kerala, Zadie and Malik down from Sebastopol, arriving in time for Malik’s nap around 2 pm.

At 2:30, Marlene drove Karen to The San Francisco School. Barclay, Lori and Eren walked to Karen’s house and met up with Ginny et al. At 4:00, the gathering began in the library of the SF School. Some alums and alum parents and neighbors and friends came to see Karen’s work and congratulate her. Barclay, Lori, Eren, Ginny, Kerala, Zadie and Malik arrived around 4:30. Doug distracted Karen, getting her to talk about a painting on the wall while Barclay snuck up behind her. He tapped her on her shoulder, turned around and SURPRISE!!! It worked! She was thrilled!

Soon after, people gathered to hear people speak about Karen’s teaching and her art and it was lovely—short, poignant stories from people from all parts of her life. More snacks and browsing and visiting and soon after 6, Doug had the family gather in front of the school door to take a historic photo—the last time the whole family would be standing at that door with Karen as an active teacher. (see above).

We now had three cars—Doug’s, Marlene’s and Talia’s— to take 10 people back to Karen and Doug’s house. Ginny went to a dance concert. All arrived, Doug and Eren picked up Thai take-out and we spent a lovely evening together visiting.

The next morning was the school’s long-awaited 50^th party! Doug and Karen drove in around 11:00, Talia took Kerala, Zadie and Malik a little later and Barclay, Lori and Eren took a cab. At 1:00, Kerala, Zadie, Malik and Talia came to Doug's (and James and Sofia’s) Alum Singing Time. At 2:00, the main ceremony was scheduled to start. Now things began to get even more interesting.

Kerala had to be in Guerneville some two hours away for a wedding that began at 5:00. So she snuck away taking Doug and Karen’s car and leaving her kids with mostly Talia and Ginny in charge. Doug was the MC of the ceremony, Karen was scheduled to speak at the end, followed by Doug. Zadie spent some time with Karen awaiting her turn and Malik fell asleep in Talia’s arms. Then Zadie went outside to play with Eren watching while Karen and Doug spoke.

Now it was 4:30 and Talia had to begin a long drive (some four hours) in her car to Humboldt County to run a half-marathon the next morning. She had transferred the kids’ car seats to Ginny’s car and Doug, Karen, Zadie and Malik were driven home. Barclay, Lori and Eren took the 44 Muni bus. Eren went to eat sushi, Lori climbed a hill to see a sunset and Barclay went to a local taco place to bring back burritos. Are you following all this?

Now came the moment of truth. With both Talia and Kerala (and Marlene and Ginny) gone, Doug and Karen were carless and left alone for the night with the grandchildren. Malik habitually woke up 3 or 4 times a night and now he would not have his Mama there to comfort him. After the intensity of the art show and party, Doug and Karen were kind of ready to relax and let down. But now their grandparenthood was about to be put to the test.

At 7:30 Malik went down to sleep. At 10:30, he woke up. Doug fed him a bottle, walked him around, sang to him and put him down again, this time joining him in the bed. Karen slept in the bed in the other room next to Zadie. At 3:30, Malik woke up and woke Doug up by grabbing his face. Doug gave him another bottle, sang to him, lay down for more face-grabbing and both went to sleep until 7:00 in the morning! They survived!

The next morning, Doug offered to drive Barclay and Lori to the airport and then realized he didn’t have a car! They got there on their own, the grandparents and grandkids walked to the Farmer’s Market and back through the Park. Kerala came home at noon with the car, a bit peeved that Malik was so good for his grandparents! But also happy for us. Eren came over to stay at our house, as he’ll be visiting for a week. We all went to the beach on a warm San Francisco Day, back to bathe the kids, a farewell dinner and Doug drove Kerala, Zadie and Malik to the airport.

Well, dear diary, as you can see, it has been quite an interesting few days, a giant chess game figuring out how to move all the pieces. It was complicated! But also fun and beautiful and everyone won. We’re hoping for a slightly quieter week in Lake Wobegon coming up.