Wednesday, November 27, 2019

Shift in the Wind

I’m a big fan of old music, old books, old movies, often finding a sense of artistry, character, depth lacking in the modern fly-by-night special-effects sensation-driven counterparts. But besides their timeless artistic, poetic or philosophical value, there are qualities in these classics that are disturbing to our modern selves. They reflect the given and accepted values of the  times in which they were made and the mere fact that some of these things seem strange or outdated is a means to measure the needed changes that are slowly evolving. What was accepted as the norm back then and what is no longer excusable now (at least by a certain class of thinking people) is good food for thought. 

Non-controversial examples include those movies in the 40’s and 50’s when everyone smoked— and smoked a lot. And the accepted notion that the first—and often only—response to be beaten down by life, betrayed, disappointed, devastated by the turn of events— was to go directly to the bar, do not pass go and get rip-roaringly drunk. 

Then things like Frank Sinatra walking past a working woman in Ocean’s Eleven and patting her butt without a second thought. All the movies with black folks as maids, porters, waiters, cooks and always happy and deferential. Not to mention the warring “Indians” and “inscrutable Chinese,” replete with cliched pentatonic riffs and gongs and drums. And then there was blackface, casually accepted and propagated from our beloved Hollywood icons—Fred Astaire, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland and more. 

Of course, all of it looks horrendous from our modern perspective and while some innocently just shrugged their shoulders as “the way things are” back then, those being stereotyped certainly suffered in direct and indirect ways. But behind it all was something much more profound than creating and perpetuating stereotypes. There was a mass, collective, willfully ignorance of how all “isms’ work and thus, little hope of understanding or considering changing the way in which they were purposefully fostered so select people could enjoy a power and privilege they neither earned nor deserved. Without the language to even begin such discussions, racism was seen as something to either deny or hide or shrug off or cry out powerlessly against. It also existed as an isolated event, without thinking about how it was connected to sexism, classism, homophobia, religious intolerance and beyond. Without the language to identify it, to speak about it coherently, to think about intelligibly, we were stuck. Until now. 

My Thursday morning at the AOSA Conference was Diversity Education (not Training) with Nicole Robinson and it was simply stunning. (See her website https://ccbydesign.org/about for more details). Through simple card games and real talk, we looked at 12 different “isms”, defined which way the power flowed in our current culture and placed ourselves on the grid, surprised to find out that a straight white male like myself was middle to low on the power scale in areas like religion, class and education. In this no-blame, no-shame approach, the room was an instant “we,” all of us both more aware of our particular patterns of privilege and determined to speak out on behalf of those lower down. And eventually change the hierarchy. It was the most inclusive, empowering class of its kind and everyone left feeling both good (for the right reasons), more aware, more hopeful and just a bit more determined to proactively begin to turn things around. 

This was not business as usual for our music-education organization, which mostly has chosen to step over or around the muddy waters of courageous conversations and politic issues that directly affect the children we teach. Now it feels like a major shift in the wind, something not possible even a few years ago. And that gave me hope that yet more of our beloved country is waking up and realizing that the isms are not givens, but creations of our own lesser selves, that silence is complicity and then the world awaits each and every one of us to share the burden of righting the wrongs and creating a sustainable and just future—or even just a future for the children we teach. As we educate ourselves and begin to recognize the devious ways the privileged and powerful try to set us against each other, see the common links between all isms (things like “follow the money” and “feel bigger by trying to make others small”), we become the citizens that our democracy expects. That our AOSA leaders are leading us in this direction is reason for celebration. May it keep moving forward!




Dragnet Report

The poet Mary Oliver described writing as waking up in the morning and the world saying: “Here I am. Would you like to make a comment?” Most people say, “No, thank you. I’m busy.” The writer says, “I believe I do.”

And so 8 years and over 2500 blogposts later, it has been my habit to make comments. Yet my last post was November 20—seven days of blog silence. What’s going on?

In short, life. I’m 100% aware that the world went on just fine without my comments and I was okay as well. But I did miss those moments of reflection and the invitation to enlarge the experiences just a bit more through giving it some sense of meaning through language. And that Kilroy sense of  “I was here. This is what happened and it mattered.”

But life is still overshadowing reflection with the grandchildren visiting and their constant demand for attention. So in this rare moment when Malik is fingerpainting in the basement with his grandma and Zadie is entertaining herself with kazoo melodies, I’m at least going to try to remember what happened last week. In the style of Jack Webb from the old Dragnet TV show: “Just the facts, ma’am.” Low on the adjectives and heavy on the nouns and verbs. As follows:

Wednesday: 11/20/19
Jazz Jeopardy game with the 8thgraders, off to the airport with James and Sofia, arrive in Salt Lake City for my 38thOrff National Conference.

Thursday: Morning workshops in Diversity Training, afternoon two workshops that I taught, evening rehearsals with the 38 Middle School kids who arrived to perform at the Conference.

Friday: Morning workshop, sound check with the kids, afternoon performance with them, dinner at Buca di Beppo and bid them farewell.

Saturday: A day of workshops and schmoozing, closing ceremony, banquet and dancing, late night party in a hotel suite playing “Cheers Guv’nor.”

Sunday: Morning of meetings with national Orff teachers, fly to Portland, drive to Grant’s Pass 5 hours with my daughter Kerala and two grandchildren.

Monday: Drive 7 hours to San Francisco, arrive in time for dinner and taking the car to the mechanics. 

Tuesday: Take the grandkids to the playground in cold, cold weather (oop! adjectives!), retreat indoors to play with a friend’s grandchild, film crew at my house to interview me and extended family in this ongoing film project chronicling my work in this last year of school, celebrate my daughter Talia’s 35thbirthday at her house. 

Wednesday: Here I am and these my Dragnet-style comments. More (hopefully) to come.

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

The Orff Tourist

Los Angeles. Portland. Las Vegas. Kansas City. Boston. Chicago. Detroit. Atlanta. Denver. San Diego. Minneapolis. Indiannopolis. Philadelphia. Dallas. Memphis. Seattle. Tampa. Phoenix. Rochester. Cincinnatti. Las Vegas. Louisville. Long Beach. Birmingham. Omaha. San Jose. Charlottesville. Milwaukee. Spokane. Pittsburgh. St. Louis. Denver. Nashville. San Diego. Atlantic City. Dallas/Ft. Worth. Cincinnatti. Salt Lake City. 


These the sites of the Orff National Conferences I have attended over the years. The first in L.A. was 1976, the second in Portland was 1982 and it was the third in Las Vegas in 1984 where I first presented a workshop at the conference and continued to attend—and present and perform—for the next 35 years without missing a single one. Not only do I remember each conference in order and by year—and ritually invoke them with friends at the beginning of each conference— but I remember key moments from each. This year I again both present and perform with the SF School kids (our 7thgroup we’ve taken) and get to go freely to the workshops without pre-signing up in my new status as a Distinguished Service Lifetime Member (conferred upon me last year at this time). I always enjoy hanging out with the California crew in a new place and likewise, meeting the folks from around the country—and the world—some of whom I’ve gotten to know mostly because of these Conferences. 

Truth be told, most of the drama takes place indoors in a generic hotel or convention center, but there have been some memorable tastes of American cities—blues clubs on Memphis’ Beale St. and a trip to Graceland, Niagara Falls near Rochester, a Cirque de Soleil show in Las Vegas, the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham, an art museum in Milwaukee, the arch in St. Louis and so on. These 3-day affairs truly are a condensed version of life, with weddings, memorial services, betrayals, awards, meetings with notable musicians (Jean Ritchie. The Georgia Sea Island Singers. Paul Winter. Glen Velez), great dancing at the Saturday banquet, late night convivial comradery at the hotel bar and just plain fun. 

Three classes at school today and then off I go. Wheeee!

Tuesday, November 19, 2019

Letter to My Father

“It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature, that when the heart is touched and softened by some tranquil happiness of affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most powerfull and irresistibly. It would almost seem as thought our better thoughts and sympathies were charms, in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life.”


Dear Dad,

I happened to read this passage last night in my annual Dickens’ novel (this year Nicholas Nickleby, that quote on p. 652) and couldn’t help but feel how timely it was. Because today would have been your 101stbirthday. Of course, the best memories come unexpectedly— a song, a smell, a moment that calls you back to life. Such things don’t occur just because the day turns on the calendar. But it’s a good reason to pause and remember you. I played a bit of two of your compositions, Refugee Pathetique and Forma and that felt good to hear those notes again (though I must confess I didn’t play them that well first time over!). I have two photos on my desk, one of you and Mom in Sausalito, frozen happily in your late 60’s selves, and another of you and I playing cards when my kids were young. So I see you every day. 

What’s the report here? Well, Zadie just turned 8 and I think you would love her and her brother Malik and I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet them. I could imagine you teaching her how to draw Mickey Mouse and writing some of your little doggerel poems for her. Karen’s quite happy in her retirement, Talia is a simply wonderful teacher at the school and there seems to be a new love interest, which she so richly deserves. She’ll be 35 next week! Ginny just left for Mt. Baldy, continuing her Zen studies commitments and Jim is still playing golf. Ian has two kids, Kyle is a roving poet and Damion will get married this summer. And so the family carries on. 

I’m as busy as ever and mostly happily so. About to go to Salt Lake City with 38 kids to perform at the annual Orff Conference. My new book will be for sale there, as well as my CD. 
Yesterday was Grandparent’s Day, my last as I will “retire” from school this June and naturally, thought of the days when you and Mom used to come to visit Kerala and Talia in their classrooms. Of course, now the grandparents are my age! Or younger! But the spirit is the same. 

And while I would like to keep writing to you and telling you yet more news, the 4thgrade is waiting for me to cast them for upcoming Holiday Play, The Phantom Tollboothand I have about two hours left in the evening to do so. And then pack. So I’ll keep this short and know that there will be more moments to come when you will visit me as Dickens describes. I do miss you, even 12 years after you’ve left. If there’s such a thing as being well in your World, well, of course, I wish it with all my heart.

Your still-loving son,

Doug

Monday, November 18, 2019

Letter to My Granddaughter

My dearest Zadie,


Today you are 8 years old! Imagine that! When your Aunt Talia asked what you were most excited about turning 8, you said, “I get to fly all by myself to visit you and Pop-pop and Mima!” Yep! We’re pretty darn excited about that too!

And what a remarkable young person you are becoming! I have loved you from the moment I first heard you were on the way, but let’s face it—you were a feisty, strong-willed, pushing-the-envelope kids with lots of time-outs!! When you weren’t even three, we took you to a Farmer’s Market and you leaned against a tent-pole and wouldn’t listen to me when I told you it could collapse and to get away. And then the stall-owner himself said the same and you still didn’t move. I grabbed you and pulled you away and took you to the car and said, “Zadie! I’m so disappointed in you.” And your little self shot back, “Well, I’m disappointed in you!” Ha ha!

But I can’t remember the last time you got a time-out and you’ve taken that big ball of energy and aimed it for the right things— figuring out how to master the many skills we need in this world. You are now reading far beyond your grade level, can run like the wind, have a good mind for numbers, can ride a bike and swim and jump rope and shoot baskets, can draw well and expressively, can entertain yourself for a long time just following your imagination, are fun for your friends and grown-ups to be around, are a serious student in school who listens to the teacher and gets good work done. You’ve learned a few little pieces on the piano and oh, how I wish you could be in a play! On top of it all, you keep having these shining moments of empathy and compassion and kindness, which might count for more than all of the above together. You’re a good older sister to Malik and simply the most wonderful granddaughter I could ever hope to have! Everything about you makes me happy—except for living so far away so that I can’t see you each and every day!

When you were born eight years ago, I was in Lisbon, Portugal. Here’s what I wrote to you back then: 

Oh, Zadie, you are only one-day old, but you’re already changing my life. I’m sitting in a Fado club in the Barrio Alto of Lisbon and thinking that I’m going to take you here someday. When you’re 12 or 15 or some such age, we’ll go to Europe and take the cable car up the Lisbon hills and go to Club Luso. We’ll sit at our table, enraptured by the beautiful sounds of the three guitars and the sensuous singers whose words we might not catch, but whose meaning is clear: “This life is full of beauty and wonder and sounds, dances, songs that grew in Portuguese soil, but can touch anyone’s heart.” Maybe they’ll invite me up on stage again as they did tonight holding a wreathed arch and I’ll do tricky little dance steps that will surprise the musicians and impress the tourists and maybe you’ll be proud of your old Grandpa and not roll your eyes the way my children were required to do. We’ll take a cab back and chat with the amiable and knowledgeable taxi driver who will tell us, as mine did tonight, how the ukelele came from Madeira to Hawaii and how Music, Mathematics and Metaphysics are the three most important things in life. Then we’ll walk into the Hotel Opera, where two men will be singing arias in the lobby and you’ll think, “This is definitely not the Ramada Inn!”

The next day, we’ll walk along the river looking at the bridge so much like the Golden Gate Bridge and if the future unfolds as I would like it to, I’ll show you where the monument to Columbus used to be until people finally decided to not pay homage to such a cruel man or celebrate such a greedy bid for power and money that caused so much harm. Perhaps we’ll go to the coast and I’ll tell you the story of how your great-Aunt Ginny and great-Uncle Jim slept on a beach in a sheltered cove in their newlywed European year abroad and then were awakened with water lapping at their sleeping bags, realizing just in the nick of time that the tide was coming in and narrowly escaping. 

Or we’ll head north to Galicia and I’ll show you the park where Grandma Karen, Aunt Talia, your Mom and I had a perfect picnic lunch on our journey through Spain, close to the spot where I abruptly stopped our rented car and jumped out to see the Galician bagpipers and then show them my Bulgarian one. Who knows? Maybe by the time we take our trip, I’ll have actually learned how to play that thing decently. 

You see what you have done? Given me something new to dream about and made me giddy with anticipation of sharing with you all the things I love in this world. The trip to the Cherry Bowl Theater in Michigan will have new meaning with you in the back seat ready for your first Drive-In Movie. I can’t wait to take you on my favorite bike ride in Salzburg or ride the Staten Island Ferry after visiting my old home in New Jersey or go see the elephants at the Pooram Festival in Kerala, the place your mother was named for.

I’m reserving tickets at the Castro Theater for the Sound of Music Sing-a-Long, anxious to show you the Calaveras Big Trees where we all used to camp with 60 SF School kids, ready to take you to the chicken place in Madrid after a day in the Prado. Oh, the places we’ll go and the sights that we’ll see! 

So little Zadie, hope your first day was a happy and healthy one. Drink your milk, get plenty of sleep and grow up to be big and strong and ready to travel with your Grandparents. Maybe if your Mom and Dad are nice to us, we’ll let them come along too. 

Well, so far we’ve only traveled together to Hawaii and soon to Palm Springs, but I’m ready for you to get your passport and see the world together. Happy birthday to my dearest Zadie from her Pop-pop who loves her to the ends of the earth!

Culture Bearing

Not the water into wine or Virgins appearing in trees variety, but some lucky people were able to witness the miracle of 45 minutes of music and dance come together in our first performance of our upcoming Middle School Show for the Orff National Conference. Some folks who have been filming the process and having seen rehearsals in their raw trying-things-out form, were shaking their heads how it all came together flawlessly—including transitions where each of the 38 kids knew exactly where to go and exactly what to play on the next piece and did so expertly. Accent on “kids” who are between 11 and 13 years old with all different degrees of musical background and performing experience.


This will be our 7thshow at an Orff Conference since the first in 1991 and is carrying on our tradition of enlarging people’s notions about what kids can do and expanding the repertoire far beyond Orff and Keetman’s original “Music for Children.” In a day and age when Fox News pundits are proud of the fact that no American knows or cares where the Ukraine is, we are proud to introduce the greater world to the kids and get them inside the beauty of each culture they encounter through music and dance, song and story. Our Middle School music curriculum of World Music, Classical Music and Jazz is unique in the music education world and besides providing kids with great music and dance worthy of their attention, we accent the context and culture and history and geography. And thus, we take seriously our adult role as culture bearers carrying on the good that our ancestors accomplished while also looking at the bad that needs re-thinking. This takes this work far, far beyond simply learning the next band arrangement for the half-time football game. 

Here is the program we performed yesterday. If you’re close to Salt Lake City Friday afternoon, come and hear for yourself. 

LA VIDA ES UN CARNAVAL: The AOSA National Conference-Salt Lake City
                performed by The San Francisco School Middle School Ensemble
    directed by Doug Goodkin, James Harding and Sofía López-Ibor


1)   Body Percussion Medley– Body music inspired by Indian rhythms, contemporary Balinese kecak and a dance song from Brazil.

2)   Bolero Mallorquin(S. López-Ibor)- A celebration of the famous rhythm of the Balearic Islands.

3)   Adongko Adongko Agagit(Philippines)- A Kulintang melody and dance over rhythmic bamboo poles.  

4)   Wanyema/Bobobo(Ghana)- A xylophone piece from the North of Ghana paired with one of the most famous dances of the Ewe Culture from the Volta region. 

5)   Palladio (Carl Jenkins)- An arrangement for strings and Orff ensemble featuring composed episodes and an accompanying original film.

6)   Kinderyoren (Yiddish) – A poignantly sad and sweet ode to the life of children, featuring vocals by  6thgrader Vivian Scheben

7)   Musica Ricercata #8(Györgi Ligeti) A rondo treatment  of the main theme with original rhythmic episodes and bamboo stick choreography

8)   I Ain’t Got Nothin’ but the Blues(Duke Ellington)- The famous standard, featuring vocal stylings of 6thgrader Ella Ford and guitar solo by 8th grader Oliver Moore.

9)   La Vida Es un Carnaval(Victor Daniel)— This anthem to life was made famous throughout the world by Singer Celia Cruz. Featuring vocals by 8thgrader Joel Ajin Rivera.


Sunday, November 17, 2019

Amusing Ourselves to Death

This the title of Neil Postman’s extraordinary book, first published in 1985. The sub-title is: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business and the quote on the front cover by Jonathan Kozol warns us: “We must confront the challenge of his prophetic vision.”


Truer words were never spoken. He predicted it all. Last night, the Daily Show showed clips from Fox News and other right-wing blowhards complaining that the Impeachment Hearings were too boring and not sexy enough to attract the public and be taken seriously. In short, they complained that it didn’t make for good television entertainment and thus, should be dismissed. Had there been an earthquake in San Francisco, I’m sure it would have been Neil Postman rolling over in his grave. Perhaps even he couldn’t imagine how far low we’ve sunk. 

Back in 1997, I already felt Postman’s prophecy ringing true. When Mother Theresa died a month after Princess Diana, no one paid much attention to it and the TV coverage was minimal compared to the Di media-fest. One was sexy and tragic, the other boring by television standards and the public reacted accordingly. But even that was mild compared to this. To have these college-educated grown adults knuckleheads suggest that a President who has done more than any other to bring down the most basic tenets of our Constitution and attempt to destroy the very foundation of our democracy should not be impeached because it makes for boring television— and, by the way, the stupid American public doesn’t even know where Ukraine is, so why should they care— well, every day I wonder how much lower we can go and every day, the answer seems to be—just a little bit more. And holding public discourse to the standard of media attractiveness is a large part of this sad state of affairs. 

Postman’s book reveals that the danger we face is not Orwell’s 1984 where we are controlled by a totalitarian Big Brother. The real story is Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World where we are complicit in and wholly unaware of our own agreement to stop thinking. As he describes it:

Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley’s vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacity to think.

What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared that the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, captive to our almost infinite appetite for distraction. In Orwell’s world, people are controlled by inflicting pain, in Huxley’s by inflicting pleasure. Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us. This book is about the possibility that Huxley, not Orwell, was right. 

That possibility is now irrefutable truth. Watch those Fox News clips and run it through the words above. Listen to the Republican’s questions at the Impeachment Hearings that tap dance around facts, make truth irrelevant and try to entertain us by questioning reality. After all, Devin Nunes sued an imaginary cow!!!!! How far removed can we get from facts and intelligent discourse than that?!!! And the bottom line is brazenly trumpeted out: “If it’s boring television, the crime of selling democracy to Putin or Ukraine is not worthy of our attention.” Postman says (p. 111) that “the public has adjusted to incoherence (TRUMP’S TWEETS!) and amused into indifference (IMPEACHMENT IS BORING).” 

Friends, this is hard to swallow, because the television-ication of public discourse and rational thought is not a partisan issue where it’s easy to blame the bad guys. We’re all perpetrators and victims and it’s so invisible we’re like fish in polluted waters. Written 34 years ago, Postman’s book still astounds with the depth of its insight and the importance of its message. But who has actually read it? Who understands its implications? The man was indeed a prophet and deserves deification and a television series about his life…oh, wait, maybe that’s not the best idea. How about just read the book and think about its message and see it at work in the daily news. And in your spare time, read his other vitally important works: “The Disappearance of Childhood.” “Technopoly” and many, many more. 

And then check out Huxley’s “Brave New World.”