I Remember Ms. Walker
December 26, 2014
Last night, Ms. Walker died. Just now, I had to take a few deep breaths before continuing because typing those words is surreal. She was eighty-seven and suffered from myeloma–cancer of the bone and blood–for the last year of her life. But for the first eighty-six years, she thrived.
I met her eleven years ago on my first day of teaching. I was twenty-three-years-old, inexperienced, and nervous. Ms. Walker spotted me walking past her classroom as she stood outside her door. “Young lady,” she said in her alto voice with a slight, southern drawl, “Come in here. I’m going to teach you everything you need to know about teaching.” I walked in and remained her student until she retired in 2007.
When I remember Ms. Walker, I remember a tall, elegant woman from Shreveport, Louisiana, who always wore high heels because flats, she said, hurt her feet. She loved clothes and always dressed to the nines–church hats, fur coats, tailored suits, silk dresses. Spending time with her, I learned the value of always looking your best and feeling confident. “Let me see those shoes,” she’d say to me as I flaunted my sparkling pumps, “Ooh, girl! Those are cute!”
“Thank you,” I’d say with a broad smile sweeping across my face. Receiving a compliment from Ms.Walker was like getting a nod from an editor of Elle Magazine.
Soon after we met, I became a welcomed guest in her home. She adopted me as one of her kids. She has two–a son who lives in Texas with his family and a daughter who has lived with Ms. Walker for the last ten years.
Ms. Walker married three times and divorced twice. She remained married to her last husband, who was ten years her junior, for forty years before his death five years ago. “Men don’t intimidate me.” She made this declaration several times during my visitations, usually after she had a run-in with our principal, Mr. Jefferson. “I had a father, three husbands, and I raised a son. Men don’t scare me.”
Some of our most candid conversations occurred in her living room. “Plan your work and work your plan,” she’d tell me when discussing my future. When talking about friends and lovers, she’d say, “Don’t get bit by the same dog twice.” She spoke openly about love and relationships, work and ethics, money and debt, life and death.
That space we shared on her sofa was a vortex of honesty–an area where the truth was bitter-sweet and gooey. Honesty was a sour taffy upon which we chewed, winced, and savored. “Most married men, not all, but most, will have another woman. It’s just a fact of life. But I’ll tell you one thing: Rarely will they leave their wives. I know my husband has another woman, and I understand that she misses him. So when he leaves for the weekend, I don’t bother him about it.”
These conversations were among the most difficult for me to digest; her perspective seemed so archaic. Although my parents divorced partly due to my father’s unfaithfulness, I still want to believe in the proverbial love that no man can tear asunder. But, Ms.Walker was old and wise, and her words emerged from a vast and nuanced history. She had seen and experienced so much; I can’t dismiss her truth.
In the classroom, Ms. Walker was fierce. She’d pace the rows of desks, peering over her student’s shoulders, making sure they were on task. Her heels were thunderous, and her perfume smelled of oak and lavender. Although her commanding presence tolerated no-nonsense, her heart radiated love. On holidays and birthdays, she’d feed her students cake and punch. Sometimes, she’d even cook for them fried chicken with salad and dinner rolls.
But if you crossed the Rubicon, the heat of her reprimand would scorn you. Once, when Mr. Jefferson called Ms. Walker into his office to inquire about her absences, she stood and declared, “What I do with my sick days is my business, not yours.” I like to imagine his face as she towered over him seated behind his desk-the utter disbelief and fear trembling his nerves and shallowing his breath. Then his mouth swallowing to alleviate its dryness as she marched out his door.
She always marched. She never tiptoed, crept, shuffled, or trudged. She marched with confidence and conviction of her magnificence. Ms. Walker didn’t need to prove anything to anybody. When she entered a room, her essence was so palpable you couldn’t help but look it in the eye and say, “Hello.”
We would have conversations about death. She’d say, “I don’t want you all crying and carrying on at my funeral. Don’t mourn my death; celebrate my life.” Her homegoing was exactly that: a celebration of her life. Students, teachers, friends, and family shared stories making you cry with laughter. People sang songs of hope and happiness and love because that’s the way she wanted it. And her spirit stood present to ensure we celebrated.
Ms. Walker sponsored a considerable chunk of who I am today. I like to think of her as water–clear and strong–and I, like a sponge that absorbed her. She left a well of foresight so deep it will never dry. I soak in it often; I sip from it daily. It is refreshing.
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