Good afternoon to you all.
It's my very great honor to welcome you today
as we celebrate the life, the work and the legacy of Frances Walker.
The work at Oberlin is predicated on
our commitment to excellence, artistic and intellectual,
to ideals and principles that are bigger than ourselves,
and to having an impact in the greater world beyond Oberlin.
It is work born of relationship,
and, certainly, that is evident in your presence here today,
and we thank you for that.
Frances's commitment to her students,
to Oberlin, to music
and to social justice
certainly embody the very principles of this institution
and they inspire us all.
And it is a great honor to welcome all of you today
as we celebrate her,
and to note the truly extraordinary life of Frances Walker.
Thank you for being here.
Good afternoon.
I am Nolan Williams, Jr., class of '90,
and Dr. Walker was my pianoforte professor.
In preparing my thoughts for today for this invocation,
I took some time to listen and to meditate,
much like those of us who have been sitting here have had a chance to do,
to Dr. Walker's live performances, and her recordings.
What was striking to me
was the deep messaging embedded in so many of the selections
that Dr. Walker performed.
In many ways, her music was itself a form of prayer and meditation.
This is because Dr. Walker was selective about choosing repertoire
that spoke to her soul,
so that the music she played would always emanate from her heart.
I believe Dr. Walker, in her own way,
has formed her own invocation for this occasion.
It is a collective of the song messages that we've just heard,
and other songs that she has delivered to us
through the music of Bach,
her brother, George Walker,
Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, William Grant Still, Margaret Bond,
Johannes Brahms and Franz Liszt.
I invite you, then, to receive this invocation
--a different kind of invocation--
in three parts:
The first part as a prayerful reflection in the voice of Dr. Walker,
using words that were put to music by Bach;
the second,
as a refection of our collective voices;
and the third and final part,
in the voice of Dr. Walker, again.
Let us pray.
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, I want to cross over into campground.
Like Johann Sebastian Bach, I have called to you, Lord,
I have prayed, and you have heard my lamentation,
you have bestowed
your grace upon me,
you have not left me in despair.
You have led me to the right faith, Lord,
and through this faith, I have lived for you,
I have striven to be useful to my neighbor,
I have kept your word, I have embodied your word,
through that which is good and gracious,
that which is honest and honorable,
that which is lovely and long- suffering.
And now, you have exalted me, that my name may never again be mocked;
you have helped me to forgive those who have been less than loving to me;
you have pardoned me, and granted me a new life.
So bury me, now, beneath the willow,
under the weeping willow tree,
that those who love me will know where I am sleeping,
and, perhaps, they will weep for me.
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, I want to cross over troubled waters into campground.
In this spirit, God, we pause today for a moment,
recognizing that our coming- together,
is like a Brahms intermezzo,
connecting two acts of an enteral play penned by your divine hand.
Returning to these halls, we are drawn, today, into a world of dreamy nostalgia,
full of quiet longing and majestic and serene beauty,
to remember a woman, who, through her life and music,
made a profound difference upon all of us,
and upon this institution.
In this moment, oh, God, this sacred intermezzo,
we celebrate the life of Dr. Frances Walker Slocum,
we know that her path, her journey, was not easy,
but, we thank you, that by Your mercy,
her path is now transcendent.
Transcendent, like a train ride full of hills and valleys,
highs and lows, cities and plains,
yet, from a distance, altogether beautiful landscapes;
transcendent, like a musical etude with simple beginnings,
that's then embellished with gentle arpeggios,
like a song, moving from theme to exposition, to recapitulation;
transcendent, like a life that's endured terraced dynamics,
dramatic tempi changes and syncopations,
but, through it all, this life was nonetheless connected with a source
that is greater than all of us, and was at peace;
transcendent, like a hauntingly beautiful melody of a rhapsody,
whose melody rings above all, in octaves.
God, today we thank you for the life and legacy of Dr. Walker,
and we pray that the music that filled her heart
--the transcendent music that defined her life--
will forever find a place in our hearts and in our spirits,
until we see her again.
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
deep river, praise God!
I have crossed over troubled waters
into campground.
Oh, don't you want to go, to the Gospel feast,
the Promised Land, where all is peace?
Just the other day,
two months and two weeks before my brother,
I went to the hillside, I went to pray,
and now I know the angles done changed my name,
done changed my name for the coming day,
thank God, the angels done changed my name.
Amen.
[music]
[applause]
Courageous, proud, sensitive, honest (occasionally brutally so),
funny, sometimes cantankerous, smart, gifted, focused, misunderstood,
caring, opinionated, generous.
These are some of the words I think of when I think of Frances Walker.
In short, like most of us, she was complicated.
Everybody needs at least one person in their life
who is guaranteed to tell you exactly what they think.
For many of us here today, especially her students,
--most of whom maintained a life-long friendship with her--
Frances Walker was that person in our lives.
In fact, on one of my last visits with her a year ago,
while sitting in her kitchen "shootin' the breez, and chewin' the fat,"
she said, "Well, you're not so perfect. . ."
and then she began to list all the ways
she thought I wasn't perfect.
[laughter and applause]
I recall very well my second lesson with Ms. Walker in the fall of 1978.
In the first lesson, she'd given me
a list of pieces to work on for the following week,
and I came back to her studio; I was so excited, I was so proud,
to show off all the hard work I'd done
and what I had accomplished that week of practicing.
And after the first few pages, she stopped me and said,
"It's obvious you haven't practiced,
"so I'm going to sit here and eat my lunch,
"while you take this lesson time to practice."
I was crushed.
I was crushed so much that I couldn't even touch the piano.
I was 18 years old, and I had never experienced anything like that.
So, she turned around and she said, "Go ahead, practice."
So, I spent the next half an hour doing what I thought was practicing.
She eventually stopped me,
and she asked me if that was how I practiced in the practice room,
and I said, "Well, yes. That's how I practice."
Which was, continually, you know, every time you make a mistake,
you start over from the beginning again?
Well, when I said yes, that was my first lesson: How to practice.
And I'm sure that wasn't the first time she'd used that trick on a student,
but it was how she found out
that I didn't know how to practice.
There were many times that I'd see her out of the corner of my eye,
while I was playing something, and she was just staring at me.
And, I'd stop and say, "What!"
And she'd say, "I'm just trying to figure you out."
And, really, that was her gift as a teacher--
figuring out her students and what motivated each one of us.
She often told me that if she hadn't become a pianist,
she would have been a psychologist.
She was fascinated with figuring out her students
and what made each of us tick,
and how she could use that knowledge to make us better pianists.
I imagine, now, that all of us must have had very different lessons,
because she was tailoring each one
based on how she thought she could best get through to us.
Many of you know that we became very close over the years,
but it wasn't always so.
We had huge falling outs in the early years,
about things, like why in the world was I playing the flute in the symphonic band,
because it was taking too much time away from my piano playing;
or why in the world was I doing a double degree in Spanish,
it was taking too much time away from my piano playing.
And then, I decided to go
to Colombia for a year to learn more about my mother's family and language,
and, OMG, she was done.
[laughter]
Boy, did we have some arguments in those days.
By some miracle, we made it through those difficult times.
She forgave me for being a stupid teenager,
and over the years we became friends.
In my senior year, my father passed away,
and my mother had to decide to either come to my recital
or to my graduation,
because she couldn't afford to do both.
Well, of course, I said my recital.
And I thought that was more important than my graduation ceremony.
So, that meant I wouldn't have anybody at my graduation, just a few months later.
So, Ms. Walker took it upon herself to become my family.
And unbeknownst to me, she invited her friends from around the country,
Oberlin grads from her generation,
Sylvia Olden Lee, William Duncan Allen and others,
to come to Oberlin to celebrate my graduation and be my family.
and she held a party for me at her house after the graduation ceremony.
One of my fondest memories is when, after moving back to Chicago,
after graduating from Eastman,
I'd finally saved up enough money to buy a condo,
and she offered to come to Chicago to help me house hunt.
She loved houses; she loved interior design; she loved decorating.
So, going to houses was just a dream for her, and I thought,
"This is great, we'll have a blast."
Well, everyone who knew Ms. Walker,
knew that she strongly, strongly, strongly disliked cats.
And she was always a little suspect of anyone who had, or even liked cats.
And, wouldn't you know it, every single house that we went into,
every single apartment, had a cat!
[laughter]
Despite her dislike of cats, though, she went into every single apartment
to support me, and, of course,
she gave her honest opinion about each one of them.
Frances Walker leaves behind an enormous legacy,
one that is bigger than even most of us imagine.
She triumphed over personal adversity
and persevered against all the odds.
But when she graduated from Oberlin,
there were very few concert halls
or colleges or universities
that would hire a black,
and especially, female, classical pianist.
There were no places for black classical musicians,
and the world is full of people who so desperately wanted that dream,
but who were unable to pursue it.
People like Nina Simone,
or Hazel Scott, or Ron Carter, Trude Pitts,
and legions more whose names we will never know.
That she made and pursued a career for herself
as a black, female classical pianist is huge.
She paved the way for many others and, a trailblazer,
made a way for all of her students, regardless of their race or ethnicity.
She made all of us think that we could achieve anything.
Her belief in us made us better; it made us stronger.
Before ending, I'd like to thank all of Ms. Walker's students who are performing today,
and to ask all of her students who are here, but are not performing,
to please stand so that you might be recognized,
and there are several here, I see . . .
oh, I see many of you, so, . . thank you!
[applause]
In closing, I'd like to read a card that Ms. Walker sent to me back in 1986.
Many of you know that she was a prolific writer,
and loved to write letters,
and her handwriting was very distinctive,
so, whenever you received something from her,
you knew, before even looking at the envelope, who it was from.
But, she sent this card to me,
and I would like to send it back to her today:
Dear one, I open wide the arms of love
to hold you close in my thoughts and in my prayers.
Regardless of the distance that separates us,
I know that we are one in spirit and in truth,
and love is the common denominator that links us.
In my mind's eye, I see you as the resplendent child of God that you truly are,
I see you whole, well, and strong, blessed with peace and happiness.
I see you standing
on the threshold of greater good than you have ever known.
I see you poised and free from every limitation.
I let my love wing its way to your heart,
and join with the great love of God now pouring out to you.
I give you love that frees and uplifts;
love that comforts and endures.
Dear one for whom I pray:
I love you, I bless you, I behold the Christ in you.
Now to him who by the power at work within us
is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think,
to God be the glory.
Thank you.
[applause]
[music]
[applause]
[music]
[applause]
Good afternoon,
on a beautiful Saturday, sunny day in Oberlin.
It is an honor to be asked to remember Frances Walker
on this solemn occasion.
Thinking about our departed colleague
brought back memories of our rookie year,
incredibly, in 1976,
which was shared with Sedmara Rutstein and Bob Shannon, who's here, today.
I remember those new faculty orientation sessions,
and being impressed by Frances's sense of gravitas,
and also what I later came to recognize as her wicked sense of humor.
My most vivid memories of Frances are her wonderful performances,
especially in great Romantic
works by Liszt and Brahms,
as well as works by her brother,
some of which you heard today,
which showed a great sense of nobility,
a resonant, but never harsh sound,
and a sense of time-flexibility
that was always tasteful, and never sentimental.
Recently, I went back to listen
to her recording of the Samuel Coleridge-Taylor 24 Negro Melodies,
and heard the same moving qualities in those performances,
enhanced by a deep sense of personal connection to that music.
I'm very glad to see
that we can now hear some of those pieces, today,
during the video presentation.
Also, in thinking about the event, today,
I reread Frances's autobiography,
A Miraculous Journey,
and was struck by the hardships and tribulations
that she experienced in pre- Civil Rights America.
Growing up in a disciplinarian home,
and surrounded by a highly- talented family,
which included her later
Pulitzer Prize winning brother, George,
she often had to struggle with feelings of inferiority,
while always a top student, both academically and musically
at Oberlin, and also at the Curtis Institute.
Her college years were sometimes marred
by racially-tinged comments and attitudes.
That she was able to transcend these difficult circumstances
to achieve distinguished stature in the music profession,
both as a pianist and as a teacher,
speaks volumes about her talent, perseverance, resilience,
and courage in the face of adversity.
As a result of these experiences, I think
she rarely minced words with us, her colleagues.
and always exuded a sense of moral conviction,
and I know that she was an inspiration to many students
who needed support in overcoming similar difficulties and challenges.
And I know, also, that, after her retirement,
she continued to be an advisor and mentor to many students
who relied on her counsel and hard-earned life experience.
It's been really meaningful for me to revisit my memories
of my dear colleague, Frances Walker,
and I'm now convinced, actually, more than ever,
that her personal and professional life was, indeed,
A Miraculous Journey.
[applause]
[music]
[applause]
Oh, it's a honor to be welcomed back to Oberlin to speak today.
Frances would be thrilled we were in this room to celebrate her life.
When Yamasaki designed this complex,
I think most of you know he also designed the World Trade Center
immediately following the Oberlin Conservatory.
While that might have been a tribute to, say,
wealth and power,
I would say, in this building, these complexes, he imagined
truth and beauty as being what he was after.
We had the faculty ensconced in this building, to the North,
the central complex was nearly like a cathedral,
--the central moment of this building--
and the practice wing to the South.
And in this space, here, inside of Warner,
this was the exploration of truth and beauty--Frances loved this stage.
She loved this space, this keyboard, the music that she possessed,
and those moments, she transcended all barriers,
and took people with her.
And the reason why I find it particularly interesting,
is because the first time I encountered Professor Walker
was on this stage.
I was a tuba student, not a piano student--
oh, and by the way, the tuba students did take their lessons
in the practice wing (to point out),
we were not in the Bibbins complex.
So, as brass players, being obstreperous folks as we were,
we would often come in here to play excerpts as frequently as possible.
And, one evening, we're plowing away at the Ride of the Valkyries,
and piano students are drifting into the hall, and sitting down,
and, obviously, it's the beginning of a studio class,
and the stage door opens,
Professor Walker looks down over her glasses, and says,
"Gentlemen, it is time to leave."
[laughter]
Now, normally, we were a little slow to evacuate the premises,
but like field mice to the exits,
[laughter]
we left the room.
And that was my first encounter with Professor Walker.
Many years later, in sort of a cosmic irony,
I did inhabit an office in Bibbins, as a matter of fact. . .
and, it might have been the second day I was dean, perhaps the first,
I received a phone call
from Professor Walker, said,
"David, this is Frances Walker. We need to have lunch."
From that point forward, I became a pupil of Frances.
Frances took it upon herself to be sure that, as dean,
I would learn how to see through the eyes of many students,
and many faculty within the building.
She took me through the odyssey of her own experience,
and, courage has been mentioned on this stage a number of times,
but the kind of courage she possessed is the courage to say,
"I'm going to choose to take flight, and then defy the laws of physics,"
and do exactly that. It's a different kind of courage.
We talk about being born, by the way, into a family so highly accomplished,
but we have to remember
that this was in the early part
of the twentieth century;
and, by the way,
whatever the Walkers were serving for breakfast
should be required dining for Conservatory students here in Stevenson,
because George Walker, and Frances Walker,
both from the same family:
iconic artists.
But, that said, the truth of it was,
as their daughter, they did not imagine for her
the career, the place, that she imagined.
That was followed by choosing to not only teach in Mississippi,
but to marry a white man--
to choose love, to choose love over the law,
over fear, over all of these things, she made that choice.
It seems, now, like something one should do,
but if we just for a moment try to live in that space,
you realize how impossible it would have been to do,
and she did it, nonetheless.
Frances spent so much time working with her students;
she spent so much time working with me.
And the reality is, is years later,
as she was beginning to think about the legacy,
which she wished to leave behind,
for her, it was inevitably about the teaching,
about exposing students to what she'd been exposed to,
because she had found in music the opportunity to completely be herself.
She allowed that to propel her through her life.
And it allowed her to cross barriers,
and challenges, and to enter into spaces
otherwise, she never would have been able to go to.
And, the need, in fact, the desire to transmit that was real.
Today, it's important for this audience to know
the things that she didn't necessarily want people to know at that time.
And that is:
That conversation we had on that first day
led to a series of lunches.
And, each year, Frances would ask me
for the entering roster of black students at the Conservatory.
And then, she would take it upon herself
to be sure that financially, personally, emotionally, musically
these students were looked after.
I wouldn't necessarily hear something, but Frances would.
And if Frances heard it, then I would hear it, of course.
But, through this, she did several things:
She saw the opportunity to take, frankly, a young dean
and educate that person how to see the world;
she saw the opportunity to take the resources she did have
and apply it to the betterment of so, so many students;
and she certainly left with me, ultimately as a student,
the memory of the fact that
courage, principle, and the pursuit of truth and beauty
are always worthwhile.
Thank you, Frances. You gave us all.
A great many thanks.
[applause]
Good afternoon. I'm not going to speak.
But I just want to say
I'd like to make
one small correction:
The arrangement of Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child
is from 24 Negro Melodies, by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor,
which Ms. Walker recorded the complete work
on Orion Records, I believe. So, thank you.
[music]
[applause]
[Dean Kalyn] It's been so wonderful
to hear from so many of Frances's Oberlin family, today,
but I would also like to acknowledge
members of her personal family who are with us:
Her son, Jeff, and his wife, Karen;
also Frances's granddaughter, Amber;
and her nephews, Gregory, of course, we've heard from, and Ian.
It is a great privilege for us that you would be with us today,
and that you would give us this opportunity to share with you
the things that Frances meant to us. So, thank you for being here.
I would also like to offer a special thanks
to Lee Koonce for organizing today's service,
[applause]
I started out by saying that this work is born of relationship,
and the deep relationships
that so many in this room have shared with Frances
are ever-evident and present
in all that Lee has done to put this together.
So, thank you, Lee, for that. We appreciate the opportunity.
I hope that you will join us all
in the lobby for further fellowship and reminiscence,
again, of a truly extraordinary person,
but perhaps appropriately--most appropriately--
we really need to give the very last word of today to Dr. Frances Walker:
As long as my mouth is running, I don't get tired. [laughs]
Hello, there. Come right into my house.
Did you have a nice trip?
When you go to bed, why is it that you wear your glasses at night?
Well, I said, so I can see in my sleep, see in my dreams.
I grew up on Sherman Avenue, in Washington, D.C.
My mother brought us up to say,
You can't be the same, we say, you got to be better.
That's what we heard all the time.
My father's full name was,
Artmelle Theophilus Walker.
He's from Jamaica, West Indies,
and he had no money.
He said he stoked coal.
You know, they called all blacks and all help, George,
so that's how he adopted the George.
Once he got enough money to go to medical school,
then he became a doctor.
I started piano at four-and-a- half,
and my brother, George Walker, was already playing,
so, you know, we took to it very early.
Shiloh Baptist Church was my spine, my soul, my everything,
certainly one of the major influences in my life.
And it was because of minister, and the choir director,
and the organist there.
It was important in my life.
You see, I was in this fire.
I was five-years-old.
The match dropped on this delicate dress.
Which is worse?--
to have my father come and kill me,
or to burn up?
And I decided, I'll take my father.
The arm, you see, is shorter.
So, in playing and practicing, I had to
develop the strength in this arm, which was weak,
and this was the powerful arm, the left one.
The music was what kept me alive,
music and movies.
Somehow I met my husband at Tougaloo College in Mississippi.
I mean, that's the last place where you would expect to find
a blue-eyed, handsome, educated white male
in your age category.
If we had hundreds of thousands of people like him
we wouldn't have the problems we have in this world.
Olyve Jeter Haynes. She said,
"Oh, you know, I have a lot of music by black composers,
do you wanna look through it?"
That changed my life.
It was like a trove of diamonds.
The black people were starving, thirsting for that music.
The place was jammed, we had to turn away a lot of people,
and there was weeping and standing ovation throughout.
It was very difficult coming after my brother, because he was the genius.
I learned the second sonata before I learned the first.
I love this recollection:
He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
I turn, "What's funny?"
He stopped.
I heard things in your playing
that I never heard before.
Now, that is the greatest compliment, from a composer,
and I thought I was playing it
exactly the way he played it.
I was going to do the music of black composers, and this producer said
that 24 Negro Melodies, or Samuel Coleridge-Taylor,
"It's you history!" And he was adamant.
And if he was going to produce it, that's what he was going to produce.
And the recording engineer is right here in Oberlin,
and he was saying, "Frances, that is so beautiful. . ."
and then the electricity went out. It was January!
I've been teaching all along, you know.
They come to me for coaching, and advice,
personal advice, musical advice.
They come because they just like to talk to me.
So I am blessed in that respect.
I tell them about life, really, that's what I do.
I think I've been talking for,
how many years? I think I've said everything
that I should say, or what I have to say.
Nothin' else to say.
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