Tonnie Walls

Driving Lesson

2010-01-13T15:05:00.000-08:00

Driving up the mountain to the highest peak in Spain, which happened to be closer to Africa than Europe, but hey, I didn’t divide the pie, I reminded Kay and Marieta that driving was soporific for me, that I needed to be engaged to keep awake. From the back seat Marieta screeched something that sounded like a pigeon laying an ostrich egg while Kay, to be helpful, turned a new iPhone into an 80s jukebox. But not even the Katrina and the Waves’ “Walking on Sunshine” could take the weight off my heavy eyelids as I made a hairpin turn. “Oops, we almost went to heaven that time,” I announced, as my racing heart somehow pushed my eyelids up, allowing me to briefly focus on the winding road. “By engage, I mean say something to me that evokes a response,” I pleaded. To this Kay answered, “You should turn the headlights on, we’ll be driving through clouds soon.” How do you know, I said to myself, and refused to turn on the headlights until all of a sudden we were engulfed in clouds in what I could best describe as a white darkness. I was tired and Kay was right, yet another reason for me to be angry. We’d been together for seven years and yet never had a decent conversation because Kay just won’t talk. This was my chance to get the conversation I’d been longing for. But Kay fell silent, altogether abandoning the feeble effort at engaging me. I drove faster and made two razor sharp turns throwing Kay and Marieta left and right like rag dolls. Marieta began to pray but still nothing from Kay who had clearly decided not, even while nearly skidding off perilous cliffs, to talk, to keep me awake, to keep us alive. The lesson that I was trying to teach Kay (that it's OK for humans, especially those in a relationship, to talk to each other) turned out to be a lesson for me. You can’t change people. Not even the threat of death was going to make Kay change.

Mysterious Ways

2009-06-20T14:55:00.000-07:00

The other day I spoke to my mother who sometimes appears in my prose as Bermuda or Mrs Moore. My mother has more reasons to complain than just about anybody I know, but she never does. She always looks to the bright side, sees the glass half full. And yet, this time when I spoke with her, her voice was more alive and happier than I’ve ever heard it. “What gives?” I wondered and soon got my answer. She had read my short story, “Mourners’ Bench,” in which church lady Katherine Humphreys is on a mission to get her soul ready for the Promised Land.

During our conversation, however, my mother made no mention of “Mourners’ Bench” or the character based on her mother. But when I commented on the lovely sound in her voice my mother said, “I decided I gotta start living right and get my soul ready for the Promised Land.” Perhaps, “Mourners’ Bench” was affecting her in ways I hadn’t expected or perhaps I’m giving a simple short story too much credit. My mother went on to inform me that she had rededicated herself to church and had joined the church’s nurse’s board.

For those who don’t know, Southern Baptist Churches often require nurses to assist worshippers who are so overcome with the spirit that they shout and convulse, sometimes hurting themselves or other worshippers. In these situations a nurse’s touch, in concert with the Lord’s, is the perfect combination after a holy roll. And at a funeral, a nurse’s white-gloved hand holding yours as you stare at your father’s lifeless body, brings more comfort than you ever could have imagined.

My mother had finished her training, received her certificate, and was going to be one of those white-dress, white-stocking women who bring comfort as tender as the white soft-sole shoes on their feet. This is her way of ‘getting ready for the promised land’ and it made her happy.Hearing the sheer joy in her voice lifted my spirits and made me smile. I might not believe in God but I thanked Him for that moment.

Cosa fai?

2009-06-10T11:31:00.000-07:00

I was in Rome about a month ago. And those who know me know that Rome is one of my favourite cities. If one judges by the number of times I’ve visited - 15 - then the eternal city is hands-down my favourite place to visit. Yes, I count Vatican City as one of the 20 plus countries I’ve visited but contrary to popular belief I don’t count every departure from the Papal City as a new entrance to Rome.

So, it’s established; I love Rome. But what attracted me to Rome was not its food or architecture but rather my fascination with the Roman Empire, fuelled by historical novels such as Julian by Gore Vidal and I, Claudius and Claudius the God by Robert Graves. What I wouldn’t give to be the average Roman in my tunic, enjoying an afternoon at the Colosseo. And yes, I do love the food and architecture of Italy. But I especially love the language. And I shamelessly use the congiuntivo whenever possible, perhaps even more than necessary, perhaps incorrectly, but I don’t care I love the congiuntivo just as must as I loathe the passato remoto.

And I love Italians, especially central and southern Italians who remind me of black Americans but with gumption and taste. That’ll get me in trouble but I don’t care. I love how the Napoletani hang their pants and panties from windows for all to see and how they fall in and out of love with every fiber of their being. Yes, I love everything about Italians, well, except for one thing. I call it the 30-second syndrome. It is in this morsel of time that Italians determine whether they are too important and far too busy to waste their time on you. But how do busy, important Italians determine whether you are worth their time? Simple. When you meet Italians you can bet that within the first 30 seconds they will ask you cosa fai (what do you do) long before they ask come stai (how are you or how do you do). But in their defence I must say that Italians don’t come right out and ask cosa fai. That would be far too tacky. To get around this they usually start off by asking quanti anni hai (how old are you). Big improvement, right?

When I was studying in Rome I met lots of locals - young and old and without exception, cosa fai was among the first questions asked. Right or wrong, I decided that they were trying to size me up, to see if I was worth a 10-minute chat on the platform as we waited for the trenino to arrive. People were curious about me - a dreadlocked black New Yorker who was spending the summer studying Italian in Rome. But as I’ve grown older I’ve become less inclined to answer the question - especially the one about my age. Yikes! For some, this approach makes them even more curious about me and I sort of like that. But I’ve been scolded for this opinion of Italians and reminded that Americans - especially New Yorkers are just as bad in this way.

A dopo!

What Do You Write About?

2009-05-28T09:56:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever moved from a big city to a country town or village, you understand the frustration, boredom, and work to be done just to keep from slitting your wrists. Such was the case when I moved from New York City to Oxford. Mind you, for some Oxford is a big city, a paradise in the middle of picturesque Southeast England. But for me the historic town was the source of rainy days and lonely nights. Understanding thus, a flatmate suggested that we attend a storytelling evening, complete with food and professional storytellers. For want of something to do, I agreed. After all, how many times can you go punting, visit Christ Church, or puke your guts up on Cowley Road before the novelty of it all wears off? “Woohoo!” I thought and off to the storytelling we went.

We walked down a dark, cobblestone street, the kind over which Americans salivate. At the end was a sort of church if memory serves me correctly. We entered, walked down various corridors until we arrived at the dimly lit room, which had chairs forming a circle in the centre. There was a faint aroma in the air. Was it food? I hoped so. After so long in Oxford even bland English food had become not only palatable but somewhat desirable. But before I could grab a bite to eat, an English woman rose from her seat and walked toward me. I was taken by her appearance. She was elderly and yet stylish in a gothic sort of way. Dressed in long black skirt, her angular haircut allowed but one eye to be visible under her lightning white locks. Even for a semi-jaded New Yorker I must admit I was impressed. The woman, let’s call her Heather, asked me if I was going to tell a story that night. “No,” I answered. “The only stories I know from memory are those that I’ve written.” Heather perked up, stood a centimetre taller, and tossed her hair a bit. For a spilt second I was rewarded with a glimpse of the pale blue eye that matched the other which was now more focused me than before. “You’re a writer?” Her voice squeaked like a door in a Vincent Price film. I confirmed that I was indeed a writer. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said, clasping her hands in the excited sort of way that a barren British woman might do when finding the perfect child to adopt from a Kenyan orphanage. “Do you write about your culture?” she asked. Now, as you can imagine, this question came somewhat as a surprise to me and so I slightly turned my head and thought about it, then turned my head the other way and thought about it some more until the answer came to me like celestial light. “Yes,” I answered. “I do write about my culture.” Now, the nice lady was practically orgasmic. I swear she suddenly looked ten years younger. “Where are you from,” she asked, allowing the letter M linger on her unpainted lips. “The United States of America,” I answered. Heather took her drink and, without another word, disappeared. My immediate reaction was, “Wow, anti-American sentiment is real!” However, shortly thereafter, I understood what happened. But I wasn’t angry at the woman and harbour no resentment towards her for she taught me a lesson. I never would have been able to explain to anyone so succinctly what I write about. “What do you write about?” people ask me. And now can I answer, “My culture. I write about my culture.”