Biographical information for "Mary Carter Smith"

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National Association of Black Storytellers Soliloquy to Mother Griot By Beverly Fields Burnette At the 25th Anniversary of our story gathering, we set out an Ashanti stool for you. You, in the flesh were not there, but we saw your smile, felt your spirit, knew the gleeful way you snapped our circle into place. We saw you, “fairy queen,” in your diminutive stature, yet, colossal in your boldness, and in the bodaciousness of Zora! We heard the words you'd always said, and one by one we mounted the stage that you and Sista Linda had set for us a score and a half ago. In silence, we bent knees to give you thanks for the countless years of your giving, for you gave, and FOR-gave with a heart more infinite than others, as you pardoned your absent father so many decades ago, and the man who silenced your young mother when you were only three and the woman who senselessly snuffed out your only son’s brief breath. You were always fearless, as you rose against the struggle and the heartache to find precious “gilded bits” to share. From Birmingham to Baltimore and beyond, you brought your stories. They were bigger than all of us, and you tackled them; found brilliant kaleidoscopes and rainbows in the tears of life. Your teachings went far beyond the classroom that you held for thirty seasons, and you envisioned each and every lesson that you would share when they dubbed you Mother Griot. You stepped up with huge voice, to master the masses with your African wit, with Mother of Pearl wisdoms in poetry, song and story. And even in your mounting years, you danced and pranced in your head wrap; graceful and agile at eighty. You flashed your whimsical wink and shared a frisky frolic in the storytelling circle. Then later, even as your eyes faded, when your gaze was set for Glory, and you saw the Master's summons, you looked back from your bedside to notice Bunjo and Baba Jamal, two of the many strong beautiful black men you said you'd miss. and all of the story-bearers who readied themselves, to carry your cowtail switch, and your peaceful message beyond your resting place. Mother Griot, your stories will survive. They will revive us! Your lessons will bring health, and healing and hope to a nation that clamors for an answer to hold dear. And now, DANCE, Mother Mary! Dance in the headdress, which crowns your Queenly beauty. Dance by the African tribal firelight, to the resounding beat of the djembe drum. Dance by the old-fashionedness of a Warm Morning heater in Alabama, whose hot coals still glow RED, like the hearts that love you. We climb tall hills behind you. We Circle in your greatness, and ride this storied journey lit by the vibrant streak of your radiant comet. This poem was provided by Rudy Lewis at www.nathanielturner.com November 29, 2007 Beverly Fields Burnette, a published poet, writer, storyteller, and School Social Worker in Raleigh, NC, is President of the North Carolina Association of Black StorytellersDelete
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