MY TRIBUTE TO MARY L. SMALL
When I first went off to college at Brandeis University, I was blessed to meet Dr. Mary Small. She was one of my professors, and she taught journalism classes in the African American Studies Department. I loved her enthusiasm, joy, and way of speaking that got her point across without being at odds with anyone. Before long she had taken me under her wing. She must have seen this country bumpkin straight from a small town in Mississippi struggling to find her way in the world. But she never made me feel that way.
She guided me into my life’s work. It was Dr. Small who first realized my writing ability and encouraged me to pursue writing as my career. When it was graduation time, she encouraged me to apply to graduate schools of journalism. And she wrote recommendations for me. In fact, all through my life whenever I’ve needed a recommendation, she always took the time to write one in spite of her busy schedule.
My family from Mississippi had planned to come to Brandeis for my graduation. I was so happy that my grandfather would finally get to see the place I had gone for four years. Then a couple of weeks before graduation, I learned that my family wouldn’t be able to attend after all. Only my sister who attended Princeton would be able to make it. Needless to say, I was disappointed. But Mrs. Small stepped up and gave me a graduation party in her home. I shall always be grateful to her for doing that. She didn’t want my graduation to be just another day, but an occasion to be celebrated.
After an internship when I was offered my first job at an advertising agency, I told her that I wouldn’t accept anything less than $10,000 (a lot of money in those days). But she told me that the important thing was to get in the door, do a good job, and then get more money later.
I can’t write this without tears flowing. But I guess that is appropriate because Mrs. Small and I have laughed until we cried so many times through the years. I always kept up with her in whatever city she had moved.
When she moved to Austin, I was thrilled because she was right down the road from me in Houston. Even though she was busy with her students at Huston-Tillotson and her many faculty commitments, she always took time to talk to me. I cherish the times my family and I were able to spend with her in Austin.
Even after her stroke whenever I called, she was the one who cheered me up. And that continued with her move to Albuquerque. Throughout her illnesses, she was always upbeat and filled with laughter. I always felt better after I hung up from a telephone call with her. A call meant to cheer her had cheered me instead. After each telephone conversation, I was filled with news to share with my husband. And after each conversation, I always felt that she was fine. She sounded the same. She talked the same. And we laughed and laughed.
I have had the opportunity to visit with her twice since she moved to Albuquerque. You see, my son played football for the Air Force Academy, and they played the University of New Mexico every year. I was excited to learn that they would be playing in Albuquerque twice. I was so excited, not because of the game but because I would get to see Mrs. Small. During our last visit, my husband and I had a delightful brunch with her and Evan. It was like old times: catching up on the latest news and sharing pictures.
She had the ability to make me feel like I was her favorite student, even though I now know that other students felt the same.
When she insisted that I call her ‘Mary’, I just couldn’t. Because she was my elder and I had always been taught to respect my elders. And I respected HER so much. So instead of the formal ‘Dr. Small’, I started calling her ‘Mrs. Small’. To me calling her ‘Mrs. Small’ meant she was more than a professor. She was a close family friend. She was my guide to the world when I was freshly in it and on my own for the very first time. She was a counselor. She was wise. She was a scholar. She had a great spirit.
I will forever remember Mrs. Small: my teacher, my mentor, my friend.
~ Margaree King Mitchell