Loving vs. Virginia Read online

  LONG VIEW: NEGRO

  Emancipation: 1865

  Sighted through the

  Telescope of dreams

  Looms larger,

  So much larger,

  So it seems,

  Than truth can be.

  But turn the telescope around,

  Look through the larger end—

  And wonder why

  What was so large

  Becomes so small

  Again.

  —LANGSTON HUGHES

  Emancipation Proclamation takes full effect, slaves are freed

  For all those who struggle with injustice —P. H. P.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Patricia Hruby Powell.

  Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Shadra Strickland.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Powell, Patricia Hruby, 1951- author. | Strickland, Shadra, illustrator.

  Title: Loving vs. Virginia : a documentary novel of the Landmark Civil Rights case / by Patricia Hruby Powell ; artwork by Shadra Strickland.

  Other titles: Loving versus Virginia

  Description: San Francisco, CA : Chronicle Books, [2017] | Summary: Written in blank verse, the story of Mildred Loving, an African American girl, and Richard Loving, a Caucasian boy, who challenge the Virginia law forbidding interracial marriages in the 1950s.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2014045089 | ISBN 9781452125909 (Hardcover) | ISBN 9781452153315 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Loving, Richard Perry--Trials, litigation, etc.—Juvenile fiction. | Loving, Mildred Jeter--Trials, litigation, etc.—Juvenile fiction. | Interracial marriage--Law and legislation--Virginia--Juvenile fiction. | Virginia--Race relations--Juvenile fiction. | Virginia--History--20th century--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Loving, Richard Perry--Trials, litigation, etc.—Fiction. | Loving, Mildred Jeter--Trials, litigation, etc.--Fiction. | Interracial marriage--Fiction. | Race relations--Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | Virginia--History--20th century--Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.5.P69 Lo 2017 | DDC 813.54--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2014045089

  Design by Jennifer Tolo Pierce.

  Typeset in Eames Century Modern, Futura STD, Brandon Printed, and Toronto Gothic.

  The illustrations in this book were rendered in brush pen and Adobe Photoshop.

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, California 94107

  Chronicle Books—we see things differently. Become part of our community at

  www.chroniclebooks.com/teen.

  Contents

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  MILDRED

  RICHARD PERRY LOVING (1933–1975)

  MILDRED DELORES JETER LOVING (1939–2008)

  LOVING VS. VIRGINIA TIME LINE

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  INTERVIEWS

  WRITTEN MATERIAL

  IMAGE CREDITS

  TEXT CREDITS

  QUOTE SOURCES

  FROM THE ARTIST

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “[A] segregationist is one who conscientiously believes that it is in the best interest of Negro and white to have a separate education and social order.” —GEORGE WALLACE, GOVERNOR OF ALABAMA

  1950 and 1941 Classrooms for white and non-white children under the “separate but equal” laws

  MILDRED

  CENTRAL POINT, CAROLINE COUNTY, VIRGINIA

  FALL 1952

  Garnet and I walk in the grass

  alongside the road

  to keep our shoes clean,

  but Lewis doesn’t care.

  He’s shuffling through dust

  in the middle of the road.

  Garnet’s

  hand-me-down lace-ups

  have the most life

  left in them,

  so they’re the best.

  She gets the best

  ’cause she’s oldest

  and has the feet

  to fit them.

  I wear

  her way wore-out saddle shoes

  from last year

  but painted and buffed

  till they nearly glow.

  To me, they’re the best—

  being saddle shoes—

  even though I can feel every

  stick and pebble

  through the thinned-down

  soles.

  Lewis wears boots so wore-out—

  looks like Nippy

  chewed them soft

  out in the barn.

  Being the youngest

  of seven brothers—

  no telling who wore

  those boots

  before him.

  Lewis is right down in the truck ruts

  kicking up dirt and stones

  onto my white polished shoes

  till I have to say,

  “Just quit it.”

  So he says,

  “MAKE ME.”

  I say,

  “You know I can, Pipsqueak.”

  He’s just eight and this is a truthful

  description of his size.

  I grab him around

  his scrawny middle.

  He hollers,

  “Don’t touch me, you,

  you STRING BEAN.”

  He’s laughing hard

  ’cause he knows I won’t

  really whup him

  ’cause I’m five years older

  and five years bigger.

  Now I’m laughing

  hard enough I could just about

  choke

  but I manage to say,

  “Don’t you EVER call me

  String Bean,

  you Pipsqueak.”

  And I yell to Garnet—

  who’s walked ahead

  because she is just too old

  for this nonsense—

  “Help me, Garnet.”

  Well maybe not too old

  ’cause Garnet come
s and

  grabs hold of Lewis’s elbow

  and I hoist the other

  and we fly Lewis over

  that dirt road

  with him pedaling mid-air

  and hollerin’

  and that’s how we arrive

  at Sycamore School.

  We are all in Miss Green’s class—

  Lewis at the bottom

  in first grade,

  so Miss Green directs him

  to the front row.

  Garnet’s at the top,

  in seventh,

  she’s in the back.

  I’m across the aisle

  being in sixth—

  all in one room, one teacher

  for everyone.

  Miss Green hands each of us

  older kids a sheet of paper

  and pencil and says,

  “Put your name in the top-right corner

  and write what you did

  during summer

  vacation.”

  Didn’t she keep

  last year’s report?

  I write, “Mildred Jeter”

  and my paper tears.

  I lift it and see that

  my desk is a very sad

  excuse for a desk.

  Carved into the wooden top

  are initials—

  J. J.—

  which most likely was

  dug out by

  my much older half brother

  James Jeter

  and I bet he got a thrashin’ for that.

  And there’s P. F. and E. J.

  and even a heart with

  R. G. and A. M., and I try

  to figure which of

  my brothers, cousins, or neighbors

  belong to those initials.

  But Miss Green says,

  “Mildred? Is there a problem?”

  “No, ma’am,” I say.

  I lay my paper back down,

  and no sooner set my pencil to it

  when it tears again.

  I lift my desktop to see if there’s

  more paper inside and there isn’t.

  Inside me

  something hard and tight

  makes me

  slam that desk

  shut.

  “Mildred,” growls Miss Green.

  “Miss Green, ma’am,” I say,

  in my most polite voice,

  “This is a mess of a desk. It is

  all carved up.”

  Miss Green comes over and

  hands me a reading book

  with a broken spine, says,

  “Put your textbook under your paper

  and try again.”

  I take the book,

  open it up

  to see Edward Jeter

  (another half brother)—

  written sloppy

  and then crossed out

  and George Jeter

  also written sloppy,

  crossed out,

  and plenty of other names

  crossed out.

  You’d think it would

  be a comfort—

  knowing my big old brothers

  read these very pages,

  these very stories,

  but what I see is all those

  many names—

  CROSSED OUT.

  I know my lower lip

  is jutting way forward

  the way it does

  when I am peeved.

  My eyes sting

  so I suck my lips into

  my mouth to keep

  from crying.

  My desk is rotten

  and I want a brand-new reader

  that smells like ink and glue

  rather than this one that

  reeks of grime and mildew

  and has been in the

  germy hands

  of many boys.

  At that moment,

  Garnet leans across the aisle

  and touches my wrist.

  I don’t dare look at her

  or surely I will cry.

  She hands me her paper,

  I set it on the old reader

  and focus on it hard

  so I won’t cry.

  Still,

  one tear plops onto the paper.

  I write this (around the teardrop):

  This summer vacation

  was pretty much like

  last summer vacation.

  Garnet and I galloped

  through the woods

  playing horses.

  I pulled weeds out from between

  the turnips, collards, and mustard greens.

  I piled straw around potatoes.

  The whole family went to

  Bowling Green for the carnival.

  I threw a ball, hit the bull’s-eye,

  won the tiniest little doll

  you ever saw—no bigger than

  a clothespin, wearing gingham

  and an apron.

  Friends and cousins came over

  to our house.

  We stayed up late.

  My page is filled so

  I just sit and daydream

  while Miss Green teaches

  the little kids their ABCs.

  With so many brothers

  I am grateful to have my big sister

  Garnet.

  We run up and down hills

  climb trees

  catch tadpoles with our cupped hands

  from out of the creek.

  Daddy and my brothers—

  they hunt squirrels and rabbits

  with a shotgun.

  They fish for perch and shad

  in the streams.

  My mama cooks those fish up fine.

  Our Jeter ancestors have lived here

  in Central Point

  for centuries,

  hunting and fishing.

  Daddy and Mama

  are both part Indian.

  We are also descended

  from African slaves.

  And their owners.

  Our section—

  our rolling hills and woods—

  threaded with creeks

  is the most beautiful

  in the whole wide world.

  Besides the greens,

  last spring

  Garnet and I

  helped plant corn

  string beans

  and turnips

  in the side garden.

  We’ll keep on

  hoeing and harvesting

  all through the fall.

  We’ll help with hog-killing

  later this season.

  Neighbors will come by to help

  slaughter, butcher,

  hang meat in the shed.

  We all milk the cow,

  make our own butter.

  We wring the necks

  of our chickens.

  Mama can do two

  at a time—

  one in either hand,

  holdin’ ’em by their necks,

  she whorls ’em around

  a couple times—

  they never feel a thing.

  Miss Green says,

  “Scholars, hand in your papers.”

  Garnet turns in a page

  so she must

  have found another

  sheet of paper.

  Miss Green hands out math books—

  the same text I had last year

  but I’m further along,

  tells me to read on page 265

  and do the problems.

  Turn decimals to fractions—

  not TOO hard.

  Garnet gets a different

  old book, writes her name in it.

  Miss Green explains

  greatest common factors

  and sets her to work.

  At the end of the day

  Miss Green says,

  “Good work, Scholars.”

  We put our books in our desks.

&nbs
p; We never take them home.

  Come Saturday,

  folks drop by

  our house—

  young, old,

  and everything in between.

  This weekend

  the big boys come over—

  friends of my big brothers.

  Theo goes into the refrigerator

  looking for food.

  Mama shoos him out.

  But then adults come by—

  out comes

  macaroni cheese

  hot dogs

  potato chips.

  And one unfortunate chicken—

  who didn’t feel a thing

  and who I plucked—

  gets dropped

  into the boiling pot.

  When the chicken is cooked

  we all eat.

  The boys eat too, of course.

  We ALL do,

  crowded around the table

  eating

  talking

  laughing.

  Mama nods and

  Garnet and I clear the dishes.

  On a blue homespun napkin

  Mama sets out

  apple pie

  still warm from the oven.

  Garnet and I

  carved out the worms, cored,

  sugared those apples—

  that is,

  after climbing the tree,

  shakin’ ’em down

  pickin’ out the best—

  Mama calls that

  talkin’ like a farmer—

  shakin’ pickin’ laughin’ talkin’

  but aren’t we farmers?

  Yes we are.

  Mama made that pie.

  We all dig into our slice,

  lean forward and say,

  “One two three” (all together)

  “WHAT A TERRIFIC CRUST.”

  Which is what

  we always say.

  And everyone

  at the table knows

  Mama won’t make

  the next pie

  unless we tell her

  how good this one is.

  She grins.

  Then we lean back

  so full we can hardly stand it.

  Till Mama nods again.

  Garnet and I push from

  the table and clear away

  all the dishes.

  Then another family comes by

  and they got little kids.

  So Garnet and I go into

  our room

  quick

  and each of us

  hides our doll

  deep in the corner of the closet—

  this is not the itty-bitty doll

  I won—

  this is my just-about life-size

  baby doll.

  My itty-bitty doll

  is living in the woods

  in a hollowed-out tree trunk.

  Mama sends all us kids

  outside anyway.

  The boys play catch

  but we girls want

  to play kickball.

  Home plate is the bare spot

  behind the shed.

  The old plum tree stump

  is first base.

  The gnarly apple tree

  is second.

  Third is the rock.