Loving vs. Virginia Read online

  I’m up

  and I kick the ball right

  through the branches

  of the apple tree.

  One of the big boys catches it.

  He’s not even in the game.

  He throws it to the pitcher,

  she throws it to first.

  Too bad, I’m already at second

  on my way to third

  but I yell bloody murder

  at that big boy

  ’cause he’s not part of our game.

  Because of him

  I don’t get

  home.

  I backtrack fast to third.

  He’s laughing like a hyena.

  The game’s over anyway

  ’cause the grown-ups want to

  play softball with us.

  And that’s fun.

  So we cross over to the field

  where there’s plenty of space

  and the tall grasses

  are trampled down.

  I’m on a team

  with Daddy, Otha,

  and two of my much older

  half brothers.

  What makes them half brothers

  is their mama, Daisy,

  she died.

  And then Daddy married

  our mama.

  Anyway, Eddy and Button

  and a whole lot of more folks—

  little and big—

  are on our team.

  Garnet’s on the other team.

  She hits a high ball

  and I catch it on the fly.

  Sorry, Garnet,

  you’re out.

  She yells,

  “NO-O-O” real loud.

  But she’s a good big sister.

  She says,

  “Nice catch . . .

  String Bean.”

  I don’t mind her calling me

  String Bean.

  Because she said

  it was a nice catch.

  And it was.

  Still, we lose.

  But the best is yet to come.

  More and more people come over.

  They bring food too.

  When it starts to go dark

  Daddy brings out his banjo

  and starts strummin’ and pluckin’.

  So Theo joins in on his guitar.

  Eddy, Button, Doochy, and Dump—

  That’s all o’ my big half brothers—

  They all play fiddles and mandolins.

  Really they are

  Edward, Richard, George, and James.

  The Jeters always play music

  in the neighborhood

  and make jokes—

  make people laugh.

  And DANCE.

  One of the fathers calls

  a square dance

  and everyone joins in.

  Otha dances

  Mama dances

  Lewis dances.

  I surely dance.

  Some of the big boys dance.

  Mr. and Mrs. Loving—

  eyes fastened on each other

  even when they’ve been passed

  to the next person—

  their names are

  Twilley and Lola.

  I love their names.

  But we call them

  Mr. and Mrs. Loving

  of course.

  And they pretty much are.

  If I stop and watch

  I see young and old—

  Indians, Negroes, Whites—

  all mixed together.

  Everyone likes each other

  in our neighborhood.

  Everyone dancing

  TOGETHER.

  Whites and coloreds—

  we go to different schools—

  to different churches,

  drink from different water fountains.

  But our section is different.

  My world is right here

  in Central Point.

  That’s what it’s called.

  Central Point,

  the center

  of my universe.

  My family.

  My world.

  RICHARD

  FALL 1952

  Saturday morning,

  I was under the hood screwing with the carburetor

  of my ’41 DeSoto.

  Ray drove up. Looked over my shoulder, said,

  Your car it been loadin’ up on fuel.

  I’d adjust that on the lean side.

  Yeah, yeah, I say. That’s what I did.

  He said,

  It’s the weekend. Let’s go.

  So we drove in Ray’s car over to Jeters’

  to see Doochy and Button and the rest.

  They was sure to have good food.

  We ate, played some ball.

  I caught a kickball that went flying behind their apple trees

  and their little sister went bananas.

  Seeing her catch on fire was almost worth the hell

  Doochy fired at me.

  I didn’t mean anything by it. Just having a little fun.

  I apologized to the kid, though.

  Then on Monday, me and Ray were driving the hardtop

  toward home.

  Here comes the flashing red light,

  the wheezing of that siren.

  Yep, Sheriff R. G. Brooks.

  Ray stopped, of course. Sheriff is the law.

  Let me see your license, Boy.

  Called him Boy. Hell, Sheriff calls Ray’s father Boy.

  I saw Ray roll his eyes—but Sheriff don’t see it.

  Ray’s license, it says “COLORED.” Sheriff hates “coloreds.”

  Sheriff—nasty as anything ever been—

  leaned in the car, saw me, said,

  What’re you doin’ here, Son?

  Not Boy. I’m SON.

  Thank God, not his.

  I am coming home from work, Sir, I say, slow and careful,

  so he don’t misunderstand any part of it.

  What Sheriff means is

  Why is a white boy in this car with a colored?

  We never went to school together—Ray and me.

  Before he dropped out

  Ray went to Union, for coloreds.

  I went to Caroline, for whites.

  Before I dropped.

  I hate this bastard sheriff.

  But I make him think that ain’t the case.

  No use having the law on your tail.

  I said,

  I was walking down the road, Sir, and my friend here

  he offered me a ride.

  Sheriff nodded his ugly mug, sneered like a toad.

  Stared up into the air.

  I looked over at Ray. He was seething, but got it all corked up

  like he can do.

  Sometimes.

  Lookin’ cool. Me too, I can be cool.

  Me, I’m white, but my daddy,

  he drives a truck for P. E. Boyd Byrd—

  maybe the richest roundest jolliest “colored” farmer in the section.

  In other parts, a white man working for a colored man—

  that would be unusual.

  But that’s how it is here in Central Point.

  Sheriff don’t like this one lousy bit.

  White man puts hisself beneath a colored man?

  Workin’ for him?

  Worse than being colored, right, Sheriff?

  ’Course, I didn’t say that.

  Just thinkin’.

  Sheriff looked like he was chewin’ on his teeth,

  kept turnin’ over that itty-bitty license,

  trying to figure out what mean thing he could do to us.

  We wait quiet

  while he walked back to his car.

  To Sheriff Brooks there are only two races—

  white and colored.

  In all of Virginia, just two races—

  white and colored.

  We know Sheriff ain’t done with us,

  but he let us go for now.
>
  BROWN VS. BOARD OF EDUCATION

  MAY 1954

  In 1951, thirteen parents filed suit against the Topeka, Kansas, Board of Education, protesting the policy of racial segregation. The Kansas District Court ruled against the plaintiffs.

  The parents appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court. In 1954, the Supreme Court gave its verdict, banning racial segregation in schools.

  “WE CONCLUDE THAT, IN THE FIELD OF PUBLIC EDUCATION, THE DOCTRINE OF ‘SEPARATE BUT EQUAL’ HAS NO PLACE. SEPARATE EDUCATIONAL FACILITIES ARE INHERENTLY UNEQUAL.”

  —U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Warren, Brown vs. Board of Education verdict

  Even so, it would be more than fifteen years of struggle and protest before the last American school desegregated.

  MILDRED

  THREE YEARS LATER

  OCTOBER 1955

  I like Union High School okay.

  I did eighth grade here,

  now I’m a freshman.

  Garnet’s a sophomore.

  If Otha hadn’t gone and dropped out

  he’d be a junior.

  Theo dropped too.

  My brothers’d rather work.

  ME,

  I’d rather study civics

  science

  history

  English

  even math.

  I am surely going to graduate.

  Union High School is

  a far cry from Sycamore’s one room.

  It’s a real school with classrooms

  and a different teacher

  for each subject.

  I like walking from class

  to class.

  Each school day this week

  after it’s gone dark,

  Theo, Doochy, and Dump

  come home dog tired

  after a day of helping

  the Fortunes—

  our neighbors—

  killing hogs.

  They’re spattered with blood

  and they smell pretty much

  like hogs themselves.

  Mama won’t let them in

  the house

  till they first wash

  out by the well.

  What it comes down to?

  They’d rather smell like pigs

  than go to school

  I guess.

  The weekend comes,

  we all go down the road a piece

  over to Fortunes’.

  When it starts getting dark

  Daddy pulls out his banjo,

  my brothers take out

  their guitars, mandolins

  and all set to playing

  hillbilly music.

  No one calls a square dance this time

  so we just sort of dance around

  doing steps, turns, and dips.

  When they take a break,

  Percy Fortune pulls an electric cord

  through the back door

  and sets down a record player

  on the back stoop.

  He lowers the arm and

  out blasts

  “Rock Around the Clock.”

  I set to dancing with my brother Otha.

  Garnet dances.

  So do lots of other people.

  But after a few tunes

  only Otha and me are still hoppin’.

  We dance CRAZY.

  He swings me out and reels me in.

  My skirt swirls.

  I throw back my head and laugh.

  Someone says,

  “Look at that String Bean dance.”

  I don’t even care.

  Nope, not at all.

  I know the boys are looking at me.

  Sometimes that would be embarrassing

  but not tonight.

  I’m on FIRE. Happy.

  Otha and I dance

  tune after tune

  until we are dripping

  sweat.

  When some folks start leaving

  one of my brothers’ friends,

  Richard, says to me,

  “I’m drivin’ you home.”

  I feel this rush of heat

  rise up my already-steaming face.

  He’s sending me home?

  Have I done something bad?

  Then I think,

  Well, who do you think you are?

  Ordering me home.

  Those thoughts all happen

  in one quick flash

  and I blurt out,

  “Well, is that right?”

  But Otha is there, saying,

  “Come on, Millie.

  He’s driving us all home.”

  Oh. Okay, well that’s different.

  On the way to the car,

  Richard says,

  “Millie, sit in the front.”

  I sort of drop my jaw

  ’cause I don’t like being ordered around.

  When I look at Garnet

  she shrugs and kind of grins.

  When we get to the car

  Mama says, “HURRY UP girls,

  let’s get going.”

  Mama on Daddy’s lap,

  and three boys all stuff themselves

  in the back.

  I push Otha in ahead of me,

  climb on his lap

  and Garnet squeezes in,

  we shut the door.

  Richard gets in and we take off.

  He looks at me

  where I’m sitting

  real close to him.

  I look away and invent

  something to say to Garnet,

  “Wasn’t it fun dancing?”

  She gives me a funny smile

  and says,

  “Yeah it was.”

  It doesn’t take long to get home

  and we all kind of pop

  out of the car it’s packed so tight.

  They get their instruments

  out of the trunk.

  On my way into the house

  I look behind and Richard

  is grinning at me.

  I turn around quick

  and go inside

  and let the screen door

  slam.

  Garnet and I only have energy

  to splash our faces

  before rolling into bed.

  I’m facing the edge

  but Garnet’s facing in

  so I hear her whisper.

  I think she says,

  “He’s cute, Millie.”

  “What?”

  She says, “That sandy hair?

  He’s strong.

  Taller than you.

  He likes you.”

  “Who?”

  “Pfff.” She kind of poofs.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Richard Loving?” I ask.

  “Yeah, Richard Loving.

  You’re just being shy.

  He’s nice.”

  “Isn’t he pretty old?”

  “Not that old. Maybe Theo’s age.

  He works, laying bricks.

  What’s wrong with that?”

  I don’t say anything

  ’cause I’m thinking.

  And Garnet goes on.

  “You were pretty snotty

  to him.

  He even thinks

  that’s cute.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  Garnet has had boyfriends.

  She knows these things.

  “You should be nicer to him,”

  she says.

  I’m thinking about that,

  and I want to ask Garnet

  something—I don’t even know what.

  I just want to keep her talking.

  But I can tell by her breathing

  she’s asleep.

  RICHARD

  OCTOBER 1955

  Saturday morning, wasn’t in no mood to work on my car.

  Wanted to find some reason—any reason—

  to go over to Jeters’.

  By and by, R
ay drove up with Percy—

  Otha, Doochy, and Theo in the back—

  said, Hop in.

  Good deal. I could maybe ask Otha about his sister. Or Doochy.

  Otha might be better.

  But I had to do it right.

  Ray drove for a piece

  then turned direct into the woods,

  slid his old Chevy right over some brush,

  turned off the motor

  deep in the green

  so the car was completely hid from the road.

  We all got out,

  followed Ray single file along a deer path

  way back in the woods—

  not saying nothin’.

  I saw this big old oak we used to climb.

  Shoot, we used to come here as kids.

  We had a fort back here.

  Ray said, Check it out.

  Hah! Right here in the clearing,

  Ray, he’d propped up an old pickle barrel on blocks

  fitted it with copper tubing so it dangled in a copper vat.

  What da’ ya’ know?

  A STILL.

  He was right proud showing it off.

  He already done mashed the corn, sugared it

  so’s it was dripping clear as water

  into a half-gallon fruit jar.

  Ray said, Purest moonshine in Caroline County.

  I said, You son of a—

  Watch it, Man, he said, laughin’ all goofy.

  He sent around the jar.

  Percy sipped, hooted, dragged his wrist across his mouth,

  coughed,

  said, Yeah, that is fine.

  Doochy swigged, said, Yep.

  I took a whiff. Smelled like it could take the finish off your car.

  I took me a sip.

  Turned aside and spat,

  just barely missing Doochy.

  That is GODAWFUL.

  They all laughed. The stuff was making them stupid.

  They clapped me on the back.

  When I could breathe again, I said,

  This is honest-to-god rotgut. Got any beer?

  Ray said, No, Man, this here is a moonshine party.

  Stop spittin’ out my fine corn liquor.

  We was sittin’ laughin’ and someone, probably Theo,

  told this story we all knew—

  but Theo tells it real good—

  about Sheriff Brooks

  planting a gallon jar of moonshine

  in old man Johnson’s shed.

  Everybody knows Johnson don’t make moonshine.

  He don’t drink it, neither.

  But Sheriff just walks into Johnson’s house

  like he walk into any colored person’s house

  without knocking

  without calling,

  and he picks a fight.

  Old man slugs Sheriff, Sheriff arrests Johnson,

  takes him to jail

  then beats the hell outta him with a rubber hose,

  saying, You use this hose to make moonshine?

  Ray said, Dumbass Sheriff,