Loving vs. Virginia

by Patricia Hruby Power

We hand Don

  to Garnet.

  He’s crying.

  I’m crying.

  Sidney’s crying.

  Mama picks him up.

  I’m not bringing any babies

  back to jail.

  Richard and I go off with

  Sheriff Brooks.

  Otha grabs my wrist, says soft,

  “I’ll go get Frank Beazley.”

  I nod.

  We get to the jail

  to be booked,

  they say we owe

  $200.

  Richard and I look at

  each other from across the room

  with a look that says,

  Where we gonna get $200?

  I try not to cry

  ’cause it upsets Richard

  to see me weeping.

  Mr. Beazley arrives,

  talks to Sheriff,

  makes phone calls—

  I guess to Judge Bazile—

  does a lot of talking,

  we’re just sittin’ on benches,

  waiting.

  Finally,

  Mr. Beazley comes and says,

  “I’m real sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Loving,

  this was my mistake. I said

  y’all could come back,

  but I was mistaken.

  Judge says he’ll waive

  the fine and jail time,

  but you gotta go home.”

  And he means

  back to Washington

  which is hardly home,

  but we thank Mr. Beazley.

  We are not going to jail.

  Sheriff Brooks says,

  “That ain’t no ‘Mrs. Loving’—

  that Negress is Mildred Jeter.”

  We go collect our babies

  and get on the road for

  Washington.

  There’ll be no

  Easter for us.

  1959

  August 1959 Protest against integration, Little Rock, Arkansas

  1959

  “In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” —GEORGE WALLACE, GOVERNOR OF ALABAMA

  September 1959 White protestors march against school integration

  1960

  February 1960 Sit-ins sweep the country for several years. In 1960 alone, more than 70,000 people fill segregated lunch counters, movie theaters, churches, motels, libraries, and parks in protest.

  FREEDOM RIDERS

  MAY 1961

  1956

  In 1946, 1956, and 1960, the Supreme Court ruled that segregation on interstate and city buses—as well as in transit terminals, waiting rooms, and restrooms—was unconstitutional, but noncompliance with integration was widespread.

  1961

  In 1961, a group (mostly made up of students) calling themselves “Freedom Riders” began boarding public buses in mixed-race groups and traveling through the South to protest continued segregation.

  In May 1961, members of the Ku Klux Klan firebombed one of the buses and attempted to hold the doors shut so that the riders would be burned alive.

  1961

  May 1961 Birmingham Highway, Anniston, Alabama

  RICHARD

  TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

  SUMMER 1961

  I work pretty steady in Caroline County.

  After a day’s work

  I sometimes stop in at Ray’s—

  look under a hood with him

  before heading on home

  to the city.

  I can’t be seen here

  with my wife—

  but sometimes I drive her and the kids

  to her sister’s house—

  and I go with the boys

  out to Colonial Beach

  to race.

  Sneaking around is a drag

  but it’s gotta be done.

  MILDRED

  TWO YEARS LATER

  SPRING 1963

  We’ve lived in Washington

  for almost five years now.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful

  if we could live at home,

  see family

  every day?

  And give birth in my own house.

  But I have to be thankful

  that I can go home

  sometimes

  and not get caught.

  Lola Loving is a good midwife.

  She knows me and my ways

  which helps when

  delivering a baby into

  this world.

  We now have three beautiful

  children—

  Richard and I—

  Sidney, Don, and Peggy.

  When Peggy was born

  I got to go home

  for a brief time.

  I feared

  being arrested

  but I SURELY wasn’t going

  to deliver that child

  in the city

  where no one knows me.

  I do confess

  that the children and I

  frequently

  visit Garnet

  in Battery—

  one county over from Caroline

  in Essex County.

  Garnet’s husband—

  he works there at the sawmill.

  Their two sons play with our kids.

  Richard drops me off early

  at the house

  and goes and lays bricks

  or works on cars with Ray Green

  on weekends.

  Come nighttime, he drives up the dirt road,

  to Garnet’s,

  turns off the lights and the motor,

  glides in

  silent as an owl

  under cover of dark.

  Pulls the shades if we haven’t done it

  already.

  He hugs me,

  hugs the kids,

  and never goes outside once he’s in.

  As time goes on

  and Sheriff Brooks, a county over,

  doesn’t show up,

  we live easier—

  but still, we’re careful.

  The men go off to work

  in the morning.

  Garnet and I sip coffee

  while the kids

  play outside.

  Battery is an itty-bitty town,

  and the woods is a stone’s throw

  from the boardinghouse

  where Garnet’s family lives.

  We keep an eye out the window,

  watch the boys run wild—

  shoving each other, falling, laughing—

  like we all did

  growin’ up.

  Peggy’s just a little thing

  but she can keep up with the boys

  pretty good.

  I’m sorry she doesn’t have a sister, though.

  The boys have moved off toward the woods

  so Peggy toddles inside,

  sits with her doll,

  talking to her

  while Garnet and I gossip

  about cousins and friends.

  But while Peggy is near

  I won’t say one thing

  about being banished

  from home.

  She doesn’t need to know

  anything about it.

  The more time with Garnet,

  the better I feel—

  except for the fear.

  But Richard and I decided,

  the visits are worth it.

  I was just too miserable

  trapped in the city ALL THE TIME.

  After all,

  Richard works most days

  here in Virginia.

  It seems only fair that I

  come with the children.

  Children should grow up

  in the country

  where they can be FREE

  to roam and explore,

  catch tadpo
les

  and kick around in the soil.

  The other day

  they brought home

  a collection of little striped feathers—

  white and brown—

  so pretty.

  I fear what happened

  to the bird.

  Richard and I wonder

  every day,

  Will Sheriff cross the county line

  and come get us in Essex County?

  Or send the Essex County sheriff

  after us?

  I do not want to go to jail.

  EVER again.

  THE LETTER FROM BIRMINGHAM JAIL

  APRIL 1963

  “There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. . . . One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that ‘an unjust law is no law at all.’ One may well ask: ‘How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?’ The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws.”

  —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail

  MILDRED

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SUMMER 1963

  Today

  Sidney comes screaming

  into the house—

  “Don got hit by a car,”

  he hollers.

  Oh sweet Lord in Heaven.

  I cannot move.

  I hold him, let him cry.

  I cry

  but I cannot go

  out that door

  for fear of what I’ll find.

  I am frozen.

  This city frightens me

  every day.

  But THIS?

  I put Peggy, who is really too old for it,

  in the playpen, which is really

  just a fortress of raggedy furniture.

  I know she can climb over

  but I don’t want her outside

  to see—

  Oh God, what will I see?

  “Stay here, Baby,” I say.

  “Okay, Mama.”

  She is my good girl

  but she looks scared.

  She just saw her mama crying.

  I follow Sidney out the door.

  There is Don

  sitting up in the street,

  crying.

  I see no blood,

  no gore,

  no car.

  I cannot understand his words.

  He’s hiccupping great sobs.

  I pick him up.

  He buries his head in my neck

  while Sidney says,

  “A black car hit him, pushed him over,

  and just kept going.”

  This could not happen

  in Caroline County.

  First, there are hardly any cars

  driving up and down our gravel road.

  Second, if anything like this did happen,

  everyone knows us.

  Some neighbor would

  gather up Donny and carry

  him home to me.

  Not in this city.

  I remember too well being trapped

  in my cell

  at Bowling Green jailhouse.

  This apartment in this city

  is a jail cell

  to me and my kids.

  I can’t let them go outside to play

  for fear

  they get run over by a car.

  At night my cousins and I sit and watch

  the newscast on their TV.

  Richard’s not home yet

  but he’s probably on the long hot drive to get here.

  They are planning a big event

  right here in Washington, D.C.

  for later this summer.

  Dr. King will speak

  about voting

  and jobs for Negroes.

  It’s one hundred years, says the newscaster,

  since the Emancipation Proclamation

  was issued by Abraham Lincoln

  and the slaves were freed.

  But so many goals have not yet been

  realized.

  They are asking Negroes and whites to march

  to the Lincoln Memorial

  August 28,

  for dignity, self-respect, and freedom.

  And for HOPE.

  I say,

  “I’d like to feel . . . hope . . .”

  I’m not sure what I want to say,

  but I keep going—

  “. . . hope . . . that Richard and I could live

  at home

  in Caroline County.

  I’m real grateful to be here, Laura,

  but I want to raise my kids

  in the country,

  where there’s room to play.

  Where they’re not all caged up.

  Where they’re FREE.”

  Cousin Laura sighs,

  says, “Write to Bobby Kennedy.

  He’s the attorney general—

  he represents justice.

  He might help you.

  That’s what he’s up there for.”

  I’m a little ashamed

  of all the complaining I do

  when they’ve been so generous.

  But I just can’t go on like this.

  She’s right,

  I’ve got to do something.

  I want

  to feel . . . hope.

  That very night,

  using our dresser as a desk

  I lay down a sheet of paper

  and write on the top,

  Dear Mr. Kennedy—

  and tell our story.

  I am Negro and Indian,

  my husband is white

  and we cannot be married

  and live at home in Caroline County.

  Please help us if you can.

  I sign it

  Yours truly,

  Mr. and Mrs. Richard Loving

  Here in Washington my name is Mrs. Loving.

  That is one good thing about Washington, D.C.

  I HAVE A DREAM

  AUGUST 1963

  “When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. . . . Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.”

  —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., “I Have a Dream” speech

  1963

  August 28, 1963 The March on Washington—250,000 people attending

  RICHARD

  SEPTEMBER 1963

  Millie says I’m lucky

  to go back and forth to Caroline County

  every day.

  I suppose she’s right.

  That’s where people know my work

  so that’s where I get hired.

  I don’t have a choice.

  The problem is

  I’m going broke—

  going ninety miles

  at thirty-five cents a gallon

  twice a day.

  Millie wrote to the men in power—

  the attorney general—

  they said,

  Talk to the American Civil Liberties Union.

  So Millie wrote them too.

  MILDRED

  When Mr. Kennedy’s office said

  write to the ACLU

  in Washington,

  I did.

  I wrote,

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing to you concerning a problem we have . . .

  And I told our story again.

  In not too long a time,

  a Mr. Cohen calls up on the telephone.

  At first I get kind of breathless—

&
nbsp; I don’t want to make a mistake.

  But he seems to understand our problem—

  he doesn’t accuse us of anything—

  so I calm down.

  He asks if Richard and I will to come to his office

  in Virginia.

  I tell him, “That is illegal—

  us coming to Virginia together.”

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Loving,” he says.

  “Yes, of course. I have a little office

  in Washington, D.C.

  We can meet there.”

  We don’t have to pay him.

  He’ll do this work “pro bono”—

  for the public good,

  he says.

  I say, “Thank you, Mr. Cohen.

  That would surely be good for us too.”

  I hang up the phone and I feel

  a little shiver rise up my backbone.

  I want to go home so bad.

  I NEED to be home.

  I feel brave and strong.

  We can DO this.

  We can go home.

  RICHARD

  We went to the lawyer’s little office—

  nothin’ fancy—

  and talk and talk and talk.

  He said something like,

  I think we can win, but it will be a long process.

  More than a month? Why?

  We just want to live as husband and wife

  in Virginia.

  What is so difficult about that?

  Mildred put her hand on my wrist.

  Then he said,

  If you were to go back to Virginia together—

  get rearrested—

  that might be a good way

  to get this back in the courts.

  This guy is completely nuts.

  Mildred grabbed hold of my hand

  real tight—

  like she thought I’d get up and walk out.

  MILDRED

  Mr. Cohen tells us it’s complicated.

  A chill makes me pull my sweater closed.

  I nod. Complicated?

  The first thing we have to do,

  he says,

  is find a way to get our case

  back in the courts.

  While he’s flipping through a stack of papers,

  he’s talking—he’s saying

  our case was heard five years ago.

  We should have brought it to him

  then—within 120 days