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    Loving vs. Virginia


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      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

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      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.

     

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