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
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RICHARD
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RICHARD
MILDRED
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RICHARD
MILDRED
MILDRED
MILDRED
RICHARD
MILDRED
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RICHARD
MILDRED
RICHARD
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RICHARD
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RICHARD
MILDRED
RICHARD
MILDRED
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RICHARD
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RICHARD
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RICHARD
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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.