we’re very happy.
Every time I see you and
Richard
together . . .
And we’re together a lot.
at home
in a car
anywhere—
anywhere—
you’re happy.
we’re happy.
You ought to get married.”
We ought to get married.
My mama says
Her mama says we fit together.
. . . that we fit together
just right.
Her head fits right here under my chin.
“You grew up together.
You know each other.
Yeah,
we know each other.
That’s good.
That’s good.
You ought to get married.”
We ought to get married.
So that’s what we’re doing.
So that’s what we’re doing.
I found us a preacher
Who will marry us . . .
who will marry us
at his house
. . . in Washington, D.C.?
in Washington, D.C.
We drive in Richard’s car—
I drive
Mama, Otha, Daddy,
Richard, and me.
First,
at City Hall
to City Hall.
we fill out the paperwork . . .
I write,
Richard Perry Loving
White
from Passing, Virginia,
age twenty-four
to marry.
marries . . .
And I write,
Mildred Delores Jeter
from Passing, Virginia,
age eighteen
Indian—
Indian? That’s what you
wanna say?
Yes, I’m Indian.
Yeah, I know.
Okay.
On the second day of June 1958
On the second day of June 1958
Washington, D.C.
Washington, D.C.
And then I sign the paper.
My hand shakes a little
when I sign
When she signs
my name.
her name
I smile at her.
Does he really love me?
The sheriff—
the government—
can’t tell me who I can marry.
Or who I can’t marry.
Or is he just
doing his
duty . . .
It’s my duty to marry
the woman who is having my child.
. . . because I’m pregnant?
It’s got to be done—
I’m marrying her.
I’m scared . . .
Richard?
Shhhhh. Everything’s going to be
okay, Bean.
Okay.
Okay.
And then the preacher, at his house,
he asks,
Do you promise to cherish him
Do you promise to cherish her, to
to honor him
honor her
to protect her in sickness
to protect him in sickness and in
and in health,
health,
for richer or poorer
for richer or poorer
for better or worse
for better or worse
until death
until death
do you part?
do you part?
I do.
I do.
We kiss.
We kiss.
I put my hand on . . .
I wrap my arm around
. . . my widening middle . . .
her middle—
grinning like an idiot.
Can’t help myself.
I smile up at him.
I kiss her hair.
I love her innocence—
her sweetness.
We drive on home . . .
She doesn’t know we’re breaking
the law—
stupid-ass law—
once we return home to Virginia.
. . . have a party—
just small.
Maybe they’ll forget us—
leave us alone.
We’ll be quiet.
We sleep in the
downstairs bedroom.
I promise to build her
He’ll build me a house
a house . . .
across from my parents
soon as we save the money.
right here—
Right here.
our home.
Life is good.
I’m a married man.
I have me a beautiful wife.
I’m going to have this child
We’re going to have a child.
and raise our family
And raise our family
right here
right here
in Central Point.
in Central Point,
home.
1958
1958 Laws banning interracial marriage (also known as anti-miscegenation laws) exist in 24 states (shaded)
RICHARD
JUNE 1958
Till we get our own house built,
I make myself scarce.
Lot of people in that little Jeter house.
Went over to Ray’s after work.
Brought Millie with.
She went inside with Annamae.
Ray and me worked under the hood
of the Ford.
MILDRED
Percy drives the Ford
out to Colonial Beach—
drives real easy
real careful.
Mama keeps Sidney, so
I can go with Richard—
along with Annamae and Ray—
in the DeSoto
which is running
real nice again.
Annamae and I
are in the stands,
the boys are down with the car
getting ready
for the next race.
Because we’re talking excited,
guys in the stands
know it’s our car.
Man asks me,
“What’s it got in it?”
“’Bout two-sixty,” I say,
“They bored out the engine,
you know.
“Annamae, you know exactly?”
“What are you talkin’ bout?”
“Cubic inches.
How many cubic inches?”
“You are talkin’ Russian, Girl.”
Annamae and I laugh
but I feel right proud
to know what the guy means—
what’s it got in it?
Our car is stripped down
so it looks different
than a lot of the others.
We need to beat twelve seconds—
really eleven something.
Percy’s up
against a souped-up Chevy.
They’re both revving
their engines—
like roaring animals.
The starter guy holds two flags
real still
but they flap in the breeze—
then the red flag whips straight down—
FAST.
Percy presses on the gas
lets up the clutch
tires spin a second
car lurches forward
and they’re off,
sitting on back wheels
like animals
like I imagine jaguars—
running smooth.
Annamae and me are up
screaming our lungs out.
Percy’s in the lead.
But the Chevy’s gaining on him.
The Chevy screams across the line
and the guy drops the flag—
then another.
It’s over so fast.
Just a quarter mile.
I plop back down on the bench.
What’s our time?
RICHARD
We lost our heat. DAMN. We
won’t be bringing home
no trophy
today.
MILDRED
A FEW DAYS LATER
FRIDAY, JULY 11, 1958
Richard and I go to bed
downstairs
on a hot sticky night—
nothing unusual
for a Virginia summer.
Sidney sleeps upstairs now.
Our bedroom door’s open
to catch any little breeze
that might come along
to give us
relief.
I dream
the car engine roars,
brakes squeal.
You know
the way a dream pulls
sounds from the awake world
to make it a
dream story?
I realize later,
that’s what I did.
I open my eyes
to a beam of light
shining through the window
in the hall outside our bedroom.
Then blinding light right in
my eyes.
I’m ready to scream,
but Richard
spooned behind me
must have woke up
and pulled me tight
into his body—
which stops the scream.
Then a cruel voice
right over me says,
“Who’s that woman
you’re
sleeping with?”
I can’t see who’s speaking
what with the light in my
eyes.
He’s talking to Richard,
of course.
Richard says nothing—
not sure he’s
even truly awake.
He just pulls me
tighter still.
“I’m his wife,” I say.
It makes me feel brave.
I’m his wife.
Richard lifts onto
his elbow,
takes his arm away
from me
to shield
the light
from his eyes.
Richard points to the marriage certificate
framed on the wall
behind us.
Beam of light leaves our faces
to shine on the certificate—
so I can see it’s Sheriff Brooks
and two deputies—
but I already knew that.
“Not here, she ain’t,”
says the sheriff.
“Come on, get dressed,
let’s go.”
I scurry up the stairs,
pull on yesterday’s dress.
The whole house is awake—
Mama, Daddy, Otha, Lewis, Garnet—
no one says a word.
They don’t dare.
Mama watches me go off
with the white men.
Get in their car.
Go to jail.
RICHARD
I knew once we was married
and crossed the Potomac River back into Virginia,
Sheriff Brooks might get wind,
might come
arrest us.
I thought maybe if we laid low—
real low, kept quiet,
kept to Central Point,
he’d forget about us.
I couldn’t tell Millie.
She was already moody,
what with being pregnant,
dropping out of school, everything.
I knew she was pretty innocent.
Innocence what got her Sidney—sweet Sidney.
Hell, I love her innocence.
We been married all of five weeks.
Took Sheriff just five weeks to find out,
make his move.
Maybe it would’ve been better
I told her.
Jail is a hellhole. Sixteen bunks in it.
Both white men and colored men here—
ain’t no motel.
I wonder where they took Millie.
Won’t let me talk to her.
Grabbed me rough the moment the car stopped.
Gave me a blanket,
shoved me in the cell.
I climbed into an upper bunk,
didn’t sleep.
Eyes wide, wondering what’s next.
Wondering about Millie.
Must’ve dozed, ’cause I was woke
and it was light.
Told me to come front.
My sister Margaret posted bail.
$1,000.
I owe her.
Millie’s still there.
They said if I try to get her out
I go right back in.
They said,
Don’t expect the kinda
party you experienced the first time around.
MILDRED
I’m upstairs behind bars
in the only cell
for a woman—
just big enough
for a cot,
a sink,
a commode,
and one tall
pregnant
colored
girl—
ME.
We broke the law
by marrying,
says Sheriff Brooks.
Richard, he’s out.
That’s good.
But I’m scared.
I pull my feet up
best I can
under this growing belly,
off the sticky floor
pull ’em up onto the bed
so the rats
can have the floor
to themselves.
I breathe through
my mouth
so I don’t have to
smell bug spray.
I never thought
I’d be in prison.
From high school
to wedding
to prison.
After two days
my mama comes to visit.
I try not to cry, but I cry
real easy these days.
Mama says it’s the pregnancy.
I know that.
She says, “We tryin’, Baby,
but we don’t want to rock the boat.
They say we can’t get you out
or they’ll punish Richard bad.
You don’t want that now,
do you?”
No, no,
’course not.
Will they let me out to have my baby?
I can’t have a baby in here—
with the rats
scurrying across the floor.
I CAN’T.
They must know that.
I been in here three days,
three nights.
They march
a man past me—
I’m the only girl here—
this white guard
marches this
white inmate
up the stairs
to my floor
taking some fancy route
from the yard back to his cell,
and the guard says to him,
“I oughta send you in there with her tonight—
with the Negress.”
I know he’s tryin’
to scare me.
I can hardly sleep,
keeping one eye open,
to see if anyone
comes.
Another day passes
and I’m still in here.
Mama comes to
visit again.
She says, “Daddy can’t come
’cause, all I know,
they’ll throw him in too.”
And not my brothers—
they can’t come either.
“They’re harder on men
than women,” she says.
“There’s nothing
we can do, Baby.”
I don’t want to cry again
in front of my mama.
She already feels so bad.
I ask her, “How’s Sidney?”
“He’s fine. Asked for his Mama,
but he’s fine.
I can take care of Sidney.”
Loving vs. Virginia Page 6