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
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