JANUARY 6, 1959
JANUARY 6, 1959
On weekends
Richard likes to lie on the floor
with the baby on his belly—
both of them napping,
Sidney toddling around them.
But weekdays
Richard drives ninety miles
to Caroline County
and lays bricks.
At least
he gets to be near home
while he’s working.
Washington, D.C., is crowded—
where we live.
It’s all we can afford—
shared with Alex and his wife.
Lights outside our building
shine all night
so you can hardly sleep.
Not just city lights
but city sounds—
sirens, honking, yelling.
Inside
the baby cries—
I get up and feed him,
keep him quiet so Richard can sleep.
with its hard edges.
I long to lie on the soft ground
tucked into Richard
in one of the many places
I fit along his side
with the baby on my chest—
Sidney on Richard’s—
looking up at the stars.
What with all the city lights
shining all night long—
the stars are washed away.
Tuesday morning we wake
to cars honking
rather than birds singing.
We set out
for Caroline County—
though I know there will be no lying
on a blanket
stretched out on the grass—
no looking up at stars.
Still, we turn on to Passing Road,
stop in to see his parents,
then mine—
just long enough to drop off
their grandsons—
then we carry on
to Bowling Green courthouse
for our trial.
Sheriff Brooks is here.
He’s big and mean
with hands like hams
I hear him squealing
to his deputy—
I hear him say,
“There’s the white trash
and his nigger.”
We pretend not to hear,
but surely it was meant
for our ears.
We stand before
Judge Leon Bazile.
He tells us we can have a jury trial
but our lawyer, Mr. Beazley, says,
“You were married in Washington, D.C.
Right?
Richard is white
and you are colored.
Right?
Is there any point in trying
to have a jury dispute that?”
No.
Would a jury help us?
Not likely.
Outside our section
what Virginian
is going to sympathize
with us?
We are
race mixing.
This time Mr. Beazley
advises us to plead
GUILTY.
We have a child.
We are a family.
Of this we are . . .
Guilty.
Judge Bazile pronounces our sentence—
we can spend one year in jail
or he’ll suspend our sentence
for twenty-five years
provided
we leave Caroline County
and the state of Virginia
now
and don’t return together
for twenty-five years.
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS?
Twenty-five years
without our new little family
in the backyard
dancing
to my brothers’ music?
No family dinners?
No pies at the kitchen table?
I’m thinking,
in twenty-five years—
that’s 1984.
I’ll be FORTY-FOUR.
Richard will be fifty.
Sidney and Don will be grown men.
The judge asks,
“Do you have anything to say?”
No, nothing to say.
I turn to Mr. Beazley.
“Does that mean we can come back
in 1984?”
He says,
“No. That means your banishment
could start over again
from that moment.
They would re-sentence you.”
We pay our court fee—
$36.29 each—
we start toward the door
to head back to Washington, D.C.
Mr. Beazley sees just how sad
we are
to be leaving home.
He says
we could visit our families
in Caroline County
as long as we don’t stay together
overnight.
We carry that whisper of hope
as we drive off
to pick up our boys—
then drive ninety more miles to
Cousin Alex Byrd’s
hot house in our Washington slum.