SUMMER 1963
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.
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.
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.
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.