Kizzy Ann Stamps (17 page)

And suddenly it was our turn. I moved to the handler’s stake and sent Shag in her outrun. She went, and when I didn’t see her, I got nervous. I started with as many points as I could get — I’d lose points for every mistake, but fewer points if I redirected her than if she kept making mistakes, so I shouted, “Get back!” I saw her then and realized she was right where she was supposed to be. I’d cost us points because I hadn’t trusted her. The sheep kept coming. I flanked Shag at the wrong time. She cut an eye at me (she knew
I’d
been wrong), but she followed my command and I saw more points flying away. I gathered myself, gave better commands, and she kept those sheep moving. She was quick and efficient, and she got them circling to the pen. We’d lose points if they circled
around
the pen, and Shag sensed this, so without my command, she maneuvered them so they were penned and in the gates. We finished with a satisfactory number of our points intact, thanks to my dog and at least a little of the training Mr. McKenna put into me.

More contestants came after me, but my head was spinning as I put my dog in the tub of ice water to cool her down after the tiring, hot experience. I sloshed water over her neck and back and pulled the cooling water through her fur as I caressed her. “We did it, girl. You did it, girl,” I said. I looked to my friends, my friends who were there for me, there
with
me, this finest moment of my life. I knew that it didn’t matter whether we won any place at all. For that experience, on that course, I was an equal.

Miss Anderson, we won third place! When he handed me the ribbon, the judge said, “That is one special dog, miss.” He shook my hand, then added, “You’re not so bad yerself, but ye’ve got to learn to trust.”

I looked at him. “I’m working on that one. Yes, sir.”

And after that, lots of people came up to look at Shag, people I didn’t know. I watched folks I didn’t know touch my dog, and I watched Shag, allowing hands to touch her, allowing herself to risk so much. And how can I do less than my dog, even if that dog is my incredible, incredible Shag?

How can I do less than believe and hope and fight and try?

I went to see Mrs. Warren today, to thank her for all she did for the black people of this county. She did not make it easy for me, Miss Anderson. You might think the old biddy would have been gracious when someone took the time to come and say thank you, but no, she received me in her living room like some queen in England. She had David show me in.

“David says you wish to speak with me about something, Kizzy Ann.”

She was sitting in her best chair, a striped Queen Anne that has seen better days, frankly, as it is faded and frumpy and the bottom has no springs left in it because she sits in it every day and she is a large lady, shall we say. I don’t mean to be ugly, just honest. And honestly, she was just being so highfalutin it was ridiculous. I know David had told her what I was coming for.

I said, “I wanted to thank you for giving up your place at the black school so we could all go study at the white school and all. They have reference books, and it really has been the opportunity you said it would be, and we even had a spelling bee, even if we didn’t get to go to Richmond because no black student could win.”

That broke her lordy act. She looked at me and sighed. “It won’t be easy, child. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” She heaved up out of that chair and went to stand at her window that looks out over her yard. “But give it time, Kizzy Ann. You won the bee, David said.” She looked at me and smiled. “They know around here that you’re smart, and I always knew you could do it.”

Then she snapped her eyes at me. “And it’s about time somebody thanked me for all I done.” She yelled down the hall, “David, bring that iced tea and pound cake in here!” She gave me a smile.

The end-of-school ceremony was fine, Miss Anderson. The punch with orange sherbet floating in it was so good. The homemade three-layer cake was scrumptious. I know you wanted people to mingle better, to see a mix of white and black instead of all the white people on one side and the blacks on the other. But give it time, Miss Anderson. Give it time.

I wore the white dress again, for Mama and for you. And I talked to Laura Westover for almost five minutes. She was trying as hard as I was, you know. She told me she knew I should have been there in Richmond, and that she believed I would have won the whole contest. Maybe. Who knows? And I don’t think she peeked at my scar once. She really just looked into my eyes. Five minutes. I never thought I’d see it.

Winning that certificate for my writing was a perfect finish to a hard year. I never expected that, but Mama and Daddy were so proud. Granny Bits says we will hang it right over that sliver of mirror, so that every time anyone checks his or her face, it’s right there to see how good a writer I am.

James gave me a present, for the end of the school year. It’s a journal, and I figure you helped him get a hold of it. Embossed in the leather, right where my fingers can find it whenever I want, are the words
Moon Child.
Mama cried at that. And I did just a little. I thank you. It is beautiful, and the pages are creamy and just waiting for me to fill them with my adventures with Shag and Frank Charles and Mr. McKenna. And maybe a few with David Warren. Mama still thinks I might write poetry like Miss Anne Spencer. And I’m thinking I might spend a little more time with Miss Anne — a lady like her can teach somebody like me a whole lot.

James said, “It’s for you to write your story. Fill it with words, powerful words. And Mrs. Warren says you’ll be a leader one day!”

I don’t know about leading, Miss Anderson. I’m headstrong, for sure, and I love to learn new things. But I’ve seen on my pages to you how many times I give up and give in. The difference for me is Shag . . . wanting to help her and wanting to do right by her. I think she leads me. She and I are both learning a lot about trust — some hard lessons, but true even when they take us far from where we thought we’d be. I promise to follow her, follow to what is right and fair. We’ve already found some friends who will go with us on the way. We only have to let them join us. That was hard for both of us, for both Shag and I are hard-pressed to ask for help, but we’re learning to lean on others. We’re learning to trust, we are. The lessons we’re learning together along this road are not the easiest, but once we have them, we “own” them, you might say. When I follow my Shag, it seems I follow my heart.

I guess that will do just fine.

Dear Kizzy Ann,

Your letter arrived today, and I am so excited to read of your further adventures with Frank Charles, Mr. McKenna, and, of course, Shag! Yes, indeed, you must keep writing to me, and I will write back
.

I am heartened to hear of plans to turn the old schoolhouse into a community center — and I am not surprised to learn that you and Mrs. Warren will lead the endeavor! This means it
will
happen, no matter what. Poor Mr. Felix — I think he will be custodian forever. . . .

I know you may not want to hear this, but I have purchased journals for the new class — and I can assure you, there is no one, in this year’s class or in any class to come, who will take your place in my heart. You, and that dog of yours, are one in a million (well, two in a million). I am counting on you, Miss Kizzy Ann Stamps, to be the student I have taught who grows up to do really great things. Every teacher hopes she has touched every student in special ways, but she has to believe that there is one who is going to go on to light up the world.

You are my one, Kizzy. I don’t know how you will or when you will. But you have already done some of that in my life. I just know you can make a difference. You may be a girl who doesn’t like bows or fancy dresses (both things I like very much), but what does that matter? You are my girl, Kizzy Ann. And you are your own person.

Love
,

Miss Anderson

Anne Spencer was, indeed, a real person: a librarian and poet who lived in Lynchburg. She did not, however, have a library in her home, nor did she have a cousin who had an accident as I’ve described it, nor do I know if she gave advice or had conversations as I’ve described. These are examples of literary license. You can visit Anne Spencer’s real home in Lynchburg and read her poetry to find out more about her. She was an amazing woman, and I hope her living family will feel pleased by how she appears in this book; my intention was to honor her.

The American Kennel Club is represented in this book as not allowing African Americans to participate in the early 1960s, and as far as I could find out, this is accurate. It is also accurate that border collies were not yet an accepted breed in the AKC at that time. None of this should be taken as a negative statement toward this organization as it exists today. The AKC does many wonderful things for the dogs of the world, including border collies, and they also encourage and support dog owners across the country. In the story, Kizzy Ann’s view of the organization is informed by what she hears from those around her, and she is, of course, focused on what directly affects her and Shag.

This book was written over many years. Thus I may not remember to thank someone who has been vital to its development, and if that is you, reader, I sincerely apologize. But at the risk of leaving someone out, I want to thank those I do remember.

One of the sparks for this story happened at a teachers’ workshop when fellow teacher Sandy Claytor and I were paired up to work on improving a piece of writing. This particular piece was about a dog, and in the process of our work on it, Sandy shared stories about her own dog — named, you guessed it, Shag. Thank you, Sandy, for giving me the heart of Shag.

So many of the students I’ve worked with over the years — at Waddell Elementary School, the University of Virginia, Lynchburg College, and in classroom visits — have listened to pieces of this book: thank you for helping, in ways you didn’t even realize, to shape this story.

Thank you to teachers everywhere, teachers like the one in this book, who make a difference every day for the students who depend on you. Having taught for twenty-seven years in public school, I now prepare teacher candidates to go out in the world, and I am also blessed with many schoolteachers in my family. They are all people who open their hearts every day to children who need them. What an amazing profession. Bravo to every teacher in the world. A tough job performed by tender hearts.

Members of my Lynchburg Community Race Dialogue Study Circle: you contributed to this story in our rich discussions and sharing your own stories.

While I have always loved dogs and my family always had at least one dog in all my years of growing up (and I started life on a farm in Bedford County), we never lived with a border collie. So I thank Amy Yoho, secretary of the Virginia Border Collie Association, who kindly reviewed the manuscript. (But do note that any remaining border-collie-related errors are mine and mine alone!)

I thank Lynchburg College and, in particular, Jan Stennette, dean of the School of Education and Human Development, who allowed me some release time to work on this book. I have never been given professional time for my writing before, and having this gift was amazingly meaningful to me. It is so powerful to work in an atmosphere where my work is appreciated. A dear friend and colleague, Dr. Susan Thompson, professor at Lynchburg College, volunteers to read everything I write and gives me feedback but mostly unconditional acceptance. Thank you, Susan.