Kizzy Ann Stamps by Jeri Watts Read Free Book Online Page A

some chances to black people, going to school together and all, but this is still a place that can see Medgar Evers shot down in his driveway like he is nothing and no one gets arrested. This is still a place where a white man can tell somebody else to switch a black girl in public and no one does a thing. You say that things are changing, Miss Anderson, but I don’t see much changing at all.

    That trip to town was sooner than expected. Granny Bits had some special ironing from Mrs. Dr. Stanbridge’s friends in Lynchburg to deliver, and I got to pop over to the library. And I wish I could say it put my mind at ease. But, oh, I am so mad!
    Miss Anne Spencer’s library has a section on dogs. There are books on bulldogs, Irish setters, wheaten terriers, German shepherds, Labrador retrievers — you name it and there was a book on it. But not one on border collies.
    I went back to that old reliable
Encyclopedia Britannica
and reread the little entry on border collies. Then I went looking for Miss Anne. “You don’t have any books on border collies,” I said.
    She shook her head. “No.”
    I swallowed. I’ve never talked to Miss Anne much, and, as I said before, she is a published poet. That surely deserves respect, as most blacks aren’t published, especially black women. I tried not to sound ornery when I spoke. “You probably need to get some. Since you don’t have any. And some people might want to read about them.”
    She peeked at me over her glasses. “People like you?”
    I looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
    She shook her head again. “Too bad they don’t know about you in New York. Publishers in New York decide to put out books based on what people are interested in. I suppose they don’t think anyone is interested in border collies, because I can’t get my hands on one. Of course, there are a lot of books I can’t get my hands on.”
    I didn’t want to hear about what books she could or couldn’t get. I just wanted to know more after what Laura had said. I guess that showed on my face, because Miss Anne gave me that look people do when they think you’re getting ready to say something sassy. I swallowed up the words I’d been ready to say.
    “Well,” I said, “do you have anything about dog shows?”
    Miss Anne took me over to the old book section, with the books nobody can check out anymore because their covers are barely hooked on or the pages are torn or whatnot. She barely touched the books as she ran her fingers over the spines, almost like a caress. She was muttering, and then her hand closed over a sage-green book and she eased it into my hands.
    “This is the only copy I can get. Of course it is not new either. Be careful with it and sit right here. Don’t try to put it home when you’re done. Just bring it to me when you finish looking.”
    Librarians. I swear. They act like you can’t be trusted, like you aren’t smart enough to shelve it back where it was. Like the books are more important than you. But then I thought about the way James throws a book down when he gets all frustrated with reading, and I just said, “Yes, ma’am.”
    I can’t tell you all of it, Miss Anderson, because I was there two hours and I only skimmed all those rules. That’s what it was, a rule book. From the American Kennel Club. They are
the
experts in this country, on dogs and dog shows, and everything. They have listed all the dog breeds that are recognized by them — meaning, I think, that if your dog hasn’t been in America long enough or isn’t good enough in some other way, you can’t have your dog in a dog show. Sort of like how a dog show — the ring, they called it — isn’t for just any dog.
    I guess that seemed fair. I mean, the book made clear that the winning dogs, the ones picked by the judges, are examples of the breed that are closest to their own brand of perfection. And every breed has its own standards. So a soft-coated wheaten terrier must have a uniformly black