Editing Samples
The following articles are from Boston magazine and Emerge. There is also an excerpt from a current project. Thanks for taking a look.
National Book Award finalist Andre Dubus III (House of Sand and Fog) wrote about an Iraq War veteran for Boston. It won the bronze award for feature writing from the City and Regional Magazine Association.
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This story by boating writer Kate Yeomans, about the sinking of a scalloping ship, also appeared in Boston.
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Greg O’Brien wrote for Boston about a foiled school attack.
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In this story from Emerge magazine, writer Roberto Santiago tells about a trip to Cuba and meeting Fidel Castro.
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The following is from a work in progress. The names have been changed, pending publication.
Adoption Story
by Jane Doe
After I returned to my parents’ home, my marriage all but over, it took a while to settle in. Finally, after two months, I began to feel at ease and knew it was time for my two boys, John and Jim, to attend Sunday school and for me to rejoin the choir. This was the church I had belonged to since my early teens. As we headed out on a Sunday morning in April, the sun was shining, the forsythia was just starting to bloom, and the colors and smells of spring were permeating the air.
Downstairs, in the Sunday school, the room was beautifully decorated for preschoolers. There were teddy bears and ducks stenciled on one wall and on another there was a picture of a pasture with sheep, black-and-white cows, and a huge yellow sun shining down on all kinds of flowers. The profusion of bright colors was everywhere.
When I returned to pick the boys up after church, I noticed children had gathered around John’s playpen. John and Jim were the only biracial children in an otherwise all-white Sunday school class, so I thought to myself, It’s perfectly normal for the other children to be curious. When they saw me coming, however, the children scattered like they were doing something wrong.
The teacher did not seem concerned and said she was confident things would change once the newness wore off. For the time, I agreed with her.
There were many storms in my life that I would have to deal with, and one never knows when a cumulus cloud will turn dark and produce rain, then thunder and lightning. Perhaps a hurricane or tornado will happen, and happen it did. That morning, when the children scattered, it was a very small cumulus cloud beginning to take seed.
There were other episodes at church when Jim, who was three, would complain about kids picking on him and John and calling them names, asking why they never washed and looked dirty all the time. One Sunday when I went downstairs to pick up the boys, Jim was nowhere around. I asked the teacher where he was.
“He was in the hall a few minutes ago,” she said. “I saw him run out, thinking you had come to pick him up.”
I went to look for him and began to get a panicky feeling in the pit of my stomach when I couldn’t find him. I walked around the church and found him huddled in a corner with his nose bleeding. When I ran over to him he was crying and nothing he was saying made any sense. I tried to calm him down and said we would pick up John and head home. He cried all the way, and it took the rest of the afternoon for things to settle down. The following week the only thing he would say was “That big boy was bad. I don’t like him.”
I tried calling the teacher but was unable to reach her, so I decided to leave early next Sunday and talk to her then. When we started to head out for church the following week, Jim became agitated, and as we approached the building he began to cry.
“I don’t want to go to Sunday school anymore.”
“I need to go in and talk to the teacher about what happened last Sunday and see if we can find out who the boy was that hurt you.”
“Do I have to stay?”
“No,” I replied.
When I went into the classroom, Jim clung to my leg.
I explained to the teacher what had happened and asked if she remembered seeing a bigger boy talking to Jim. She was unable to shed any light on what had gone on or who the bigger boy might have been.
Meanwhile, the threatening phone calls I’d been receiving were becoming more frequent. They were always in the daytime. The language was becoming more offensive. The callers would describe what would happen to me and my boys if we didn’t move out of town. I tried calling the police. They said they could do nothing. Many times I would not answer the phone, but that stopped when my mom said, “I know you are home. Why don’t you answer the phone?”
I knew I could not tell her the real reason. “I was busy changing John’s diaper,” I said. “Sorry about that, Mom.” From that point on I would just pick up the receiver, say nothing, and slam it right back down again.
One afternoon the boys and I had just come back from our daily walk when the phone rang. I figured if I did not answer it, whoever was on the other end would just let it ring. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. What should I do? Try talking to them? That was the one thing I hadn’t done. What was there to lose? I practiced what I would say but couldn’t do it. A week went by. Finally I had the courage. This time when the phone rang I answered it, and the person at the other end — a male; it was always a male — went on a tirade. When he realized I was not hanging up, he asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes, I am still here and would like to ask you and try to understand why you hate us so much?”
“Well, you are right about one thing. I do hate you and do not have to explain anything to you.”
He asked when I was going to move and I told him I had no intention of moving.
“I want you to listen very closely to what I am about to say,” he replied, “because your life and your black nigger babies’ lives depend on it. If you do not move and one of your nigger babies start school, he will disappear. You cannot be with him twenty-four seven, and I promise you will never see him again.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You are damn right I am threatening you, and you better listen.”
“Why would you hurt an innocent child? He is just a child.”
“Lady, you keep referring to him as a child. He is not a child. He is a nigger baby and not a human being.”
With that I vomited onto the phone and screamed, “May you burn in hell!” then slammed the receiver down and started walking around the house in a panic. I ran into the bathroom and vomited some more.
By now both the boys had woken up from their naps and I ran upstairs and held them both close and vowed I would never let anything happen to them. Somehow I would keep them safe.
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