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Most of my life, I’ve been a teacher of little kids. Big kids too, on occasion. I taught a bunch of graduate classes, seminars, workshops, etc. But working with little ones was my passion.
I wrote non-fiction for teachers in the past, much of it with my wife, Heidi Mills. That kind of writing is fun, because so much of it came from children I shared classrooms with. And Heidi, with her wisdom and deep knowledge of best educational practice, helped me to refine it, to make it feel important.
Since retiring, I’ve been writing fiction. A lot. I’ve completed three novels—working on a fourth. The writing is a blast! The pitching to agents and publishers, not so much.
On this space, I’ll post some bits of those manuscripts. I’d love your feedback in the comment section on this blog, or on Facebook where you’re most likely to see it. Or you could email me at timtokeefe@aol.com. I’d love your counsel. And, of course, if you know an agent or a publisher…
Here’s a bit from my query letter for Falling Forward…
The 1967-68 school year brims with turmoil in America, and for 6th grader Tom O’Brien, it’s life-changing. He and his friends must endure Sister Rachel Marie, the harshest teacher in his Catholic school. Because Tom is a bit of an old soul, he acquires life lessons imparted by his elderly neighbors: one, a Holocaust survivor; her husband, an exquisite carpenter who gives back to the church that saved his beloved; the passion of his sister, who actively protests the Vietnam War; the cruel racism of their eighth-grade tormentors; and the gentleness of a humble priest and nun. Fortunately, Tom has drawn close to an unusual group of friends, including cynical Marilyn Malloy, shunned by her classmates due to phocomelia, where one arm is formed too close to her body. Tom is struck by her audacity when she dares to question Sister Rachel Marie’s authority. Together with Tom’s lifelong comrade, Geno, and the school’s first and only Black student, Ruthanne, the four form an unlikely friendship and combat the challenges of a grueling year.
And now, chapter 1.
Chapter 1 – Don’t Waste Your Sorry On Me
Merrillville, Indiana - Tuesday, September 5, 1967
“I hate that we gotta wear these chokers every day.” Geno Svoboda tugged at his tie and kicked hard at the road on their walk to Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School.
The classroom smelled the same as last year’s class: the waxy odor of new floor coating, dusty books, mixed with the scent of juniper bushes just outside. The open windows let in a welcomed breeze reminiscent of baseball, fort making, and snake catching. Those activities would be reserved for weekends and vacations.
Sister Rachael Marie, dressed in her “penguin costume,” sat at her desk, regarding the children as they entered. Only her hands and face were exposed. Even her forehead was covered with a stiff, white piece of fabric. Her black nun's habit with its long, loose sleeves, reached the floor. Hot as it was on this early September day, Sister had to be roasting.
She shushed the class occasionally, but otherwise studied her seating chart, then looked up at the eager faces as she formed her first impressions.
After nodding to Sister Rachael Marie and looking around the room, Tom zeroed in on his name, written on a piece of trimmed masking tape atop his desk in impeccable cursive: Thomas O’Brien. He studied the name on the desk in front of his: Mary Malloy.
Tom didn’t know Mary but hoped she was cool because he’d have to look at the back of her head for the next one hundred seventy school days.
Tom checked out the girls in their white blouses, shiny black shoes, and pleated skirts. Through sixth grade the girls wore beanies—little round cloth caps held in place with bobby pins.
The children waited quietly. All but one. Mary Malloy hadn’t shown up yet.
Sister said, “Another O’Brien, hmm?” Uh-oh. Tom hoped she wouldn’t judge him from his brother Matt’s shenanigans. He slunk down in his chair.
“Maria Bartolomeo. I pray you have a better work ethic than your brother, Anthony.”
“Yes, Sister,” she replied.
“You must call me Sister Rachael Marie. No informalities in this classroom.”
“Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Maria nodded so hard her beanie almost fell off.
A pretty girl entered. It had to be Mary. Tom noticed how her bright eyes contrasted with her dark hair.
“Your seat is right there, young lady.” Rachael Marie motioned to the empty front desk.
Mary’s black hair fell forward. She opened her desktop and tossed in her school supplies, her beanie tucked into the waist of her skirt. That won’t do, thought Tom.
“Mary, put your beanie on.”
Mary looked at Sister questioningly.
“Mary!” Sister said, as she pointed to the top of her own head.
Mary still looked perplexed. Sister shoved her chair back. Uh oh.
“Mary! Beanie. Now!”
“My name is Marilyn,” she whispered. “I thought you were talking to someone else.”
“In this room, you will be Mary. There is no Marilyn in the Bible. I will have no unchristian names in my classroom.”
“My parents named me Marilyn.” Her black eyebrows scrunched together.
“They may call you whatever they wish, but this is a Catholic school. Children in this room will be called by Christian names. Marilyn is variation of the name Mary, which is derived from the Hebrew name Miryam. I will call you Mary.” No question in her voice—this was a pronouncement.
Tom could think of plenty of kids in school who didn’t have Biblical names.
“Now, put your beanie on.”
“Sister, we didn’t have any bobby pins. I just enrolled and…”
“I expect you’ve been raised very informally, Mary, given your name. In this classroom you will give me my rank.”
“Ma’am?”
“You will address me as Sister Rachael Marie at all times.”
“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Sister. Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Marilyn-Mary stammered.
Sister’s sharp tone and squinted eyes revealed intensity that spooked Tom. “You will wear your beanie to class every day. Today you will buy pins from me. I charge two pennies each.”
“Sister, I don’t…”
Tom thought about offering his milk money. He had a nickel in his pocket.
“Pay me tomorrow, but you will wear your beanie today.”
Sister spoke slowly, as if addressing a small child. Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed. Sister opened her drawer and pulled out a card covered with bobby pins. She pulled two off and walked over to Marilyn-Mary’s desk. They dropped with a tink-tink.
“Well?”
Marilyn pulled the beanie from her waistband and pinned it in place.
Sister nodded and returned to her desk to call the roll.
Tom stared. This girl was so pretty, so normal in every other way. But that claw gave him the creeps. No matter if they were going over the spelling words, cursive writing practice, memorizing vocabulary—he searched for her stump. He couldn’t look away.
As Sister handed out the heavy history books, Marilyn-Mary’s stump snaked out to lift her desktop. Sister noticed the malformed hand, as did many of their classmates.
“Mary…”
After a morning of setting out her high expectations for conduct and academics, after leading the class in prayer, after guiding everyone in the proper recital of the Pledge of Allegiance—where she hadn’t noticed Marilyn-Mary using her left hand to cover her heart—Sister fell silent.
“Yes, Sister Rachael Marie?”
“I’m sorry,” Sister finally said, eyes focused directly on Marilyn-Mary’s arm.
“Sorry?” Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed; her eyes burned bright. “Don’t waste your sorry on me, Sister Rachael Marie.”
1 comment:
This makes me wish I had used that line on so many nuns back in the day. Don't waste your sorry on me. I am going to use it now in my dotage.
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