MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Belch Belch Belch … Why Belch? Why? You’re like a young Dennis Hopper sucking wind from an oxygen mask. We’d had our little misunderstanding when you defended your Road Dog who spat on the wrong brother and tried to apologize and I had warned everyone—including you—to “put your rocks back in your pockets and settle the score out on the prison yard.” There were eight in your posse against twelve, the steady whir of turbine engines growing louder, the windmills cranked, the impending storm on the horizon. It was you—yeah, you Belch!—who tried to even the playing field with my classroom chair. How else did it get in the hallway? You had denied it, but I know it was you. “Get away from me old man,” you said, “or I’ll clean your clock”—nice choice of words considering our generational gap—and your Road Dog pulling you away, saying, “C’mon Belch, he ain’t worth it.” So Belch, I still hear about you, how you took your food slot hostage in segregation, how you slung your own mud all over yourself and yelled “come and get me,” how the officers suited-up and rushed you with a chemical agent. Now I’m told you’re in soft-restraints, mittens, a bam-bam suit, and that you’re being fed a steady diet of nutri-loaf. When will you ever learn, Belch? Speaking of learning, your special education teacher came in last Friday and asked about you. She’s concerned. I knew you wouldn’t mind so I relayed the latest information to her. We still need to do your IEP (Individualized Education Plan). Maybe we’ll visit you in segregation, if not; I'll see you when you get out. Perhaps once healthcare adjusts your medication(s)—that is, if the nurses quit quitting; five in one week is a bit much—you’ll be able to sit still in that very same chair you took from my classroom and I’ll be able to teach you something. Until then, Peace.

POINT BLANK

We all come to a moment in life when one action is pivotal, when one decision becomes the catalyst that takes away years of future decisions. —Amy Fisher “If I Knew Then…” p.73

No physical harm came my way; I wasn’t shot in the neck like Mary Jo Buttafuoco with a defective handgun. Still, that doesn’t mean the thumb didn’t pull back the hammer or that the finger didn’t squeeze the trigger. In fact, the psychological weapon had been loaded for well over sixteen years with yours truly dead in its crosshairs. We’re not talking about some self-centered, rebellious, adolescent kid without a plan. Or are we?

I’ve been told again and again: In time, JR, in time. You will heal from your wounds.

Here’s what Amy Fisher had to say regarding Mary Jo Buttafuoco accepting her apology and giving her a second chance at life:

Forgiveness is a wonderful trait. I think that when we forgive people for some wrong, it makes us better people. I think forgiveness is nice if you can bring yourself to honestly feel it. p.284

So Amy Fisher matured. She learned some valuable lessons along the way. It hadn’t been easy for her. Here’s what she had to say about raising a family:

Today’s economy demands a two-income household to get ahead … p.240,

and discovering her self-worth:

We know at a certain age that we’re going to have to get a job, that we’re going to function in society, that we’re going to have to be productive members of that society, so I’m doing what society tells me I’m supposed to do as a human being. I am fulfilling my role as a little gear in the system. p.285

It’s too bad that my little gear in the system has been jammed beyond belief; it’s too bad that I am still in those crosshairs. Maybe once the ammo runs out, I’ll be able to whisper, "I forgive you."

COUNTERFACTUAL THINKING

Every one of us has a defining moment, some “act of being”—whether monumental or insignificant to others—that stays with us, becomes permanent, never to heal, never to fully recover from a regrettable decision. A hand gesture … volatile words … acting out … celebrating, whatever … I can still see that young man standing near an overturned police car, holding a Detroit Tigers World Series Pennant in his hand, a young man back in 1984 who met his fate years later while battling alcoholism. But what of it? 

Next on my reading list is David Margolick’s “Elizabeth and Hazel, Two Women of Little Rock,” based on a snapshot of an angry white mob following  a 15-year-old black girl named Elizabeth Eckford as she walks to an all white school. Leading the pack is a 15-year-old white girl named Hazel Bryan; the camera captures an expression of hatred on her face.

It’s what happens years later, after certain images are burned into our consciousness, the mundane parts of life which give us a better understanding of who we are. I know that Elizabeth Eckford did not earn her high school diploma. I also know that Hazel Bryan tried to atone for her past. “There’s more to me than one moment,” she has said in numerous interviews. I’ve watched a documentary about “The Little Rock Nine.” I’ve seen the grainy footage of hate, and I sometimes wonder whether it’s best to accept our shortcomings, learn from it, and move-on, instead of opening up old wounds and asking for forgiveness. Perhaps once I read Margolick’s book I’ll have a better understanding of how to proceed with my own defining moments and the perception others have toward my existence.

*Pictured above: Michelle Brooks, author of “Dead Girl, Live Boy” and “Make Yourself Small,” and yours truly at The Emory in Ferndale, Michigan (January 14, 2012).

LIFE'S TOO SHORT

I needn’t defend or explain myself regardless of being “horriblized” (is there such a word?)  and “alienated,” my track record speaks for itself. Yet a coworker asked if I’d post the following comment as an addendum to another comment made a few posts back regarding my blog profile pic:

The courtroom sketch of JR was drawn by one of the many convicted felons taught by him and held in awe. I use the word “awe” because the prisoners, when first meeting JR, have a hard time believing such a diminutive, soft spoken man could be that audacious to think he'd teach them anything. He is not intimidated. He speaks his mind daily and is respected. It is sad to think someone feels the need to invalidate him through the sketch. The picture is not “dead on.” The lies perpetrated to protect the invalidator are what’s “dead on.” The picture represents what one of his students believed to be his strength: A dogged pursuit of a prisoner's academic achievements. To discredit him is a pitiful shame. He should be thanked instead of invalidated.

My first reaction was to ignore my coworker’s request, but after careful consideration I decided to post the comment not as a pat-on-the-back or as a retaliatory measure. Instead, I thought defending me showed how corrections workers view each other as extended family.  We recognize and cope with everyday stressors from inside the clanging metal doors. Also, in order to avoid an ongoing conflict I will change the courtroom sketch to something real, something that reflects what I've been going through.

By the grace of God, I have no intentions of disappearing any time soon.

Sadly, all of this seems so trivial, especially since a coworker lost his life this week at the hands of cowardly punks.

May Correctional Officer Clarence Tariq Hammond rest in peace. My thoughts go out to his family.

A NEW YEAR’S BABY & CHARACTER SKETCHES

When a prisoner swallows a bunch of Double A batteries he’s taken to a red cell to see what will pass and since healthcare is in the same building, the lowest seniority nurse (this is conjecture on my part) waits for the phone call to sort through the shit with latex gloves.

But that was 2011.

We rang in the New Year with a razor blade swallower in five-point restraints and mitts because he kept trying to re-open his wounds as if maybe he’d forgotten just how much he’d ingested.

Then we had the arrival of our first New Year’s baby, an infant-convicted-felon-man who likes wearing diapers and soiling himself. According to his prison file he enjoyed his role-playing so much that he built an adult-sized crib and forced innocent children to partake in his fantasy world.

 

… And I am left speechless.

This should be an interesting year.

*Mental note: Work on character development.

A Personal Review of "Make Yourself Small"

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide,
No escape from reality
                    Queen

A woman.

A woman writing poetry.

I keep my guard up.

                      JR

I was a married man back then, the year: 2006. My professor, Michelle Brooks, now author of “Dead Girl, Live Boy” (Storylandia Press, 2011) and “Make Yourself Small” (Backwaters Press, 2011) finished returning each student’s end-of-the-semester writing portfolio. That is: except one.

I waited.

“I still have yours,” she said, and with a gentle, reassuring touch to my forearm she suggested we discuss my stories at a later date.

“You can throw it out,” I said, “I have more copies.” Then I left her classroom, back to a life I’m no longer living, a life where someone had been planning my demise.

This brings me back to Brooks’ latest effort “Make Yourself Small,” a book of poetry that speaks candidly about bad relationships, bad situations. For instance in “A Stranger to Nothing” marriage becomes an escape: He was someone to do things with while / my insides rotted away with thoughts of my / rape years before. Followed by the aptly titled “Bedtime Stories” where the narrator recalls her mother’s warnings: Men hide under cars, slash a woman’s / tendons so she can’t run …

But who should be afraid of whom?

Some of these poems, defense mechanisms of the mind, depict a subtle yet dominant side to the female psyche. In “Fantasy” a woman’s devotion to her man can only be achieved with a baseball bat (or so she fantasizes). In “A Wife That Doesn’t Work” a woman reveals her true motives for matrimony: mostly I feel closet to you when you / are not with me. In those moments you / are the faintest hint of the moon instead / of a man in the shower, trying to erase me. / Marry me so I will not love you anymore.

Five years ago I thought I’d done the right thing by walking away from this female poet, and here it is 2012 and I’m drawn to her and her poems more than ever.

Mark C Durfee, author of “The Line Between,” got it right. On the back cover of “Make Yourself Small” he says: Brooks brings more than honesty to her work; she brings truth. The kind of truth that no one likes to look at but everyone has to see if they are ever going to learn how to make themselves small enough to live demon-free.

I couldn’t agree more. Our wariness toward the opposite sex may never subside; however, after reading “Make Yourself Small” one should have a better understanding of the personal demons that affect us all. This is poetry at its best—a true gut-check to the heart and mind.

THE MARRIAGE PLOT ...

After reading Jeffrey Eugenides’s “The Marriage Plot” and staggering along the pathway of self-discovery in mix-matched shoes (a Leonard Bankhead left-footed loafer and a Mitchell Grammaticus right-footed sandal) I find myself questioning the journey.

I like Leonard’s mysterious approach in his quest for companionship, after all, he gets the girl, he marries Madeleine Hannah, and as crazy as he is (been portrayed that way myself), his manic depression, his mental illness is what draws Madeleine to him! At least in the beginning. But where’s the sustenance?

Here’s the type of marriage they had (p.170): 

There was something pleasing about having her big Saint Bernard all to herself. He didn’t want to go out even to a movie anymore. Now he was interested only in his doggy bed, his doggy bowl, and his mistress. He laid his head on her lap, wanting to be petted… 

This type of relationship is all too familiar, been there, done that, one gumby too many; where’s the saltwater taffy? The sweetness of life?

Then there’s Mitchell—“the nice guy” (no bad boy image here; been told on several occasions by the opposite sex, “JR, you’re a really nice guy”)—yet this here Mitchell’s undying faith in pursuing Madeleine troubles me more so than Leonard’s disappearance into the woods. During their college years Mitchell checks Madeleine about their social disconnect (p.19): 

“… we’re friends when you want to be friends, and we’re never more than friends because you don’t want to be. And I have to go along with that.”

“I’m sorry,” Madeleine said, feeling put upon and blindsided. “I just don’t like you that way.”

“Exactly!” Mitchell cried. “You’re not attracted to me physically. O.K., fine. But who says I was ever attracted to you mentally?”

And get this, here we go again, here’s Madeleine’s wish for her and Mitchell (p.183):

Apparently, she wanted to keep Mitchell for herself, even while denying him. There was no end to her selfishness.

So I’m left wondering: Where do I fit on the Leonard-Mitchell spectrum in my pursuit of companionship? What makes a relationship ignite? What keeps the fire burning? How much is physical? How much is mental? One thing is for certain: I need to keep moving forward regardless of the footwear only to stop for an errant pebble in my shoe. And no more dog houses either! I’ll find the right Madeleine—just not this type—and I’ll find her in due time.

With that said I definitely recommend “The Marriage Plot” and will probably reference it again along my journey to self-discovery.

A HUGGY BEAR CHRISTMAS

“You did what?” the part-time special education teacher asked me at lunch time.

“I intercepted a Christmas card and with a little bit of whiteout I addressed it to myself.”

“You need to turn it in to the inspector,” she advised.

“Turn what in?”

“The card.”

“What for?”

She thought about it for a second.

“Sexual Harassment.”

“Huh? Why?”

She must’ve heard parts of the conversation between the horticulture teacher and myself; How the prisoner slid the card under the other teacher's door.

“Why?” I asked, somewhat puzzled. “Is it because it was meant for a female? Should it matter? It’s not like those 3-D cards, you know, the kind that when you open it there's a pop-up.”

She assumed a more serious face.

“Over familiarity with staff,” she decided.

“The card came from my student. He doesn’t exactly know her.”

 
“Still.”

I explained how I resolved this issue.

 
“I keep the card in my shirt pocket, close to my heart. I’ve thanked him profusely all week long.”

Merry Christmas!