tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278903212024-03-13T10:07:40.423-04:00JR's ThumbprintsJR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-71301126732444710522023-09-04T16:28:00.002-04:002023-09-04T16:45:58.830-04:00FORGIVENESS: SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhxN7TjhnF9XM1X2aLyIzBtZcZUXfMcIPYFyvfAuTqhGftCrQhnIw-CQ20GaXD5vYbGpzjRasPEYzHS3iwdEMI_jDetQv8P1NRmDNxLYTpHfTUVSqGTXjjtfDaLNl8euAg5pjVHKbJUASc5T7sEKdphdyKWf5oS2VJRJormdq21PotjATsQ7WqQ/s4032/77x7.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhxN7TjhnF9XM1X2aLyIzBtZcZUXfMcIPYFyvfAuTqhGftCrQhnIw-CQ20GaXD5vYbGpzjRasPEYzHS3iwdEMI_jDetQv8P1NRmDNxLYTpHfTUVSqGTXjjtfDaLNl8euAg5pjVHKbJUASc5T7sEKdphdyKWf5oS2VJRJormdq21PotjATsQ7WqQ/s320/77x7.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few weeks ago, while hammocking at my campsite, I read
Alex Mar’s “Seventy Times Seven, A True Story of Murder and Mercy,” and it has made
a lasting impression on me. I thought about the time the school principal dropped
off a list of prisoners for me to TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education). When I examined
the names my first impulse was circular-filing it and questioning the task: “Why
am I evaluating a bunch of 50- to 60-year-old men who are juvenile-lifers?
They’re doing ALL DAY!” Instead, I said nothing. I did my job. Over 12 years
ago, us corrections teachers eliminated prisoners with life sentences from our
class rosters—no more lifers in our prison GED programs throughout the State of
Michigan. I had heard about sweeping changes in the juvenile justice system but
had no clue as to how it would impact the men I had assessed. Incidentally, only
one inmate refused the TABE; a year later, he was within a week of his freedom
when he died in his cell from Covid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back to Mar’s book: She retells the life story of Paula
Cooper, her crime at the age of 15, how the juvenile-justice system evolved
during her prison sentence, the life of Ruth Pelke, the correspondence between Paula and Bill Pelke, Ruth’s grandson (who publicly forgave Paula and dedicated
the rest of his life to ending capital punishment), Paula’s perps, and so many
more. There’s Victor Streib, a professor of criminal law specializing in
juveniles charged with homicide. And there’s Watt Espy, a traveling salesperson
(security systems, then cemetery plots) who visited courthouses and prisons,
cataloging every death sentence carried out in the U.S. (10 years of research,
over 13,600 executions). And, yes, like I said, so much more… the prosecutor,
the judge, the jury, Paula’s supporters, the victim’s family…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">In her prologue, Mar writes: “The act of forgiveness… is
more alien and requires something tougher: a belief that none of us is solely
defined by the worst thing we have ever done. That each of us remains human,
sometimes in spite of our actions. And that sometimes our actions are a
response to forces larger than ourselves.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Forgiveness is not easy. Forgiving ourselves is harder.
“Seventy Times Seven…” might help. A definite read.</span><o:p></o:p></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-75819414430510062172023-08-07T20:01:00.002-04:002023-08-07T20:02:49.381-04:00FREEDOM<span style="font-size: medium;">I stayed for 30-some years. I should have left earlier. Better late than never. Sometimes I think about the other side. See the attachment below from the 2023 Kresge Literary Arts Fellow and former lifer at Macomb Correctional Facility. </span> <div><br /></div><div><a href="https://threefoldpress.org/endofalifesentence"><span style="font-size: medium;">https://threefoldpress.org/endofalifesentence</span></a></div>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-44517067465422246772023-05-20T12:36:00.001-04:002023-09-04T16:46:12.813-04:00LIFE AS A PRISON LIBRARIAN<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tTryQTDAVWGRFsQLrUu43VZ6Rz_XUikLSLzA5cXozS9h5RTguRYwpTopU0uW6c8AkI6LBR5tkNTQWhCkIDIR4067aiQ6amWWSGfDBF7GCyvoDlXINVkIR_0F8EK1lV1B5hhKkrMKuIU_N3rqvcW_lXpboflhlo9O_R7nnkZIW-XZ95YvHD4/s640/IMG_0288.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2tTryQTDAVWGRFsQLrUu43VZ6Rz_XUikLSLzA5cXozS9h5RTguRYwpTopU0uW6c8AkI6LBR5tkNTQWhCkIDIR4067aiQ6amWWSGfDBF7GCyvoDlXINVkIR_0F8EK1lV1B5hhKkrMKuIU_N3rqvcW_lXpboflhlo9O_R7nnkZIW-XZ95YvHD4/s320/IMG_0288.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">
The New York Times describes Jill Grunenwald as "A Stylish and Sparkly Writer." It's on her book jacket above the title, <b>Reading Behind Bars </b>(which can't be seen in the picture above), and I agree with that assessment. She lands a job as a librarian for the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction (DRC) supervising inmates in a low-security level men's prison. The inmates are manipulative--no surprise there. One guy tells her that the previous librarian had him repairing damaged books and that he'd be more efficient if she gave him some tape and scissors to set up shop in his cell. And yes, she falls for it. Lesson learned.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Then there's a recurring incident happening behind the stacks. She sends an inmate clerk to investigate, realizing that part of her job is to catch the culprit herself and write him up. No one should be doing what he's doing behind the books. Grunenwald prepares herself for the next time and follows through with pen and paper.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And here's my favorite incident in Grunenwald's words:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Then there was an inmate who specifically wanted the Oprah Winfrey edition of <b>The Sound and the Fury </b>by William Faulkner. We didn't have the special edition...but we had an older version of the book. No, the inmate insisted. It had to be the Oprah edition.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Why?" I asked, curious at his refusal of reading the exact same book with a different cover.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">He stared at me. His intense gaze indicated a belief that I was highly overpaid for my position here and had no business calling myself a librarian.</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Because," he said speaking slowly so as to make sure I was able to comprehend, "Oprah rewrites the books and makes them easier to read."</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">What I admire the most about Grunenwald is that she got out of the prison system early (within two years) and wrote an entertaining memoir that I could relate to minus the violence. If Grunenwald had stayed longer, say thirty or more years, her writing would be darker, with very little sparkle.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-45289879867911685152023-04-29T10:10:00.005-04:002023-09-04T16:46:41.428-04:00COLDWATER KITCHEN<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I watched the documentary <b>Coldwater Kitchen</b> the other night. It reminds me of a long lonesome journey that some people take (been there myself). And Chef Jimmy Lee Hill, a food-tech instructor at Lakeland Correctional Facility, is one very lonely guy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The film begins with him justifying his 670 miles per-week drive back and forth to prison. He says, "I absolutely love my job because I get a chance to be with somebody that genuinely cares about whether I am there or not." Then the camera pans in on him cabling a knife to a counter. As a former corrections teacher, I understand what he's saying, but I also see the dangers in his thinking. In 1998, Dorothy Taylor, a food service worker at Thumb Correctional Facility, was stabbed to death by an inmate. The knife used was not cabled. Dorothy had planned to retire at the end of that year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So what's the driving force behind Chef Hill's loneliness? He tells us he was married in 1985 and that he has three kids. He says, "I liked being married, and I liked being with somebody. So when I got divorced, I didn't want to be, but... it was out of my control. And then the next April my mom passed. I felt really like I was just by myself."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, he spends 36 years training inmates how to cook, and he realizes that he should retire soon. But I get the impression that his loneliness will worsen; I hope not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's an amazing story not only about him, but three of his tutors/students: Earnest Davis, Dink Dawson, and Brad Leonard. Each with its own unique circumstance. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's an excellent review of the documentary: </span></p><p><a href="https://inreviewonline.com/2022/11/24/coldwater-kitchen/"><span style="font-size: medium;">https://inreviewonline.com/2022/11/24/coldwater-kitchen/</span></a><br /></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-36319074790454208142023-04-24T15:31:00.001-04:002023-04-24T15:31:34.868-04:00SINGING IN THE RAIN<p>Regardless of your feelings about an issue, MDOC spokesman Chris Gautz did all the explaining he could... or did he? Hmmm... I know an MDOC employee who is still waiting for his certificate for 30-plus years of State Employment, something he was promised before he retired. But MDOC management doesn't always follow through on what they say, and printed words have no meaning. Oh well, memorandums and certificates intended for inmates or employees mean nothing. It's fluff. It's singing in the rain. </p><p><a href="https://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2023/04/08/prison-memo-prisoners-freezing-rain-heidi-washington/70086056007/?fbclid=IwAR0YVHvLNUvFZhHGUGply5REZScK3iY2eJokHXB5ELFJCtZZmxPQ9afjlW0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">/www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2023/04/08/prison-memo-prisoners-freezing-rain-heidi-washington/70086056007/?fbclid=IwAR0YVHvLNUvFZhHGUGply5REZScK3iY2eJokHXB5ELFJCtZZmxPQ9afjlW0</a></p><p><br /></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-11657703690299185452023-03-12T18:08:00.007-04:002023-03-12T22:24:39.267-04:00UNCULTURED<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aMdHiHc0AgUlwUy1_20N_k4R_ZobDQHmIT7wFFjQp011J3nwQ6UPCWDJHg0UXOI4uPwXeYIW2zZZajwCvjbbalivUtUwyrMr7M-ivE4C0bF3Fl5_-DClMoptP59bCruslT8tid0yL3U50tUmXaMQ_deazcjJuSzD-jLL4Erci9DBAFy4-kU/s640/IMG_0188.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aMdHiHc0AgUlwUy1_20N_k4R_ZobDQHmIT7wFFjQp011J3nwQ6UPCWDJHg0UXOI4uPwXeYIW2zZZajwCvjbbalivUtUwyrMr7M-ivE4C0bF3Fl5_-DClMoptP59bCruslT8tid0yL3U50tUmXaMQ_deazcjJuSzD-jLL4Erci9DBAFy4-kU/w240-h320/IMG_0188.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>I worked for a paramilitary organization as a civilian staff. It was not easy navigating the changes to policies and procedures. I learned that during staff meetings when a supervisor asked for input, it
meant volunteering to be gutted like a fish in front of your peers.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Looking
back at thirty years of prison employment, I sometimes wished I had spoken up more often, but
then again, I don’t think it would have mattered. Bottom line: I had survived, and I got out; what more could I ask for?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In Daniella Mestyanek Young’s memoir, “Uncultured,”
she writes:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Maybe groups are just groups. Evil cults. Great
armies. Wonderful families. Amazing countries. Pile whatever modifiers on them
you want. Each one has the same inherent strengths, weaknesses, and potential
pitfalls.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And she would know; from an abused child in The Children
of God to an abused United States senior intelligence officer risking court
martial, Young questioned group behavior systems and their influence,
control, and impact on its people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Her life is an amazing story of how her childhood trauma
led to a heightened sense of awareness about the dangers of group behavior,
i.e. cults, going unrecognized. I thoroughly enjoyed reading her book, and it
is worth reading more than once.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9fU4unraaWE" width="320" youtube-src-id="9fU4unraaWE"></iframe></div><br />JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-14554662896616435692023-03-03T09:56:00.004-05:002023-03-05T11:54:12.684-05:00TOLERANCE<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzYz0uhiWgOR1h-aUHpthFNSFqPt6Rnu49MtAyQPGZKl7mzct6egmqn1IHHlp8n2bD7BCZKLErgqI9HQaCPxfr8UJ59QfiSypGdFfyaOSLqYjgxGHvb7VKDUC8tbSmAx2o2WfbeYo-8cV4epfkrZGPrmDyXz4RImLLCH7-dW5EdI6QfT87xc/s640/Acceptance.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzYz0uhiWgOR1h-aUHpthFNSFqPt6Rnu49MtAyQPGZKl7mzct6egmqn1IHHlp8n2bD7BCZKLErgqI9HQaCPxfr8UJ59QfiSypGdFfyaOSLqYjgxGHvb7VKDUC8tbSmAx2o2WfbeYo-8cV4epfkrZGPrmDyXz4RImLLCH7-dW5EdI6QfT87xc/s320/Acceptance.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Acceptance is a bitch, especially in the promotional
sense. Even Ron DeSantis must promote “The Courage to Be Free.” However, I would
rather promote Emi Nietfeld’s memoir, “Acceptance.” In fact, if I were a high
school teacher I’d include it on my class syllabus.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And why not? It is chocked full of relevant issues: mental
illness, sexual identity, sexual abuse, suicide, and institutionalization—all experienced
by a teenage girl with an all-or-nothing goal of getting into an Ivy League
School.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Here are a few of her thoughts— <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">…before being placed in a hospital for an eating disorder:
“I was sick of adults insisting that a change of attitude, a dose of
positivity, and a regimen of deep-breathing exercises would fix my fucked-up
situation.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">…on cutting: “I hated it when people called self-harm
a ‘cry for attention’ and hoped the damage I’d done silently proved it had nothing
to do with attention.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">…on Harvard: “I was beginning to realize that any exclusive
system was a system of exclusion.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">If you have tolerance, if you’re curious about Emi
Nietfeld’s accomplishments, then I strongly recommend reading her book. If you
don’t, then go ahead and read that other Harvard graduate’s self-congratulatory
memoir.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://thevillagesun.com/emi-nietfeld-wont-reconcile-the-easy-way-with-her-past">https://thevillagesun.com/emi-nietfeld-wont-reconcile-the-easy-way-with-her-past</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-34590300891290320082023-02-11T14:16:00.007-05:002023-03-05T11:54:39.311-05:00NORMAL FAMILY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8VjdZ0Tk6pqIu7vDgdc7GdcT39CoITQiNwJVRqGhQMgTZJH3Beqdq2MeSMFs4dbdnkxhgNFt0DJ87PrezPuZ4teXGBRlEDQEy_ggEZvUxEaRulYs_TpH78Ii7Qzwwviw6Ye5jcnONThozlBTg2Oti5R6DBIcbkMFCJmT7hzNJMRmzr43_Bk/s640/IMG_0123A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8VjdZ0Tk6pqIu7vDgdc7GdcT39CoITQiNwJVRqGhQMgTZJH3Beqdq2MeSMFs4dbdnkxhgNFt0DJ87PrezPuZ4teXGBRlEDQEy_ggEZvUxEaRulYs_TpH78Ii7Qzwwviw6Ye5jcnONThozlBTg2Oti5R6DBIcbkMFCJmT7hzNJMRmzr43_Bk/s320/IMG_0123A.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;">Reading Chrysta Bilton’s memoir <u>Normal
Family</u> is like running with scissors, cutting up every page,
wondering how unconventional and how dysfunctional can this family be? And when
does this family reach semi-normalcy? The prologue starts with a siblings’
reunion, and what follows is a story of how a mother’s plan spun out of control
resulting in thirty-five siblings meeting years later for the very first time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;">Near the beginning, Chrysta’s
mother, Debra, tells her: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="background: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;">We choose our
parents before we are born. You were just a little soul flying up in the sky,
and you looked down at all the mommies you could have been born to, and you
chose to come through me because your soul needs to learn something it can only
get through our relationship—and my soul needs to learn something through you.
Do you understand? We are great teachers for each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;">In her writing of Debra, Chrysta
serves up her mother’s life experiences as if they are small homemade cookies
on a tray, and that you should carefully choose the ones that aren’t too overdone.
Take your pick: smoking hash with Leonard Cohen in the mountains of Idra,
Greece, making out with Anita Pallenberg in a limousine, or inspiring the lyrics
for the Rolling Stones in a Bel-Air hotel room with Mick Jagger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Such memories. And what about
Chrysta’s on-again, off-again, father? Here is a tidbit:</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: inherit;">In their early years, and under
the influence of their mother, Chrysta and her sister, Kaitlyn, made Golden
Memory Boxes to remember their father, Jeffrey—he visited mostly on the
holidays for photo ops and gift-giving, incentivized by their mother’s generous
donations of money. But let’s get one thing straight—Jeffrey is unforgettable
in the grand scheme of things.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">I highly recommend reading <u>Normal
Family</u>; Enjoy the ride. No matter how much planning goes into creating the
ideal family, just remember, it will get complicated, and boundaries will be
blurred. Or as Debra would say, </span><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You
can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.</span></i></span></span><span style="background: white; color: #121212; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Video Spoiler Alert</span></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><i></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><i><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/te6lF3B-bPQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="te6lF3B-bPQ"></iframe></i></span></span></div><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #fff2cc;"><i><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></span></span><p></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-27680918419681232472023-02-06T10:47:00.006-05:002023-03-05T11:54:53.663-05:00CABIN FEVER<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Nyp9Bc1Z86ZfkuhvSL7ljaMoc8tWwqC8Aa6hSUGMyklAOeM2bC4EaLGB0nu8-Hfq8w3LRCICMD-yB7P4kSkl-_78Mrvj3F1XOdg-1NQwEhXoWSziz6iweaj2vphtnnYl4tFf4pe349vue9vu7Slh0VZt3wNXU-CGo10a40XVEScX0xaqXP8/s597/IMG_0118A.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Nyp9Bc1Z86ZfkuhvSL7ljaMoc8tWwqC8Aa6hSUGMyklAOeM2bC4EaLGB0nu8-Hfq8w3LRCICMD-yB7P4kSkl-_78Mrvj3F1XOdg-1NQwEhXoWSziz6iweaj2vphtnnYl4tFf4pe349vue9vu7Slh0VZt3wNXU-CGo10a40XVEScX0xaqXP8/w161-h200/IMG_0118A.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><div>It’s been a mild Covid winter—a great time to reminisce with a good journalistic nonfiction book titled “Cabin Fever, The Harrowing Journey of a Cruise Ship at the Dawn of the Pandemic” by Michael Smith and Jonathan Franklin. The book reminds me of how this virus disrupted the prison where I had worked. Cots had arrived in the warehouse and news spread about housing inmates in the school classrooms to recover. A handful of coworkers, including myself, worried about a lockdown and being trapped inside the prison. Everything changed that day. But a pandemic on a cruise ship is much worse, especially for the staff. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the book: <i>Amanda Bogen, a 27-year-old entertainment host on the Zaandam cruise ship, stated, "It’s crazy. Every ship has a morgue…. Ours is the same room where they keep the fresh flowers."</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>Eight countries denied the Zaandam entry into their ports. Eight. </div><div><br /></div><div> I recommend reading “Cabin Fever.”
</div>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-9126950409924036412023-01-02T11:21:00.012-05:002023-03-05T11:55:07.917-05:00BREATH BECOMES AIR<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jWVIsS7-8D4" width="320" youtube-src-id="jWVIsS7-8D4"></iframe></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So I stumbled across Dr. Paul Kalanithi's memoir "When Breath Becomes Air" and read through it in 3 hours. Either I had something in my eye or my testosterone levels were down. Life is precious and we need to make the best of it. Time is limited for all of us. <br /><br />Kalanithi writes: "Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from relationships we create between each other and the world, and it is never complete." <br /><br />One of the best memoirs I've read, and you should too. </span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><br /></div><p></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-65800562214266118092022-11-25T11:45:00.001-05:002023-03-05T11:55:27.594-05:00A FATHER'S MEMOIR<p> <iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8tBx3Wy0FUA" width="320" youtube-src-id="8tBx3Wy0FUA"></iframe></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I like David Magee’s memoir Dear William, A Father’s Memoir of Addiction, Recovery, Love, and Loss; It’s a beautifully framed story. The Introduction shows how his eldest son died, so you get an idea of this father’s struggles (and there are many). In the final chapter “Revelation” David questions himself …what if …what if …what if—and then he writes: “Life for me had not genuinely begun until it nearly ended. That’s why we can’t give up. That’s why resilience is the salvaged soul’s most generous friend…”<br /><br />What troubles me is that the further I delved into his story, the more I thought: this successful writer has been a high-functioning alcoholic for a good part of his life. Throughout his story, he acknowledges his drinking, but he never really acknowledges the severity of his drinking—until after he’s prescribed Adderall. He never identifies himself as an alcoholic. At one point he complains about not getting his usual buzz from wine. He writes: “That’s because Adderall, in full force, overpowers alcohol, so one doesn’t feel its effects at all until the Adderall wears off. That’s one reason students abuse Adderall…”<br /><br />This memoir is worth the read. And if you do read it, please let me know if my uneasiness about the author/father's wellbeing is warranted. </span></p><p><br /></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-8544125172937363862022-06-03T09:43:00.007-04:002023-03-05T11:55:41.937-05:00MOVING ON ... BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Reading Suleika Jaouad’s “Between Two Kingdoms: A
Memoir of a Life Interrupted” is a reminder to all of us, that at some point
in our lives, we will travel between the Kingdom of the Well and the
Kingdom of the Sick. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">After her leukemia diagnosis and during her long hospital
stays, Jaouad discovered the power of her written words. During her journaling, she underwent a bone marrow transplant, a break-up with her boyfriend/caretaker,
and follow-up chemo treatments; all of which left her asking “what now?” She
writes: </span></p><p><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I wanted to understand what had happened to me, to excavate its
meaning on my own terms. I wanted the last word to be mine.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And her words are POWERFUL.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Her perspective on what it means to be “Moving On”—</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>It
seemed so easy at first, too easy, and it’s starting to dawn on me that moving
on is a myth—a lie you sell yourself on when your life has become unendurable.
It’s the delusion that you can build a barricade between yourself and your
past—that you can ignore your pain, that you can bury your great love with a
new relationship, that you are among the lucky few who get to skip over the
hard work of grieving and healing and rebuilding—and that all this, when it
catches up to you, won’t come from blood.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Her friends from the Kingdom of the Sick have given her
so much knowledge:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> <i>They shared
their own stories about what it’s like to have life interrupted, whether by the
ripcord of a diagnosis or some kind of trauma or heartbreak. They taught me
that, when life brings you to the floor, there is a choice: You can allow the
worst things that have ever happened to you to hijack your remaining days, or
you can claw your way back into motion.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Her book has made me realize my interest in
memoirs—in her words: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I understand now why so many writers and
artists, while in the thick of illness, become memoirists. It provided a sense
of control, a way to reshape your circumstances on your own terms in your own
words.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m so glad I read her story and wish her well in her
continued battle with leukemia.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0VQR3edM7lQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="0VQR3edM7lQ"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-23287078212989606792022-04-06T10:30:00.002-04:002023-03-05T11:55:56.306-05:00BOSSES (HE, HIM)<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9mb7_9lzDls5zUA5drsOI6OSBAQZZDeGiJfn2LJVYJWKM2jBYYSKwV4r0chldFdzOBUGSqattt4YTjHmwT_tj4sSs3pxhPx3eoVFDxwZlzi1-Sx1tUlnxUWOzSq44KQsoZ_aW2kGBhyBS-HYMru17pkT8TwMlG9xmM7rq7HT6w8t8Y4B6wcY" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="1874" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9mb7_9lzDls5zUA5drsOI6OSBAQZZDeGiJfn2LJVYJWKM2jBYYSKwV4r0chldFdzOBUGSqattt4YTjHmwT_tj4sSs3pxhPx3eoVFDxwZlzi1-Sx1tUlnxUWOzSq44KQsoZ_aW2kGBhyBS-HYMru17pkT8TwMlG9xmM7rq7HT6w8t8Y4B6wcY=w400-h328" width="400" /></a> I feel special inside the Seven Star Party Shop. It's my go-to place for tallboys of Milwaukee's Best Premium Beer, especially after a 6-mile jog around Stoney Creek Metropark. </p><p></p><p>"Cheaper than water," the clerk says, eyeing my oversized hoodie and salt-encrusted headband. I chuckle. And then he asks what he always asks, "Is there anything else I can get for you, Boss?"</p><p>That's right. I am the boss. He works for me. Everyone needs that kind of reassurance now and then. Cool. Really Really Cool. I'll take it. Makes me feel special. I rock the headband.</p><p>I'm like Gary Reindel, John Jeffire's fictional character from the '80s. </p><p>Gary Reindel needs a little reassurance now and then. He has a trophy wife, Corry, and they live in a condo overlooking Lake St. Clair. Gary works for his dad's Detroit car dealership, Reindel Motors, and Corry at a t.v. station alongside her main workmate Phil Toms.</p><p>Gary's got insecurities. He's damaged. His wife defined their relationship, her pre-marital powers of suggestion confused Gary. Jeffire writes:</p><p><i>"'Love the one you're with,'" Corry said. "Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Yeah, that's it, Gair. Exactly, exactly what I was saying. You get it then. Great band, too."</i></p><p>During his childhood, Gary's dad taught him how to Man-Up: </p><p><i>...Chuck Reindel, The Duke of The Deal, told his son to finish the fight with the boy without crying or he'd give him something to really cry about ... so they fought again. Again, Gary lost miserably, blood flowing eagerly from his nose and his mouth, but as much as he wanted to cry, he didn't. Lesson learned.</i></p><p>And when adult Gary gets called away from Marina Painter, a customer service rep for Reindel Motors, his dad emasculates his son by questioning his whereabouts and slapping him.</p><p><i>"If you want to chase middle-aged pussy on your time, be my guest. On my time, though, you work. I pay you to work, not fuck off. You understand?"</i></p><p><i>"Yeah."</i></p><p><i>"Yeah?"</i></p><p><i>A third time the hand came hard.</i></p><p>In order to not feel so woefully inadequate, and to fill the void, Gary wants to be called "Boss." And like myself, he truly wants to believe he is the boss. During Gary's descent into the unknown (his hook up with a young woman named Char) Jeffire writes the following internal dialogue: </p><p><i>He's the goddamned vice president of acquisitions for Reindel Motors. His wife was hot. She worked with Phil Toms. His side woman was even hotter. Char was looking at him. He needed to regroup.</i></p><p>Heck, I need to regroup. </p><p>John, cool story bro. You fit the criteria for "Cool." I'm looking at you, "Boss." </p><p>Reference: "Boss" by John Jeffire, <u>Coolest American Stories 2022</u>.</p><p> <a href="https://www.coolestamericanstories.com/">https://www.coolestamericanstories.com/</a></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-36277483249670680672013-01-27T10:30:00.001-05:002013-01-27T10:30:51.490-05:00SOME AGREEMENTS ARE MADE TO FOLLOW<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PF8vSPll2LM/UQVB0yTg-DI/AAAAAAAABx0/FnCXJNoaj3U/s1600/01.27.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PF8vSPll2LM/UQVB0yTg-DI/AAAAAAAABx0/FnCXJNoaj3U/s200/01.27.13.jpg" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OLD RESIDENT</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--FZTi8vmfTY/UQVByXuMR5I/AAAAAAAABxs/y-nEKNz6GdI/s1600/1.27.13B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--FZTi8vmfTY/UQVByXuMR5I/AAAAAAAABxs/y-nEKNz6GdI/s200/1.27.13B.JPG" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NEW RESIDENT</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: yellow;">RULES OF THE CELL</span></span></u></b><b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">You will need to sign this
agreement before I allow you to live here. <b><span style="color: yellow;">FIRST</span></b>,
you must realize that you are not my bunky yet. Neither are you considered a
guest, or a good buddy. I see you as an intruder on my turf and I can’t stand
the fact that you have shown up at my door. <b><span style="color: yellow;">I DO NOT LIKE YOU.</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: yellow;">THE RULES </span><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">You will keep the
area and floor clean. Do not come in here smelling like someone shit on you. If
you fart in my presence you will <b><span style="color: yellow;">DIE</span></b><span style="color: yellow;">.</span>
You will shower (using soap) once daily in the winter and twice daily in the
summer. You will brush your teeth when you awake, after you eat, at
bedtime or any time I indicate that your breath smells like <span style="color: yellow;">shit!</span><u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The desk(s) are
<span style="color: yellow;">mine</span>, unless I tell you which one you can use or if I allow you to use one.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The window is my
responsibility. <b><span style="color: yellow;">I will control the
window</span></b><span style="color: yellow;">.</span> You do not have a window; neither do you have a light. If you need
light for any reason wait for it to come through my window or until I turn on the light. Don’t ask to use a light. Don’t think about asking to open or close or modify
the window.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The walls are
<span style="color: yellow;">mine.</span> Do not attempt to hang any pictures without asking. The bulletin boards
are <span style="color: yellow;">mine.</span> If there is something already posted on them, leave them the <span style="color: yellow;">fuck
alone!</span> The same requirements apply equally to the bulletin boards as the walls.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The chair(s) are
<span style="color: yellow;">mine!</span> <b><span style="color: yellow;">DON'T ask</span></b> to use them. Don’t
bump them or touch them or even think about using them to pull across the floor
while I am sleeping or you will die!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">If you see a
radio, fan, TV, or anything else that is not yours, keep your fucking hands off
of it. If it is not yours, <span style="color: yellow; font-weight: bold;">DO NOT TOUCH
IT! </span>Or you will die.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><b><span style="color: yellow;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I do not wake
anyone for work, call-outs or chow. If you miss work or meals, <span style="color: yellow;">fuck you.</span> I do
not come and get you for anyone. Fuck you, your homeboys, your cousins, your
friends, and whoever else may want you.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I do not provide
for you, only for me. Buy your own cigarettes, matches, coffee, cosmetics and
food. You will provide for you. Do not eat in this room, roll your tongue,
insinuate you are hungry or ask me what is for chow. If you are hungry, <span style="color: yellow;">fuck
you!</span> If I am hungry, feed me.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Never snore,
whistle, or jingle keys. Never sing, tap your feet or snap your fingers to
music, either real or imagined.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I do not want to
hear anything about your sentence, your private life or your case, unless you
pay me to listen to your shit. <b><span style="color: yellow;">FUCK</span></b>
your case, and <span style="color: yellow;">fuck</span> your small talk. I do not give a <span style="color: yellow;">fuck</span> about you or about
how doing this time drives you crazy. We all want out, we all want booze, dope
and a piece of ass.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">11.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: yellow;">DO NOT ASK PERSONAL QUESTIONS AT ALL!</span></span></b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"> Your Pre-sentence Investigation Report (PSI) <b><span style="color: yellow;">SHALL</span></b> be placed on your locker shelf
for my inspection at any time I may wish or desire to review it. <span style="color: yellow;">EVERYTHING</span> in
the locker is yours including <b><span style="color: yellow;">anything</span></b>
I shall desire to place there and you shall take full responsibility for it if
asked by anyone.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">12.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Never bring
anyone to this cell while I am sleeping. If I am sleeping and your bullshit
noise wakes me, prepare to <span style="color: yellow;">fight for your life!</span><u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: yellow;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">13.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Never bring a
joint or any type of drug into this cell without telling me first. If you are
taking medication tell me now what it is, what side affects it has and I (<b><span style="color: yellow;">not you</span></b>) will determine if you will
take it or give it to me for proper disposal.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">14.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">You, your family,
your friends may feel free to put money in my account at any time for any
reason.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">15.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">These rules are
subject to change without your foreseen knowledge or even my indicating that
they have changed. If you don’t like my rules, <span style="color: yellow;">fuck you!</span> Remember, you are an
intruder in <b><u><span style="color: yellow;">my cell</span></u></b> and I
make the rules, <b><span style="color: yellow;">NOT you</span></b>, (clown)!<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list 0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">16.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">If by my
determining you are just one stupid, ignorant, illiterate punk and cannot read,
I will read these rules to you. If you do not know how to spell your fucking name when
you sign this, place an X on the dotted line and your prison number after the
X.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Sign below to indicate that
you have read and understand these rules, or place an X with your number after
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Signed:
……………………………………………………….<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-56536915246372290322013-01-15T17:04:00.002-05:002013-01-15T17:04:45.835-05:00NOTHING BUT BLUE SKY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VXvwsXibbFw/UPXQxz8MPpI/AAAAAAAABwg/yb9jjPqJUAw/s1600/01.15.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VXvwsXibbFw/UPXQxz8MPpI/AAAAAAAABwg/yb9jjPqJUAw/s400/01.15.13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not all wrong, which means it's all good: “From the
Blue Sky” located under the heading <i>Fiction</i>
at the Trailer Park Quarterly. I call it “flash memoir,” a specific moment in
time captured and recorded and published on the internet. I’m still writing, trying
to wrap my thoughts around everything that’s happened within the past few
years. One snapshot in time (or is it a series of slides?)—my <i>Bio</i>, my <i>Tagline</i>—seems very foreign, if not surreal: “…lives in a 1970’s
brick ranch near <st1:city w:st="on">Detroit</st1:city>.”
I do remember appearing at a coworker’s colonial house on a freezing cold day
in March with a handful of clothes in my arms. We still laugh about my not
having shoes or socks on my feet, how I stood there on his cement porch asking
if I could stay the night and after he’d said “yes,” how I had returned to my car for
a dresser drawer (what quicker way is there to get out?) full of socks and
underwear. Not so funny then, but
laughable now, especially my lavish spending the next day at Target’s
purchasing Dockers & cheap pull over shirts—a nice rotation of work duds which
didn't go unnoticed by the prisoners in my classroom. I’ve learned a lot about
people since then—the good and the bad—and I can honestly say that I’m glad I
made it to the Trailer Park. I’m in good company. Thanks Rebecca. Thanks Daniel.
If you haven’t already been there, you’re invited to my latest humble abode at <a href="http://www.sundresspublications.com/tpq/index.html">TPQ3</a> (knock on the door, they're friendly, trust me).<br />
<br /></div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-42299676401207150322013-01-07T19:43:00.000-05:002013-01-07T19:47:43.833-05:00ALL THINGS BROKEN<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HLaHRlV_w9o/UOtqzbrMl_I/AAAAAAAABv0/QLYsNDa0-yQ/s1600/01.08.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HLaHRlV_w9o/UOtqzbrMl_I/AAAAAAAABv0/QLYsNDa0-yQ/s400/01.08.13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how we start: listening to what my grandmother said,
long before bone-cancer took its course, “He’s such a quiet child. Perceptive.
Always thinking.” But she is gone, and we are older. I write: Our thoughts are like
phantom-images, sometimes haunting us for a lifetime. This is why I’ve come to
embrace all things broken. My heart is saddened by a wooden bat busting the femur
of a pup and the steady whir of a surgical saw slicing through marrow. And because
of a sense of loss, of what no longer exists, we fuel are anger. So I touch the
bare skin of a three-legged dog, careful not to disrupt the morphine patch on
his shaven back. His loyalty triumphs our hardships. When he is rested he will wag
his tail and run inside a warm house, taking each step without retribution.</div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-11892035051492815152012-12-11T19:21:00.000-05:002012-12-11T19:21:25.170-05:00THERE’S NO NEED FOR 9-1-1<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQLueprfRQw/UMfNMpTBMaI/AAAAAAAABvc/T_BIJ99JvcQ/s1600/12.11.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iQLueprfRQw/UMfNMpTBMaI/AAAAAAAABvc/T_BIJ99JvcQ/s400/12.11.12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been told (repeatedly) to establish a new identity with
my <i>singles</i> status; Lately, I’ve been
thinking about a snake shedding its skin; I find myself in a dreamlike state—oh,
how should I put this?—revisiting the old me, an <i>alleged</i> cold-blooded snake-man trapped in an abandon store front
window among the dead houseflies. Yet, I am no longer someone’s window-dressing,
I can no longer be “put on display” for others to see, I can only be “talked
about” while absent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the drive to and from work I listen to the haunting
lyrics of Lana Del Rey’s “Born to Die.” I feel like I'm in an old black &
white movie:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Don’t make me sad<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Don’t make me cry<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sometimes love is not
enough<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And the road gets
tough I don’t know why<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week at my temporary place of rest a package arrived from
Michelle Brooks; it’s breathing new life into a rather dull routine of working,
running, writing, and whatnot. First, there’s an 8-by-10 photograph of me and
my writer friends (Michelle, Jodi, & Mark) and a message: <i>James Son, Go Away Blues; go away and leave
poor me alone</i>. There’s also a card wishing me a “Happy Holiday” along with Michelle’s
latest chapbook from Nerve Cowboy: “In Case
of an Actual Emergency.” The title, as well as the poems, speak to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In “This Blockbuster Is Closed” the narrator recalls selecting
movies with her once living partner:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But I see the now
closed<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>signs and remember
you, part of my past that will<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>never leave, even as I
can’t go inside and look<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>for something that no
longer exists, at least where I want it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In “The Private Possession of Dangerous Reptiles” a live snake
is shoved in a deep freeze for:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>weeks, among the
loaves of Wonder<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Bread, only its eyes
telling me it was<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>alive, trying to exist
on its weight<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>alone, like so many
people I know</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are 29 poems in this collection—every damn one of them
good. In “These Streets”: <i>The house
always wins, / no matter how long you’ve lived in it</i>. In “Every Day”: <i>We / are never free from each other, living
in our various rooms, maybe, / dead even, and still thinking of you</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s kind of weird—the title—if not the timeliness of “In
Case of an Actual Emergency” because it’s exactly what I needed at this point
in my life. I’ve been re-reading these poems each night before going to sleep,
before putting another day behind me. </div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-29158090735397486012012-12-01T09:20:00.000-05:002012-12-01T09:20:49.206-05:00THE ROYAL FLUSH; WORKING IN A SHITBOWL<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The consummation of
work lies not only in what we have done, but who we’ve become while
accomplishing the task.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
—David Whyte,
“Courage and Conversations,” p.5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Every job is a self-portrait
of the person who did it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
—Anonymous </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything has changed; there’s a “new normal.” With all the
prison closures my former colleagues have vanished, replaced by teachers with
more seniority (but I am still here—the sole survivor). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new peers, like me, are called “Old Heads.” We’re the
dinosaurs of the prison school program. We’re the employees who’ve seen too
much of the wrong thing, including the latest employee consolidation. We
continue to navigate the shark tank; our heads held above the water, searching
the horizon for that Promised Land called “retirement” (a peculiar mirage at
best).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walk across the prison mall area with my new coworker, a
veteran special education teacher. He has 24 years of correctional education
experience. He reminds me of Truman Capote; I think it’s the scarf, or maybe
the Croc shoes. He sympathizes with me. “Yeah,” he says flicking his scarf
across his shoulder, “I know about those types of circumstances. I’ve got this
one turd that simply won’t flush. No matter how many times I jiggle the handle
he spins around the bowl and floats. Whenever I get in his line of vision he
looks aside.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The dog and pony show,” I say, “his way of surviving.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In the animal kingdom,” he continues, “if you look away
from another animal you become its bitch.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We both laugh before parting ways, treading water the only
way we know how.</div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-19924247093421552712012-11-20T19:56:00.000-05:002012-11-20T19:56:17.259-05:00HOW SOON IS NOW?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It happens more often than I’d like, triggered by songs while
on the way to my prison job: that glassy-eyed expression, that emptiness in my
heart. The music takes me back to where I am now: <i>I am the son / and the heir / Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar /
I am the son and heir / Of nothing in particular</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I teach the helpless, the misguided—the convicted. But my
mind drifts to a sunken dance floor where a twenty year-old version of me moves
across the floor without a care in the world.
It’s a Sunday night, the 80’s, most patrons are sitting at the bar, a
few are dancing—I think of it as “independent play.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lyrics seem clearer; I understand the message; I feel
the burn in my eyes and in my nose. I turn up the volume on my car stereo. I sing
along, my voice shaky:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You shut your mouth<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>How can you say<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I go about things the
wrong way<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am Human and I need
to be loved<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Just like everybody
else does<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel numb to my surroundings, as if the reverb from Johnny
Marr’s guitar has entered my soul. My twenty-year old arms swing with reckless
abandon on that sunken dance floor, but my forty-nine-year-old foot taps the
accelerator, disengaging the cruise control, slowing me down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>There’s a club, if
you’d like to go<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You could meet
somebody who really loves you<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So you go, and you
stand on your own<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And you leave on your
own<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And you go home<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And you cry<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And you want to die<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m alive and in better physical shape and I’m working
and moving forward and the holidays are fast approaching. I’m not too far from
the correctional facility. I’m searching for the entrance through the fog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When you say it’s
gonna happen now,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When exactly do you
mean?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>See I’ve already
waited too long<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And all my hope is
gone<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2FpBqjl6cxg/UKwlKxC-KKI/AAAAAAAABu8/LBGeYw3rQDg/s1600/P1010173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2FpBqjl6cxg/UKwlKxC-KKI/AAAAAAAABu8/LBGeYw3rQDg/s400/P1010173.JPG" width="400" /></a>I suck it up; I’ve sucked it up for twenty-some years. I put
my game face on. It’s a short work week behind the razor-wired fences and
gun-towers. I have plenty to be thankful for. We all have plenty to be thankful
for. Damn Morrisey. Damn The Smiths. “How soon is now?”</div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-12376956712595251602012-11-16T11:37:00.001-05:002012-11-16T11:37:40.124-05:00GRAND RAPIDS, PRISONERS & WORK<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qse-BVymM4w/UKZq1477okI/AAAAAAAABuk/eLypJz7FeV4/s1600/11.16.12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qse-BVymM4w/UKZq1477okI/AAAAAAAABuk/eLypJz7FeV4/s400/11.16.12.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Income tax deduction,
what a hell of a function<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It beats pickin'
cotton and waitin' to be forgotten <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The ones who love us
best are the ones we'll lay to rest<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And visit their graves
on holidays at best<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The ones who love us
least are the ones we'll die to please<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>If it's any
consolation, I don't begin to understand them.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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from The
Replacements "Bastards of Young"</div>
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<br /></div>
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Not too long ago I drove through <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Grand Rapids</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Michigan</st1:state></st1:place>—“The
City that Works”—or so the sign claimed, and as I pulled off the exit ramp an
elderly couple held up a cardboard sign: “Will work for food.” I kept driving.
I thought to myself: <i>Doesn’t seem like <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Grand Rapids</st1:place></st1:city> is working for
them</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Not too long ago custody blew the siren—“lockdown” status, immobilization
in progress. We went to the housing units armed with W9’s. We were instructed
to collect the signatures (legal names, not commitment names) and social
security numbers of employed prisoners in our facility. If someone refused to
cooperate or provided the wrong information on the W9 we were told to inform the
individual that the IRS would withhold 28% of their earnings. I sat in the
dayroom instead and watched television. I thought to myself: <i>Taxation without representation</i>. I
thought to myself<i>: I'd rather go after
the imprisoned foreign nationals, have them fill out W8's, but then I'd need their tax
identification numbers so the IRS could withhold 30% of their earnings.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-91392103702425106752012-11-06T07:00:00.002-05:002023-03-05T11:56:27.678-05:00A Deputy Warden’s Reflections on Prison Work<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bu_ilS6nOmY/UJj1j8xzylI/AAAAAAAABuU/0gktrFOnN-g/s1600/11..06.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bu_ilS6nOmY/UJj1j8xzylI/AAAAAAAABuU/0gktrFOnN-g/s320/11..06.12.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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As a correctional employee reinventing himself, I am getting
at this new reality, a bitter sweet pill where words can’t be cheeked and spat-out
when convenient. Adria L. Libolt knows all too well how fragile and
misunderstood life can be and expresses it in her debut book, <u>A Deputy
Warden’s Reflections on Prison Work</u>. Her words, although simple, direct,
and minus the gristle, are tasty antidotes of meaning and purpose. She writes:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>We are related, not as
blood brothers and sisters, but as sharing a common humanity and community. We
are in life together. It is why we can’t isolate ourselves</i> ... (p.22).</div>
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<br /></div>
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This, after telling us in the introduction “that we are not
that different than prisoners—even the most dangerous and manipulative
inmates.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Doing time, whether in prison or in the free-world, Libolt
dispenses a moderate amount of medicinal wisdom: </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Being sentenced to
prison does not automatically put a person in danger. There is not a ‘before’
when you were safe, and an ‘after’ when you are no longer safe …</i> (p.9).</div>
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<br /></div>
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We all have to take risks, whether driving defensively
through a busy intersection or, in general terms, interacting with those we
have ‘wronged’. We think and react to each other’s behaviors with our own biased perspectives. Again, Libolt quoting Janet Malcolm from <i>The New Yorker </i>about audiotape evidence involving a 2009 murder trial: </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>We go through life
mishearing and misseeing (sic) and misunderstanding so that the stories we tell
ourselves will add up. Our brains work to make disparate pieces of a puzzle fit</i>.
(p.55)</div>
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<br /></div>
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And no one likes to be wronged. Libolt:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Justice is not always
found through the courts, though we imagine we will find impartiality or some
kind of resolution there</i>. (p.73).</div>
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<br /></div>
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And nothing is ever easy:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>We are all a mixture
of messy humanity; possessing both the capacity to do good and to do terrible
things … We judge appearances, but things are not always as they seem on the
surface; we may need to look deeper</i>. (p.147).</div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s one thing to dispense sound, logical advice and feel
good about ourselves, yet another thing to digest it and follow it. Libolt
lends validity to her words through not only her experiences behind Michigan’s prison
walls but her voluntary work in her church where she helps ex-felons get re-acclimated
to the harsh realities on the outside. It’s people like her that give hope to
those experiencing hardship. Her book, although somewhat Pollyannish, shares
personal glimpses of what it’s like to work for so many years inside a prison
and to retire a better person for it. I recommend this book mainly to those who
have no idea what correctional employment is all about.</div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-57074870862210958422012-10-22T18:48:00.001-04:002023-02-05T13:23:25.428-05:00STG BOY & DEALING WITH THUGGERY<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ye7EnILWo8g/UIXMVpXshwI/AAAAAAAABuE/nMoR8cG-GwI/s1600/10.22.12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ye7EnILWo8g/UIXMVpXshwI/AAAAAAAABuE/nMoR8cG-GwI/s320/10.22.12.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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STG Boy jumped the service counter and put his hands in my
cash-register—not really, but close enough—it’s how I reacted, how I felt about the
situation; There wasn’t a service counter, only a well thought out barrier of
tables, and the till wasn’t a till at all, it was a desk drawer where I store
prisoner ID’s when they borrow pencils for class assignments. STG Boy thought he had made a name for himself; he’s classified under “Security Threat
Group.” He’s a gang-banger, a Latin King or Count or whatever. He has tattoos on
his face. He’s young.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had the school officer escort him from the building, no
handcuffs required. The teacher across the hall watched from a safe distance. “You’re
not writing him a threatening behavior ticket?” she asked.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“No,” I answered.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A day later the teacher across the hall asked if I had any
volunteers to help iron graduation gowns for an upcoming ceremony. I sent her two students. I sent her STG Boy.
She asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” </div>
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<br /></div>
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“No,” I answered. “But his prison clothes are clean and
pressed and I told him that it’s penance for what he did the other
day.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had heard that he had done an exceptional job.</div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-71768703899923505252012-09-26T19:33:00.001-04:002012-09-26T19:34:13.117-04:00WHEN THEY STRIP YOU OF YOUR IDENTITY<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-35C3V8dIF-k/UGOO330MLxI/AAAAAAAABt0/w0Wv3bTfZM8/s1600/09.26.12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-35C3V8dIF-k/UGOO330MLxI/AAAAAAAABt0/w0Wv3bTfZM8/s400/09.26.12.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Years ago—1997 to be exact—I sat in a conference room
listening to prospective hirers explain why they’d like to teach in a prison.
Most answers crapped-out in fantasyland, that so-called place where new
educators talk about changing the world one person at a time; I’d get a little
bored with the rhetoric almost as much as the flowery objectives listed on a
majority of the resumes. But I do remember one middle-aged man who seemed
perturbed whenever someone on the interview panel lobbed a philosophical or
hypothetical question his way. He refused to sell himself, his curt,
reality-based answers eliciting moments of awkward silence. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We waited for elaboration. We got nothing. </div>
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For whatever reason, I interpreted his mannerisms as loud, boisterous
messages of “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”</div>
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I didn’t know who he was. Not until late 2011. He did most
of his “time,” his 8-hour increments, at Mound Correctional Facility until the
politicians moth-balled the place. Then, at the age of 77, he transferred to my
institution and we became coworkers. He had heard about my unfortunate turn of
events and offered a few words of encouragement. “Life is beautiful,” he told
me, “as long as you keep moving forward.” He also gave me some stamps; his way
of saying I should start a new hobby.</div>
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On the day he retired, I realized that he had had a large
impact on many. He was a gentle but firm soul. After he received his
certificate for years of service, after we ate his layered kosher cake and applauded his good-bye speech, that moment of awkward silence crept back. I
took the initiative, I stood up from the conference table, I tossed my
paper-plate in the garbage, I said, “Well … I guess I’ll see you at the time-clock.”</div>
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He could’ve told me he didn’t have to punch out, instead he
said, “I can’t punch out.” Management had taken his identification badge
earlier in the day. His retirement had already begun. No fanfare, just as he'd wanted it.</div>
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Here’s a famous poem he gave me one day to cheer me up:</div>
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“If” by Rudyard Kipling</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you can keep your head when all about you</div>
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Are losing theirs
and blaming it on you;</div>
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If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,</div>
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But make
allowance for their doubting too:</div>
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If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,</div>
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Or, being lied
about, don’t deal in lies,</div>
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Or being hated don’t give way to hating,</div>
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And yet don’t
look too good, nor talk too wise;</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;</div>
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If you can
think—and not make thoughts your aim,</div>
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If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster</div>
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And treat those
two impostors just the same:</div>
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If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken,</div>
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Twisted by
knaves to make a trap for fools,</div>
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Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken</div>
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And stoop and
build ‘em up with worn-out tools;</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you can make one heap of all your winnings</div>
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And risk it on one
turn of pitch-and-toss,</div>
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And lose, and start again at your beginnings,</div>
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And never breathe
a word about your loss:</div>
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If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew</div>
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To serve your
turn long after they are gone,</div>
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And so hold on when there is nothing in you</div>
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Except the Will
which says to them: “Hold on!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,</div>
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Or walk with
Kings—nor lose the common touch,</div>
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If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,</div>
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If all men count
with you, but none too much:</div>
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If you can fill the unforgiving minute</div>
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With sixty
seconds’ worth of distance run,</div>
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Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,</div>
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And—which is
more—you’ll be a Man, my son!</div>
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<br /></div>
JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-88098682258739143492012-09-10T05:54:00.001-04:002012-09-10T05:54:27.986-04:00THE NAIN ROUGE IS HERE!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yti8clt9yTI/UE23OvevP8I/AAAAAAAABtk/mUvMb30QCz0/s1600/09.10.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yti8clt9yTI/UE23OvevP8I/AAAAAAAABtk/mUvMb30QCz0/s400/09.10.12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I reposted my hot tub picture in celebration of the first issue of the <a href="http://www.whitecatpublications.com/?p=2216">Nain Rouge</a>. As the story goes, my former neighbor had moved away leaving his hot tub unattendend. Back then I had quick access to a bit of R & R. I guess good fences were meant to be climbed.<br />
<br />
Check out that first issue <a href="http://www.whitecatpublications.com/?p=2216">here</a> and enjoy the wonderful urban poetry along with my interview of Ivan Prokopchuk as well as my creative nonfiction piece called "Good Fences."JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27890321.post-48211420120611151032012-09-08T15:32:00.001-04:002012-09-08T15:32:57.723-04:00SAM KIEHL, THE NAIN ROUGE, & MELANOMA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2aSN9859yUo/UEua1vpKNAI/AAAAAAAABtQ/SzsnDL5vwfA/s1600/09.09.12b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2aSN9859yUo/UEua1vpKNAI/AAAAAAAABtQ/SzsnDL5vwfA/s320/09.09.12b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It starts out, fittingly enough, with divorced father Sam Kiehl sweating against a state-penitentiary-built recliner. He is “Patient 002,” the title of a Floyd Skloot novel. With a little help from an experimental drug Sam drifts back in time to a foot race against his offspring. He is a guinea pig, a test subject for Zomalovar. Nurse Kate pokes a needle into his ass. He is a fake-wall climber too, gripping what appears to be—if you step back and beautifully described by Skloot: POST MODERN ART, and since I like post modern art, or at least the word “post,” meaning “after,” my thinking “life imitates art,” or perhaps Skloot’s artistic endeavor (hey it came first) reflects my afterthought, or my life mirrors a guinea pig (over fifteen years in an isolation chamber will do that)—for whatever reasons … after, after, after … I am now physically and psychologically banged-up, reading “Patient 002,” page twenty:<br />
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<i>Now if he were home Sam would probably just be sitting in his recliner with a mystery novel face down on his lap, gazing at the cobwebs where the ceiling met the walls. So it made no sense for him to be this impatient. For a year now he had been patiently working on his patience …</i><br />
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Subtle irony here, just like Skloot’s Dr. Fong telling his test subjects about the experimental drug they hope will cure their ills: “You’re going to help us answer the question is <i>something better than nothing?</i> And to do that, half of you are going to get nothing.” (p.22).<br />
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Ha ha ha … I got the placebo, I got nothing.<br />
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Note: I found my stolen hot-tub picture to boost interest in the Nain Rouge Journal. Coming soon. Coming real soon! Hot-tub pic. The Nain Rouge!!!JR's Thumbprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10479324326541901987noreply@blogger.com2