JR's Thumbprints

POINT BLANK

2012-01-25T07:50:00.000-05:00

We all come to amoment in life when one action is pivotal, when one decision becomes thecatalyst that takes away years of future decisions. —Amy Fisher “If I KnewThen…” p.73

No physical harm came my way; I wasn’t shot in the neck likeMary Jo Buttafuoco with a defective handgun. Still, that doesn’t mean the thumbdidn’t pull back the hammer or that the finger didn’t squeeze the trigger. Infact, the psychological weapon had been loaded for well over sixteen years withyours 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. Youwill heal from your wounds.

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

Forgiveness is awonderful trait. I think that when we forgive people for some wrong, it makesus better people. I think forgiveness is nice if you can bring yourself tohonestly feel it. p.284

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

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

and discovering her self-worth:

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

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

COUNTERFACTUAL THINKING

2012-01-20T19:49:00.000-05:00

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

Next on my reading list is David Margolick’s “Elizabeth andHazel, Two Women of Little Rock,” based on a snapshot of an angry white mobfollowing a 15-year-old black girl namedElizabeth Eckford as she walks to an all white school. Leading the pack is a15-year-old white girl named Hazel Bryan; the camera captures an expression ofhatred on her face.

It’s what happens years later, after certain images areburned into our consciousness, the mundane parts of life which give us a betterunderstanding of who we are. I know that Elizabeth Eckford did not earn herhigh 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’vewatched a documentary about “The Little Rock Nine.” I’ve seen the grainyfootage of hate, and I sometimes wonder whether it’s best to accept ourshortcomings, learn from it, and move-on, instead of opening up old wounds andasking for forgiveness. Perhaps once I read Margolick’s book I’ll have a betterunderstanding of how to proceed with my own defining moments and the perceptionothers have toward my existence.

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

LIFE'S TOO SHORT

2012-01-16T14:54:00.000-05:00

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

The courtroom sketch of JR was drawn by one of the manyconvicted felons taught by him and held in awe. I use the word “awe” becausethe prisoners, when first meeting JR, have a hard time believing such adiminutive, soft spoken man could be that audacious to think he'd teach themanything. He is not intimidated. He speaks his mind daily and is respected. Itis 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 invalidatorare what’s “dead on.” The picture represents what one of his students believedto be his strength: A dogged pursuit of a prisoner's academic achievements. Todiscredit him is a pitiful shame. He should be thanked instead of invalidated.

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

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

Sadly, all of this seems so trivial, especially since acoworker 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

2012-01-11T05:22:00.001-05:00

When a prisoner swallows a bunch of Double A batteries he’staken to a red cell to see what will pass and since healthcare is in the samebuilding, the lowest seniority nurse (this is conjecture on my part) waits forthe 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 infive-point restraints and mitts because he kept trying to re-open his wounds asif maybe he’d forgotten just how much he’d ingested.

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

… And I am left speechless.

This should be an interesting year.

*Mental note: Work on character development.

A Personal Review of "Make Yourself Small"

2012-01-05T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.

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’send-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 laterdate.

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

This brings me back to Brooks’ latest effort “Make YourselfSmall,” a book of poetry that speaks candidly about bad relationships, badsituations. For instance in “A Stranger to Nothing” marriage becomes anescape: He was someone to do things withwhile / my insides rotted away with thoughts of my / rape years before. Followedby 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 asubtle yet dominant side to the female psyche. In “Fantasy” a woman’s devotionto her man can only be achieved with a baseball bat (or so she fantasizes). In “AWife That Doesn’t Work” a woman reveals her true motives for matrimony: mostly I feel closet to you when you / arenot 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 youanymore.

Five years ago I thought I’d done the right thing by walkingaway from this female poet, and here it is 2012 and I’m drawn to her and herpoems 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 kindof truth that no one likes to look at but everyone has to see if they are evergoing to learn how to make themselves small enough to live demon-free.

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

THE MARRIAGE PLOT ...

2011-12-29T16:41:00.000-05:00

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

I like Leonard’s mysterious approach in his quest forcompanionship, after all, he gets the girl, he marries Madeleine Hannah, and ascrazy as he is (been portrayed that way myself), his manic depression, hismental 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 somethingpleasing about having her big Saint Bernard all to herself. He didn’t want togo 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 bepetted…

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

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 niceguy”)—yet this here Mitchell’s undying faith in pursuing Madeleine troubles memore so than Leonard’s disappearance into the woods. During their college yearsMitchell checks Madeleine about their social disconnect (p.19):

“… we’re friends whenyou want to be friends, and we’re never morethan friends because you don’t want to be. And I have to go along withthat.”

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

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

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

Apparently, she wantedto keep Mitchell for herself, even while denying him. There was no end to herselfishness.

So I’m left wondering: Where do I fit on theLeonard-Mitchell spectrum in my pursuit of companionship? What makes arelationship ignite? What keeps the fire burning? How much is physical? Howmuch is mental? One thing is for certain: I need to keep moving forwardregardless of the footwear only to stop for an errant pebble in my shoe. And nomore dog houses either! I’ll find the right Madeleine—just not this type—andI’ll find her in due time.

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

A HUGGY BEAR CHRISTMAS

2011-12-25T08:13:00.000-05:00

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

“I intercepted a Christmas card and with a little bit ofwhiteout 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 thehorticulture teacher and myself; How the prisoner slid the card under the otherteacher's door.

“Why?” I asked, somewhat puzzled. “Is it because it wasmeant for a female? Should it matter? It’s not like those 3-D cards, you know, thekind 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’vethanked him profusely all week long.”

Merry Christmas!

CAPTURED WITH WORDS

2011-12-20T18:45:00.000-05:00

Maybe the camera’s inoperable—not the one here capturingthis moment in time—no, the all-knowing camera encapsulated in an overturnedblack-tinted half-shell, its eye a direct conduit to the correctionalfacility's central nervous system, otherwise known as The Control Center.

When I first started teaching inmates some twenty years agothey settled their differences on the prison yard. Not any more. I step intothe hallway and remind the dozen or so young convicts engaged in theirritualistic verbal-sparring-dance that Big Brother is watching. I’m in the eyeof the impending storm. I point to the ceiling, “You’re on camera,” I say.“You’re being recorded.”

I hear someone say, “Well he shouldn’t have spit on me.” I can feel the slowbuild up of thunder. The wind-millersare edgy, their turbines wound tight. I know enough to retreat back to myclassroom, back to where I can protect my teeth. I certainly don’t care aboutthem, kill each other if you must.

Then it happens.

The unthinkable.

Some lame-ass prisoner grabs a chair from my room andreturns to the hallway.

I’m more concerned about what “the all-knowing eye” recordsand have already formulated the investigator’s first question: “Why was one ofyour classroom chairs in the hallway?” Anddepending on the severity of punishment meted from said chair, “Who swung thechair at so-and-so’s head knocking him unconscious?”

Little did I know that “the eye” must’ve had a cataract. The only way todisperse the crowd of punks was to go back into the hallway and positivelyidentify them. “Give me your ID card,” I ordered one of the main instigators.Soon the little dust-mites scattered to the wind; soon the corrections officersarrived. I heard nothing more about this incident. I guess there wasn’tanything to review.

Next: Commentary on “The Marriage Plot” (I promise); should be good.

IT'S A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD

2011-12-12T18:54:00.001-05:00

Again, I am reading more Ann Rule, more true-crime, more abouttragic break-ups. “Too Late For TheFair” is an unsolved mystery, a disappearance, yet everyone who had known themarried couple had formed the same conclusion. Rule writes:

Ty decided to start with the court records on his parents’divorce—a divorce then thirty-odd years in the past. He was shocked at what he found there.(p.310)

And why wouldn’t he be shocked? He was a toddler at thetime, too young and innocent to understand what had happened between hisparents.

Rule summarizes the human condition:

It is said that in old age, we become who we were when wewere young—only more so. Happy people are fun to be around even when they arelong past social security age, and angry people are as sour as dill pickleswhen they are elderly. (p.353)

So here I am standing outside the home I once lived in as ateenager. As I walk down the street I am at peace with the world knowing thatmy days as a defendant, as someone who would have had to defend his deadgrandfather and his parents as well as himself against false accusations, haverun its course. I know I could’ve fought valiantly to the bitter end, but whatgood would that do? I’m broke as it is. I’m starting over. I’m still payinglawyer bills and dental bills. There’s no need for me to go further into debt.It was never about me “winning” anything, or making the plaintiff look bad, orbecoming the subject of an Ann Rule book.

I’ve given enough of my “self” over the years only to behanded a lump of coal, and guess what? You’re probably not going to believe me,but not only am I at peace, I am happier too. Why? Because I never hid behindanyone during the whole dismantling of my marriage. I didn’t use others for myown personal gain. I did what I thought was best for everyone affected by theplaintiff’s court filings, however outlandish it may be. Now I'm moving forward.

Next on my reading list: “The Marriage Plot” by JeffreyEugenides.

TAGGED

2011-12-07T19:58:00.001-05:00

I can never go back. I’ve been physically removed andmentally erased. Not that it matters, not that it ever really mattered. Mycurrent diversion: reading the latest true-crime book “Don’t Look Behind You”by Ann Rule and for reasons that will probably never be explained I should belooking forward anyway.

But I’m transported elsewhere; I’m unearthed like a lostartifact, like Joe Tarricone from a torn plastic bag of bone and fabric.Shouldn’t there be more of me than what the crime scene investigators inventory:two pelvic bones, a sawed-off femur, a tail bone, several rib bones, scatteredvertebrae, a collar bone, a scapula, more fabric, a leather belt, and sometwine? Is that all there is left?

Fortunately, Gypsy Tarricone never lost hope. Rule writes:“… wherever she was, Gypsy thought of her dad determined not to give up hersearch for him as decades passed.” Deep down, Gypsy knew who ended herrelationship with her father, she knew who had killed him—Renee Curtiss.

Three decades after the killing, construction worker TravisHaney bulldozed the earth and set into motion a murder investigation. The mostchilling question came from police detective Denny Wood regarding ReneeCurtiss’s involvement in the killing method (p.165):

“Well, think back. You were either working the chain saw orholding on to the limbs while they were being cut off. It’s a huge differenceif somebody’s flexible and warm or whether they’re stiff as a board and coldand frozen. Was he frozen when you cut him up?”

Why the morbid fascination with true-crime? Is it because ofmy place of employment? And why do I always examine the family photos and readthe captions prior to starting the book? These are real people. There are nohappy endings. Yet I go back for more. I guess I’m escaping my own predicament.I guess it’s my way of rediscovering me. I, alone, know what has happened; I,alone, can move my tired old bones from place to place as I start from scratch,as I build a new family album of happier times.

KNUCKLE SNORTING

2011-12-03T14:08:00.001-05:00

"Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it killsall its pupils."

Louis Hector Berloiz

I've been told on numerous occasions that "we"need to keep my classroom full, and rightfully so; after all, I do get paid toteach. But the implied "we," the proverbial "we," the I'llsupport you, I'll stand by you (from a reasonably safe distance of course; beendown that road in my personal life), the I'll do whatever it takes to haveliving breathing bodies occupying space in your area of control, does not inany way, shape, or form deal with the real issues at hand.

I do realize it's the holidays and "we" need tokeep the young meat puppets from sticking each other, "we" need tostop all the moose knuckling, all the knuckle snorting, all the unstructured facetime, but really? seriously? do you honestly think filling up my classroom willfree-up some of the segregation cells and return us to semi-normalcy? Here'sthe most current segregation breakdown (subject to change based upon futureincidents):

Cell 1:   Fighting (11.29.11)
Cell 3:   Fighting (11.16.11)
Cell 4:   Protective Custody (11.29.11)
Cell 5:   Fighting (11.29.11)
Cell 6:   Fighting (11.23.11)
Cell 7:   Fighting (11.28.11)
Cell 8:   Fighting (11.28.11)
Cell 9: Fighting (11.29.11)
Cell 11: Assault on Prisoner (11.10.11)
Cell 12: Fighting (11.28.11)
Cell 13: Possession of Weapon (11.22.11)
Cell 14: Threatening Behavior (10.25.11)
Cell 15: Dangerous Contraband (11.19.11)
Cell 16: Possession of Weapon (11.12.11)
Cell 17: Dangerous Contraband (11.20.11)
Cell 18: Possession of Weapon (11.29.11)
Cell 19: Fighting (11.28.11)
Cell 20: Fighting (11.18.11)
Cell 21: Suicide Watch (11.29.11)
Cell 22: Suicide Watch (11.29.11)

Cells 2 & 10 are not listed and readily availableas soon as the transportation van enters the sallyport. The bottom line: Whenone bag of meat leaves, another bag of meat is delivered. Heck, 4 days ofsegregation for the young meat puppet who tenderized his opponent in myclassroom. Not bad, considering their classroom seats were saved. Welcome backguys!

PERCEPTION: SHAKE YOUR GROOVE THANG

2011-11-29T17:19:00.001-05:00

When a little Hispanic dude sporting a mullet pretends to begay so his mentally-ill lover will buy him store items the world tilts on itsaxis and upsets the balance of general population.

“You can’t do something like that in prison,” my classroomtutor says, “and expect others to think you’re straight.”

In an unrelated incident, and with dramatic flare, another mentally-illprisoner tears off his shirt and tries to hang himself on a tree limb so smalla squirrel wouldn’t climb on it and sadly enough no one hurries to rescuethe desperate man as he binds his shirt around flesh and branch. He simplywants to feel the pain of his former partner’s rejection and profess his undyinglove during the failed attempt at gaining an audience. Luckily, once thewalkway clears the officers run to his aid and untangle him.

As for the little mullet-head, when his lover figures outhe’s been had, a confrontation ensues. Fortunately (or unfortunately—dependingon who you side with), the mullet-head has his posse of Latin Counts waiting inthe wing. Still, my classroom tutor’s observation holds true: with all thesexual predators prowling the prison yard, it’s only a matter of time beforeprison justice will rear its ugly head.

“I’m not a homosexual,” I’ve heard the mullet-head tellothers as he navigates the school hallways. He hasn’t learned that in the jointperception trumps reality 24-7.

ONLY THOSE WHO WORK WOULD UNDERSTAND THIS KIND OF PROSE, I'M ALMOST SURE OF IT

2011-11-26T21:22:00.001-05:00

Seems this Old Bird's lost his way, flew the Lformation and not the V, went from Groupwise to Outlook, saw nothing, heardnothing, lost ALL COMMUNICATION. During the migration an alleged father emailedhis concerns about perceived threats to his kid; Didn't get that message untilafter the damage. Held court with the Michigan Department of InformationTechnology--forty minutes of wasted effort; spun me to the Michigan Departmentof Education; then, in a moment of clarity, in a moment of Ground Control toMajor Tom kind of way, I realized personnel might have the answers; Once againI had access to my email; had new security questions and new passwords; thoughtI was flying the V; Opened the month-old message regarding protectivecustody. Oops ... too late ... the kidgot beaten down earlier in the month. Not much I could do ... other than returnto the flock ... and drop money from the sky.

THE DO-SI-DO

EXPENDABLE

2011-11-21T19:22:00.001-05:00

Once a week I receive a classroom newspaper called “News forYou.” It’s written at a third/fourth grade level and includes cross-wordpuzzles and worksheets. This week’s edition includes topics on world populationand population growth in developing countries. One of the smarter prisonersglances at the headline and says, “Seven billion motherfuckers in this worldand I get forty years in this bitch for killing one.”

The classroom fills with laughter.

“I guess we’re a developing country,” I observe.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” one of my slower studentsasks.

“We have too many low-level readers,” I answer.

“What he means by that,” another slightly smarter prisonersays, “is we have too many low-level …” and he emphasizes the next word “breeders.”

“Yeah,” the first prisoner responds. “And I rubbed out oneof them.”

“Yeah,” his road-dog says nodding toward the slower student,“What the teach means is that a few less people like you would make this a muchbetter place.”

A verbal argument ensues.

“That’s enough,” I say, before requesting “temporary” silence for theduration of the class. I'm thinking: They'll have to continue this discussionout on the prison yard.

LOST MEMORY OF SKIN

2011-11-17T17:12:00.001-05:00

“Lost Memory of Skin” by Russell Banks is the type of novelI’d like to write, but only darker, without hitting the reader over the headwith its message.

The Writer in the novel (not to be confused with the actualwriter) summarizes: Who’d want to read it?Kiddie porn and child molesters, pedophiles and suicidal college professors?Jesus (p.380). He goes on to say he’s not a novelist trying to depress people,something I’ve been accused of with my “slightly depressing chapbook.”

So yeah, I’d like to write a longer work with a bunch of unsavorycharacters who may or who may not do what is socially acceptable. And why shouldn’tI write such a book? I’m surrounded by unsavory characters eight hours a day,five days a week—including sex offenders. And that’s exactly what “Lost Memoryof Skin” is about: sexual deviants who reintegrate into society.

Banks creates a sympathetic protagonist in The Kid, aregistered sex-offender living under the Clayborne Causeway with baby-bangers,chomos, and rapists; yet, his sexual experiences haven’t gone beyond masturbationduring adult pornography viewing sessions. Unfortunately, all that porn sparkshis imagination when he inadvertently enters a computer chat-room with theintent of studding out his pet Iguana to someone known as Brandi-18. That’swhen his fantasy world collides with the “seemingly” real world and we discoverhis troubled past through a series of interviews conducted by a mysterioussociologist professor.

I especially like how Banks shows varying degrees of sexual deviationsfrom non-sex-offenders, two of which hit close to home. Here’s his descriptionof The Professor’s marriage:

But they did not marryfor sex in the first place, nor was it ever an essential part of theirrelationship. Sexual intercourse, at least in the beginning, was merely arequirement, an obligation on both their parts determined mostly by conventionand proximity and her wish to have a child, rather than by attraction or desire(p.123).

Or how about The Kid’s thoughts regarding his mother’spromiscuity:

But what about thewomen who when they were little girls got hurt somehow? Hurt so bad they gotstuck there scared of having to grow up and as a result they never grow up… (p.37).

What disappoints me about “Lost Memory of Skin” is how theplot gets in the way of its characters; especially The Professor’s cloudy past,how The Kid’s left to form his own judgment of him through the philosophicaldiscussions of a Travel Writer who conveniently appears near the end of thebook. Still, this novel has its moments and is definitely worth reading.

LOST MEMORY OF ...

2011-11-14T16:50:00.001-05:00

I must be miserable ... down on my luck ... doom and gloom... perhaps a bit crazy … have to be … Iwork with mentally-ill prisoners ... that shits got to rub off on a person right? How else can I explain my leoprosy? Even received a text from someone whoused to be near to me but is still dear to me … saw me walking along the roadside, respondedto my text: "It looked like you were having a bad day so I didn't want tobother you."

... hmmm ... what bothers me is silence ... as if I nolonger exist ... as if I never existed ... got to live under the Causeway withmy spots ... cast a way ... a castaway ... the employed homeless man … bargedinto the home he once owned, crossed the threshold demanding his coffee … or sosomeone filed ... among other things. Got to be crazy.

Lost Memory of Skin.

The Writer says: We just have to choose what to believe andact accordingly, Kid ... your life will go on pretty much the same tomorrow asyesterday. You can live out there on your houseboat like Huckleberry Finn onhis raft ... until something better comes along. (p.395)

The Shyster says: Everyone has a story that proclaims his/herinnocence. It's human nature. (p.409)

And in the end, Kid: ... if nothing is true then nothing isreal. Logic tells (you) that. And if nothing is real then nothing matters.Which means you're free to believe whatever you want ... (p.410)

Funny ... or not ... (probably not) ... how I’ve scroungedsome quotes from the latest novel by Russell Banks, a novel dealing with thelowest of the low. Lost Memory of Skin indeed. I've got my spots. Don't we all?Unfortunately, I’m condemned to live with these spots under a causeway as if Inever ever existed. Sad. Truly truly sad. But I will plod forward. I will doanother twenty years in the presence of convicted felons … castaways … hoping …at least for their sake … for reintegration.

*More to say regarding Lost Memory of Skin in anotherpost.

THE DO-SI-DO

2011-11-11T08:48:00.001-05:00

Before I tell you how I ended up in the prison gymnasiumduring a karaoke contest discussing the ass-kicking one of my 7-Block student’ssuffered, or why I had to drive a young convicted-murderer into a classroomcomputer hutch, or why I sought out the 7-Block resident unit manager for anexplanation during a prisoner’s lousy rendition of Marvin Gaye’s “SexualHealing,” before all that, before taking entertainment to a whole new level, I shouldprobably give you some type of background information regarding the whole volatilesituation that took place in my area of control.

Now that I’m comfortably situated in my temporaryliving-quarters pounding out the words: Haldol, Mellaril, Prolixin, Thorazine,Seroquel, Lithane, Lithobid, Celexa, Paxil, Zoloft, Adapin, Sinequan and Prozacon my computer keyboard—not because I’m on any of these medications (although Ihave been accused of refusing to take these type of meds), not because Ihave dysthymia or bipolar disorder—no, not me—I type these words because a guyfrom 7-Block bartered his “drugs” for another inmate’s store goods.

So when this here 7-Block prisoner sits himself down nearthe entrance of my classroom after being absent for well over a month, and a4-Block prisoner discusses nonpayment with him, it’s only a matter of timebefore someone gets pieced-up. The 7-Block prisoner takes a punch to his lefteye and no matter how hard he tries he somehow gets turned around and can’tfind the exit. There isn’t much I can do. I’ve learned that most of the timewhen you send an inmate to get help they will take that as their cue to leaveand not return. And if I leave, I’m thinking the rest of the prisoners mightbeat the 7-Block prisoner to death and I do not, absolutely absolutely do notwant to return to a dead body in my classroom, in my area of control.

Anyway, when the 4-Block inmate tires from pummeling the7-Block inmate’s face into the condition of a badly bruised tomato and the7-Block inmate no longer knows where he is, I make my move, I wrap up theaggressor’s arms and shove him into the computer hutch. Not long after that thecorrections officers arrive and handcuff both prisoners.

“So,” I say to the 7-Block resident unit manager, “I thoughtPrisoner D wasn’t going to come to school anymore.”

“I’m no longer in 7-Block,” he replies—all of this whileprisoners wait their turn to sing their favorite songs during a karaokecompetition.

KETCHUP

2011-11-09T16:35:00.000-05:00

Twice now in the span of two weeks I’ve followed a trail ofblood to my jobsite, and like my peers who do their eight and hit the gate Istep aside and keep my stride.

Don’t think I didn’t notice the details though. I saw theblood spatter but it didn’t interest me like it would that Showtime fellow namedDexter. Still, if you were to ask me about each trail of blood I’d be able todescribe it to you. I’d say that the first trail was darker and dried andlooked like the result of crimson-colored raindrops evenly spaced on the tiledfloor with focal points blooming outward in a symmetrical pattern; whereas, thatsecond trail appears fresher, brighter, irregular in shape, and unevenly spaced.I’m thinking: nosebleed, cut—respectively, chronologically.

I never did find out what happened to cause that first trailof blood or the source of it. I imagine someone got sucker punched. And thissecond trail of blood looks more like—how should I say it?—looks moreunpredictable. In fact, the gate officer shrugs her shoulders and says, “Nosense calling hazmat until everyone’s stepped in it and tracked it all over theplace.”

This second trail of blood is not located in an area heavilypopulated by prisoners; it does not lie in the normal traffic area consistentwith convicted felons; it appears by the staff mailboxes, the staff time-clock,and the elevator leading to the lunchroom. But believe you me – it is blood, ithas to be blood.

The gate officer tells us she was only joking about hercomment regarding hazmat that it isn’t blood at all. She shrugs her shouldersagain and says, “It’s beet juice.”

Yeah, right. Beet juice.

At lunch time I scan the breakroom. I do not see anyoneeating beets.

THE SOBER AFFECT

2011-11-05T09:56:00.002-04:00

I've been combing throughsome of my old posts and thought I'd share this one again.

It's as if I feelhis pain.

Observation Date:September 4, 2009:

Not often—Hell, who am Ifooling? Never before… at least not like this—I’ll get a GED Essay that tugs atthee ol’ heart strings. Most prisoners prefer the bland essay format of topicsentence, supporting statements and conclusion told without conviction oremotional honesty. What you’re about to read is based on the followingquestion: Discuss an opinion you once held that has now changed. Withoutfurther introduction (and slightly edited) here’s one prisoner’s narrativeessay:

At one time I wanted kids. I had a little girl and I loved her with all myheart. We would do things together. Although she was only 4 years old when shedied, she was my life. I didn’t realize until I had lost her in a car accidenthow much I’d miss her. She and my wife were hit by a drunk driver coming homefrom a family reunion that I was supposed to attend, but didn’t.

After her death, my wife and I did not get along. We were fighting all thetime. I guess I fell out of love with her. Over a period of time, I just didn’t want the hassle, I just didn’t want toinvest my energy in our marriage. I didn’t want kids any more. I just couldn’thandle it all.

I wanted to be by myself and do what I wanted to do and without the hassles.What I had always wanted in life I found out I did not want anymore. Now I’mhappy I have no one, which is better for me in the long run because I’m messedup myself.

Update:This prisoner is still in my classroom struggling to earn his GED. He passedhis Language Arts Writing Exam as well as the 3 reading sections (Language ArtsReading, Science, and Social Studies). He is scheduled for a retake in Mathematics.He is doing quite well. He has good days and bad days - don't we all? I oftensee him standing in the med-lines when I return from lunch.

HEADLIGHTS YES; HEADLINES NO

2011-11-01T19:10:00.000-04:00

For eighteen or so years I’ve behaved myself, stayed out oftrouble, assumed responsibilities, put family before all else. Heck, how couldI not? Fed my anorexic wallet a twenty dollar bill every pay period forsixteen of those years. Funny thing is: Now that I’m on my own and crying poor,my wallet’s wreaking havoc on my spine, and with that comes a new found freedom todo as I please … and BELIEVE ME … I am doingjust as I please.

So when the small town of Almont’s finest man in blue pulls me over forspeeding and searches me for weapons at 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday night, I assume the position, placing my handson his car while he pats me down. Then I walk a straight line and recite thealphabet, performing without hesitation. Then I spread my arms out and stand onone leg which to him is the ultimate test.

“Get that right knee back up in the air,” he demands.“Higher,” he adds.

I keep my right foot square on the pavement and I tell him Ican’t lift my leg any higher. “I injuredmyself running, ” I explain. He doesn’t care.

“Sir,” he says, “I’m going to give you one more chance onthis.”

Again, I try … and again, I fail. “I have a pulled groinmuscle,” I reveal.

He asks me if I’m willing to take a breathalyzer. Denying itwould further delay me from my destination. I blow into a little plastic tube.

He’s unhappy with the results. He resets the breathalyzerand warms it up under his armpit. I’m not too happy with this procedure. “I want you to blow harder,” he says.

I repeat the process, not once but twice, blowing with allmy might.

Again, he’s unhappy with the results. “Get in the car,” hesays.

Since I don’t want to piss him off anymore than he alreadyis, I ask, “Which car?”

“Your car,” he barks.

I return to my carand I wait and I wait and I wait. Background check, I’m thinking.

When he approaches my vehicle he says, “Watch your speedand drive safely.”

As I pull back onto the road I say to my passenger, “Fifteenover my ass. Where’s the speeding ticket?”

I look in my rearview mirror. He’s doubling back, gettingready to repeat this process on another unsuspecting traveler. I guess, in thewords of Bruce Hornsby: “… it’s just the way it is.”

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

2011-10-31T05:25:00.000-04:00

ONLY IN DETROIT ...

2011-10-30T09:31:00.000-04:00

When I stepped into a room full of strangers wearing my DetroitLion’s cap with matching t-shirt and hooded sweatshirt, someone at theHalloween party asked, “Are you a Lion’s fan?”

I scanned the kitchen, saw witches, fairies, and zombies.

“This is my costume,” I answered.

“You’re not a Lions fan then?” one of the men asked, puttingme on the spot.

I noticed furrowed brows. I had to think quickly for fear ofoffending a roomful of Detroit Lion’s loyalists. I also had to prove to the womenthat I’d put some thought into my costume.

“Oh no,” I explained. “I’m indeed a die-hard Lion’s fan.”Then I added, “I’m dressed as a fair-weather fan.”

The tension broke. I was accepted. The party continued.

More Halloween pics coming!

YOU READING THIS? I CHARGE BY THE MINUTE

2011-10-28T20:05:00.001-04:00

The number one prisoner excuse for not attending Adult BasicEducation Class, for not consistently trying to improve one’s academic skills (andfor reasons near and dear to me) is: “I have to call my lawyer.” And whyshouldn’t that be an excused absence? Heck, I’ve missed work to meet with myattorney; so, when an inmate makes $0.59 a day to sit in class and a lawyercharges roughly $250.00 per hour to communicate, all this prisoner talk aboutthe need for legal advice, regardless of the disproportionate amount ofincome / outcome, must REALLY REALLY REALLY BE IMPORTANT. Of course, you knowas well as I do that 99.99% of the time these prisoners are lying. Reminds meof a story I once read by former-convict-teacher-turned-author Davey Rothbarttitled, “Lie Big.”

Anyway …

While going through the divorce process, the best man at mywedding, who is studying for his juris doctorate, shared a wealth ofinformation regarding family law. Can’t beat a little free advice when yoursavings account is hemorrhaging and you’ve been denied access to your house. Unfortunately,now that the divorce decree is here, now that I’ve done what my hired lawyercalled “stopped the bleed,” a few loose ends are in need of tourniquets. Forinstance, I followed the court order to have a third party lawyer mediate thesettlement; whereas, the plaintiff did not. Yet, due to the plaintiff’s “showcause” motion regarding yours truly paying a dental bill on—of all things—histeeth, I had decided enough is enough and chose to settle instead of going backto court. Thus, I did not use the mediator’s services, thus a refund seemedreasonable, if not logical; however, the mediator would only return one-thirdof the money.

I guess it’s what I get for following court orders. So nowmy lawyer suggests we meet to discuss this latest “injustice,” and since she’s single, and sinceI’m thinking the whole judicial process is a joke, we’d be better off havingdinner and drinks … on me of course… it’dbe a hell of a lot cheaper too.

God is it great to be free!

TALES FROM THE BRICK

2011-10-24T17:23:00.000-04:00

With the holiday seasons (Thanksgiving and Christmas) fastapproaching, my prison classroom is transforming into a morgue: Dead quiet.Dead Men sitting. Dead Men not walking. Dead Men not talking. No road trips, noride in the passenger’s seat, no weekend at Bernies—just solitude, just blankpassive stares.

But these Zombies are capable of reflection. Each has hisown personal problems, his own personal demons. I too have mine. I too am notwilling to share. And I’m sure you haveyour demons as well. Still, we cope.

On a much cheerier note, Jason Evans forwarded the followingemail correspondence:

Hey Jason, you know that guy who frequently enters yourClarity contests? I can’t recall his name, I’m sorry. I was hoping you couldpass this along to him – it might be something he is interested in if he writespoetry. See below. “Law enforcers who write poetry” is a really small niche, Iimagine!

—Wendy Russ

Wendy, I think you mean JR. I’ll pass it along to him.Thanks!

—Jason

Though most content in every issue is open to any style,subject, or poet, we do always have a themed section. Now through February 1, 2012, we’relooking for poets who have worked in Law Enforcement for next summer’s feature.If you’re a working or retired police officer, detective, FBI agent, jailer,etc., please be sure to submit again by the deadline, and also help spread theword to anyone else you know who might be interested.

—Timothy Green, Editor of Rattle (www.rattle.com).

I don’t consider myself a poet, probably because I don’twrite much poetry, but I’ll definitely submit something. Rattle is looking foressay submissions too. Perhaps that’s my niche in this fairly narrow market.

Thanks Wendy. Thanks Jason.

Halloween pics coming soon.

SCIENCE FICTION POETRY

2011-10-20T05:20:00.000-04:00

INTRODUCTION

A half century ago, Ray Bradbury envisioned screenentertainment as an enervating drug, portraying Montag’s wife in Fahrenheit 451 (1953) as areality/interactive TV junkie who’s lost her social consciousness and hercapacity to love. She spends her days in her room, which has television screenscovering three walls. Her favorite show, TheFamily, includes her in the plot, and the characters sometimes turn toaddress her directly—a hypnotically meaningful thing for her.

—pg 103, The Dumbest Generationby Mark Bauerlein

SWITCHING CHANNELS

When the tv’s on in your master bedroom

you’re neveralone;

people speak toyou

offer advice.

When there’s a telephone on the night stand

within reach

there’s no needfor a revolver

under yourpillow

you have 911.

When the bedroom door is locked

thenon-hologram man from

the nextbedroom over
can not beamhimself in.

He escapes his servitude

through facebook and skype

But his therapist warns:

kids can not free themselves

from emotional incest
because it lingers

untilrealized.

MEALS ON WHEELS

2011-10-15T00:05:00.001-04:00

How dare he? How dare Lawrence Brewer order two chickenfried steaks, a meat lover’s pizza, a triple-meat bacon cheeseburger, threefajitas, fried okra, and for dessert a pint of ice cream and peanut butterfudge. Who in their right mind could eat all that food? Never mind that he waswithin his rights. Never mind that he chained James Byrd Jr. to the back of apickup truck ten years ago and dragged him mile after mile after mile. And forwhat? Because he was black? Never mind that James Byrd Jr.’s last meal undoubtedlypaled in comparison.

Not that I disagree with the Texas Department of CriminalJustice—don’t get me wrong, the death penalty is too controversial for me totake a stance on one way or the other—but I do agree with the decision to givedeath row inmates the same meal served to general population; after all, whenpresented with his feast, Lawrence Brewer let his food go cold and his icecream melt.

Here’s a narrator’s viewpoint from Giles Smith’s short story Last Request :

Every now and again,you’ll send the meal up and they’ll eat it, and then the phone call comesthrough from the judge and they get a reprieve. All very dramatic. Well, goodfor them. But often it’s only temporary and, a month later, you’re cooking thesame meal for them all over gain. This can go on a while. There’s one up therenow who’s had his last meal five times.

As for myself: I can’t recall my last meal from the house Ionce occupied. I do remember asking “What are we having for dinner?” and beingoffered a leftover cold piece of pizza; however, these past few months I’vebeen eating meals fit for a king—home-cooked meals (elk porkchops, perch &bass, stuffed peppers … ) prepared with love by my mother.

Speaking of mothers and prison related short-stories, LeeSmith’s Fried Chicken is definitely worth reading.

Have a great weekend everyone, and thanks for the comments.

ROLE MODELS

2011-10-12T05:45:00.003-04:00

When the special education teacher visits my classroom theyoungsters, the little boys trapped in men’s bodies, vie for her attention.

“Where do you teach?” one youngster asks.

Her home base is what most of my colleagues refer to as “ThePunk Prison.” She answers in a polite way, using the official slang prison name.“I’m from the Thumb,” she says.

“I’m trying to get there,” another youngster says, “becauseour teacher don’t do shit. He don’t know how to teach.”

I ignore his statement. I’m busy writing CSJ-363’s,otherwise known as student work evaluations.

The special education teacher explains how adult education works,how each student studies independently based on their grade level equivalencies.

Two more youngsters add their input, something about nothaving anything to do in the classroom, something about their teacher, i.e.“me,” not giving them assignments to do.

Again, I ignore them.

The special education teacher feels the need to defend me,and if she could she’d probably tell them that I’ve been teaching in prison sincebefore they were soiling their diapers, but she can’t get a word in edgewise.

I intervene. I say to her, “I do owe them an apology.” Nowthey’re settling down. It’s not often that a prison employee apologizes to aninmate (the first time I apologized to an inmate I wrote about it in Glass FireMagazine: “This One’s for the Birds”).

The class grows quiet. I stop what I’m doing. I address theyoungsters. “I’m sorry,” I say to them “truly truly sorry,” then I sigh, my wayof displaying sincerity. “I’m sorry for not providing you guys with coloringbooks and crayons. As soon as there’s money in the school coffers I’ll orderyou some.”

The old-timers and special education teacher laugh. Igo back to writing my evaluations.

BAND AIDS & GUNSHOT WOUNDS

2011-10-08T12:42:00.003-04:00

When a prisoner advocacy group slaps a lawsuit on myemployer for not providing special education services we’re left scrambling forresources. Like nurses in a makeshift triage we use Band Aids to cover gunshotwounds. I can only imagine that while we’re trying to stop the bleed some younggangbanger’s momma phones the warden complaining how her son has beenmistreated, how he’s such a good boy and deserves better; after all, he’s humanjust like the rest of us.

So when I’m told to cancel class to address the needs of oneyoung gangbanger caught with razor blades in his cell, I do as I’m told, I walkthe prison mall area with my boss and temporary special education teacher. Weenter the segregation building and setup shop inside a small holding room. Acorrections officer escorts the young gangbanger our way.

“We’re here today for your IEPC,” the special educationteacher says. “Do you know what that is?”

He’s not talking. He’s handcuffed.

“An IEPC,” she continues, “stands for ‘IndividualizedEducation Plan Committee.’”

I’m thinking to myself, we are the committee, we are theBand Aid.

She sets a handbook on the table which lists variousdisabilities that are covered under special education services, along with a handouttitled “Special Education Procedural Safeguards.” She asks the corrections officerif he’ll take the handcuffs off the gangbanger so he can sign some paperwork.

I say to the officer, “I’m sure we can get his signature.” Iplace a pen in the gangbanger’s hands behind his back; he contorts his body,positioning his hip against the desk, and scrawls his name. Not long after thathe’s escorted back to his segregation cell.

One week later when the young gangbanger’s back in generalpopulation attending my class I give him the special education handbook hesigned for. He, in turn, tosses it in the trash. I can only imagine him out onthe prison yard waiting to use the phone, waiting to feed his momma anotherline of bullshit about how he can't learn without proper assistance. I can only imagine that one day when he’s thrown back intosociety, that if he doesn’t turn his life around he’ll end up in some emergencyroom, another gunshot victim waiting for the educated to revive him on ashoestring budget.

SLINGING MUD

2011-10-06T05:46:00.002-04:00

When a Detroit Public School’s specialeducation teacher rejects an offer made by my employer I’m left with what theold-timers call choice cuts. I’m alsoleft with the following suggestion from my boss: Why don’t you go back toschool and get certified in Special Education? It pays more.

… As if that will entice me.

Heck, I’m trying to get rid of the young thugs. I’m tired ofbeing Mommy and Daddy to them. I’m tired of advising them on how to do theirtime. I’d rather thin the herd. Give me the seasoned meat instead.

One youngster tells me, “Only white people get lice.”

His peers laugh—their way of showing approval.

I inform him that lice like clean heads, not dirty heads.

He puffs out his chest because in his world might-makes-right. “What’re you tryingto say?” he asks.

I tell him that he lacks common sense and that he’d bebetter off keeping his pie-hole shut.

“You’re not gonna talk to me just any old way,” he warns.

I try to redirect. “Why would you think only white peopleget lice?”

“Because,” he answers, “they have hair like a dog’s.”

His peers laugh some more.

The problem with handling choice cuts is that they spoil more often than not and they stinkup the place. “They,” the old-timerssay, “can’t even hold their mud.” Icouldn't agree more.

*More mudslinging this weekend (literally & metaphorically).

A NEW WRITING PLACE

2011-10-02T06:06:00.000-04:00

I lost my writing place, had it taken from me, so please bepatient as I search for words, any words, lost words, words that no longer flowas freely as when I first started blogging, when I first sat down in my smallprivate room—a place where I could escape servitude for a few hours each night.Now I’m in a strange place, standing nowhere in particular, like an ex-felonbreathing fresh air after a long long bit, shaking the stink from my clothes, reinventingmyself, trying to develop a new identity, trying to regain beliefs I once held.Lost time changes a person: I no longer have faith in the institution of marriage;I no longer have faith in our judicial system; I no longer have faith in themen in blue who are here to “serve & protect.”

… and I work in a prison.

… and I have over 40,000 contact hours with Michigan’s finest.

… and there are more stories to tell.

I still laugh occasionally. I once found the followingincident funny:

A white female teacher had difficulty gaining the respect ofher students. Her female coworker sat in on the class to observe. The students transformedthemselves into perfect angels, working independently, raising their hands whenneeded, and basically playing the role of poster-perfect students. However,once the coworker left the classroom they went back to their old ways,disregarding their assignments and arguing and cussing for the sake of arguingand cussing. Their teacher demanded to know why they showed respect to hercoworker and not her.

“Don’t even go there, lady,” one of the students warned.

But she insisted … more than once ... then the damn brokeloose.

“You’re not black,” one student said.

“You have a flat ass,” another said.

“And your tits are sagging,” a third said.

I have learned not to question what goes on around me or whythings turn out the way they do. I am here for one person. I am here for me. Iam back. I have returned. For how long I do not know. And I am in a much betterplace.

When it began: Seeking Closure Amongst the Sharks

I'M A SIMPLE MAN

2011-05-15T15:50:00.001-04:00

I’ve been told, more times than I can count, that I am (in the words of Lynyrd Skynyrd) a simple man. I’ve also been warned about certain women who believe the following equation to be true: A Simple Man = A Schmuck. Whether I fit the mold, or break it, remains to be seen. What I do know is that when I arrived for my haircut, requesting a specific hair stylist, not because I’m some metro-sexual trying to reintegrate into the singles market, not because I thought she’d do my do right—in fact, when I left, my head resembled the shoddy workmanship of a slapped together quilt (something I had expected)—no, when I arrived, when I wrote her name down on the sign-in sheet, there seemed to be a bit of apprehension on her part, as if she wanted to forgo the next customer, the only customer on said list.

She acknowledged me. “How have you been?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I responded.

“You shouldn’t lose anymore weight,” she said, trying to be friendly, trying to show concern.

“Why not?” I snapped back. I sat in the barber chair. “I’m losing everything else. What’s a few more pounds?”

I knew she was uncomfortable. She didn’t take that extra time to prep her area; instead, she draped my skin-and-bone frame and started snipping my hair without asking how short.

“As you can see,” I said, extending my left hand for her viewing pleasure, “I’m no longer wearing my wedding ring.”

After a few more snips, she told me what I had already known. She said, “I’m the one who recommended your wife’s lawyer.” She raked the comb through my hair and continued. “You were blindsided, weren’t you?”

“You’re damn right I was.”

More nervous energy on her part. “I always thought you had a good marriage, that you supported your family.”

I didn’t react. She started to pry. Did I get a lawyer? Where am I living?

I told her about the 911 calls, the police escorts. She acted surprised. She’s a horrible actress. She continued prying. I wasn’t about to make her the conduit to my wife.

I got what I needed—a cheap ass haircut and verification. Now I’ll be calling her ex-husband to see what type of ass-kicking he got from this highly recommended lawyer. It shouldn’t really matter; the whole divorce process is scripted, conveniently choreographed to drain money from the marital accounts. If only someone would play fair we could cut our losses—including each other.

DISMANTLING THE CHANDELIER

2011-05-10T19:55:00.000-04:00

Like a favorite sock worn too long, their marriage no longer has definition. The map of their life together has no neat geography. Their games and tasks are no longer divided into even-colored packets. —Judith Cooper, “Dreamland”

Everyone has their comfort zone, their “safe” place from where to navigate, whether it's a truck driver barreling down the highway, a university professor lecturing in a crowded auditorium, a mechanic hoisting an engine, or a homemaker cleaning the house. As for me, my comfort zone rests inside two rows of razor sharp concertina wire, and even though others may view my job as dangerous, it’s not; If you know what you’re doing, if you’re a permanent fixture (which I am), then getting shanked by a piece of metal or clunked over the head with a lock-in-a-sock is highly unlikely; in fact, your chances of danger are far greater when you’re outside of your element. I am not.

I’m not downplaying the tension or the stress either; dealing with convicts can contribute to that. Over the years I’ve witnessed a few co-workers who had given up, who had this suicide-by-prisoner mentality. For instance: The Dagwood instructor who provoked his students with racial comments and taunted them about their lack of intelligence. His underlying motive: an early retirement. Unfortunately, his plan back-fired and he was forced out, unprepared.

What I don’t understand is how someone can step out of her comfort zone, place blame, return to her “safe” place, and then feel this sense of entitlement, as if her actions originated from some type of Manifest Destiny. Example:

The house is mine; the payments are yours. The vehicle is mine; the payments are yours. The credit cards are mine; yours have been cancelled, but the bills are yours. Our child’s savings account is mine, I closed it; I’ll tell her you’d steal it otherwise. Oh, and your paychecks are mine; just remember to maintain that minimum bank balance—it’s your responsibility.

So, as I’m kept in the dark regarding finances, as I’m kept from my house with phony 911 calls (I can’t help it if someone feels uncomfortable around me, what was I to do, serve tea & crumpets?), as I’m kept from having contact with my child (I’m sure those police escorts to my house are impressionable), I move forward, I continue working, I continue teaching murderers, rapists, dope-dealers, thieves, gang-bangers, and car-jackers in an effort to better not only themselves, but society as well.

What keeps me motivated? I’m not sure. I keep telling myself: Tomorrow’s going to be a better day. Truth be told: I simply don’t know.

I’d like to thank the neighbor girl for the lentil soup. I had it for lunch … delicious … and yeah, you’re right, “I look like hell” because I’m feeling the burn.

I AM BLESSED

2011-05-06T06:52:00.003-04:00

I placed the music cds on the counter and handed the clean-cut, young man a library card.

“Sir,” he said, examining the card, “is this your wife’s? Because if it is, I need to see some identification.”

“No, it’s not.” I stood my ground.

“Your wife’s not Micha … Micha …”

I pronounced the name for him. I gave him my driver’s license.

“She’s not you wife?”

“No,” I repeated. Instead of the interrogation, why couldn’t he just scan the items? A moment of silence fell between us. “It’s my mother’s library card,” I said. “I’m staying at her house this week. I’m going through a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Unbelievable … no matter what he said I felt defeated. Maybe it was his Jim Carey look-a-like-appearance minus the facial expressions—all serious and shit.

“You’re not prying,” I said. “I volunteered that information.”

“Well I appreciate your honesty.”

“I’m sure you do,” I volleyed back.

More silence.

“Next time bring a note ...”

“… from my mother,” I finished for him.

He had to be joking, right? I wanted to tell him that I’m forty-seven years old, that I’ve been working for longer than since he was born, that currently I am homeless because someone thinks I deserve to be put out on the street, that when this whole experience is done two lawyers will have made a substantial amount of money and I’ll pretty much be starting over from scratch, including my retirement plans.

Instead, I thanked him and walked away.

Also, I'd like to thank The Walking Man's wife for the pink disposable razors and other miscellaneous items.

*Note: Lucinda William’s “Blessed” is awesome; I certainly can relate to her lyrics. Definitely worth listening to.

We were blessed by the teacher
Who didn’t have a degree
We were blessed by the prisoner
Who knew how to be free

We were blessed by the mystic
Who turned water into wine
We were blessed by the watchmaker
Who gave up his time

We were blessed by the wounded man
Who felt no pain
By the warfaring stranger
Who knew our names

Yeah, we were blessed.

FROM THE "HELLO KITTY" ROOM

2011-05-01T19:33:00.005-04:00

The beds were to be separated on nights forbidden to physical intimacy, but Chava Bayla hadn’t pushed them together for many months. She flatly refused to sleep anywhere except on her menstrual bed and was, from the start, impervious to her husband’s pleading.

Nathan Englander’s “For the Relief of Unbearable Urges”

Whether external or internal, the conflict is there: in each character’s head—we all have our faults, our desires, those absolutely-gotta-have-urges; unfortunately, when those conflicts bubble to the surface, unsuspecting victims, because of their noble intentions, are permanently scarred; let’s just call this: the boiling point. Nathan Englander’s wonderful short story (which first appeared many years ago in Story) shows us the complexities involved in these types of situations; I’ll divulge the dire consequences soon.

--------------
“No one’s truly free,” I told a prisoner in my classroom. “We all have to answer to someone.”

You’d’ve thought I hit this youngster with an electric cattle prod, such intensity in his eyes and in his voice.

“Seeing what we go through every day,” he replied, “how could you even blow that shit outta your mouth!?!”

I decided to leave him be. No sense in ruffling another jailbird’s feathers. He hadn’t a clue regarding my predicament, nor should it have mattered. But we don’t live our lives inside vacuums; we are the accumulation of our actions and those actions inflicted upon us.
--------------

As for Englander’s story: Dov Binyamin seeks the advice of his Rebbe, a master teacher who advises him to seek out the services of a prostitute. Somewhat taken aback, Dov decides to cruise the streets of Jerusalem in search of his “suggested answer.”

It isn’t until after the dirty deed, until Dov is in the privacy of his own bathroom that his wife calls to him:

“Dovey, please, come out of there. Come lie by me and we’ll talk. Just talk. Come Doveleh, join me in bed.”

Poor Dov. He dropped to his knees from the burning sensation in his loins while his wife asked how she had lost her husband for good?
---------------

Today’s picture is of yours truly relegated to the “Hello Kitty” room.

SHOOTING RUBBER BULLETS

2011-04-25T18:52:00.001-04:00

It wasn’t much fun at first in the dim latrine light, behind the KP shed, even under an old Sherman tank. Just a desperate relief, but I learned some techniques, efficiency, the way to shape my own hungers and lonesome moan. Then I’d collapse and rinse and bag her, store her flat as a poncho under my mattress …
—R.T. Smith, “Boonie Wife”

Yeah, another sexually explosive story; a first person narrative where a Vietnam Vet tells his wife how he managed to stay faithful to her while fighting in the jungle.

As for me, what happened in the prison last week had to be an inside job—HAD TO BE—how else do you explain it? Administration has these monthly fundraisers for various charities—the usual fare: chicken, burgers, red hots—you buy a luncheon ticket and they enter your name into a raffle. I seldom attend, opting to brown bag my meal instead; been doing it that way for the past nineteen years to save money.

Not that I’m complaining about what happened; I certainly didn’t turn down the twenty-five dollar gift card for the AMC theatre; everyone needs an escape, a fantasy, a something … I suspect one of two scenarios: either personnel rigged the drawing, or someone(s) requested my name as a replacement. Probably the latter. I’m starting to view my employer and my coworkers in a different light; their actions speak loud and clear: Michigan Department of Corrections’ employees really do care for one another; we’re family regardless of the circumstances. Thank you for this unselfish act.

Also, I had numerous invites for Easter dinner; all of which I turned down. I told one coworker that I was going to a fish-fry on Friday night.

“Oh yeah?” he responded. “What church?”

“Church?” I answered, somewhat bewildered. “It’s not a church, it’s a gun club.”

We both laughed.

In a follow-up conversation, I told him about my Dad’s advice to another diner regarding manufacturing rubber bullets. This particular gun-club member works as a carpenter in Detroit and he’s tired of having his tools stolen. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “I just want to make them hurt.”

*Today’s photo showcases my own carpentry skills on a 1940’s migrant-workers’-house-turned-storage-shed.

-------------------------
I’d like to send another shout-out to a special friend who offered to bring me a lasagna dinner. You know who you are—you’re the greatest!

Lastly, thanks again Erik, for sending more of those “post-punk” music cds. I have a longer commute and have been listening to the songs—what better way to prepare for eight hours of playtime with Michigan’s finest.

LOST SCARECROW IN AN ANCIENT GARDEN

2011-04-21T17:40:00.001-04:00

I’m playing Solitaire and winning, so why the emotional detachment? I’m in the basement of my parent’s home on my Dad’s antiquated computer (Windows 98, no internet). I’m alone. I’m thinking, where do I go from here? How do I re-establish myself, my identity?

I’m floating around, each night in a different place, each meal a surprise, served with hospitality, yet I know not to stay too long—there’s no sense in getting comfortable or wearing out my welcome. I’ve witnessed diametrically opposed actions: mean-spiritedness & genuine concern (both, of which can get you into trouble).

I’m re-reading some of my favorite short-stories; not in their entirety, nope, only the sections that appease me, like the opening paragraph of Howard Luxenberg’s “Civics Lesson”:

Why would a middle-aged man, a prosperous middle-aged man, a partner in an architectural firm, the father of two – Sarah, 16, and Noah, 10 – husband in good standing to the lovely Rebecca, a man faithful and considerate (but firm when the occasion warranted), a macher in the local conservative synagogue, my long-standing friend or at least the embodiment of those pillared qualities, if not a pillar per se – why would such a man, why would this man, Gideon Stern, place on his lawn a chiseled granite statue of two dogs fucking?

Such a brilliant narrative: how he questions his neighbor’s motives. I needn’t read any further. I already know that Gideon Stern loves his wife; I already know that the “lovely” Rebecca has been fooling around on him. None of which matters to me—I’m not interested in the blow-by-blow, in-your-face arguments, the warring factions—I’m interested in the opening conflict only.

Then there’s Craig Bernthal’s “A Knight Pursued”:

Mark Altschuler awoke, priapic with yearning for his wife, or perhaps, he had to admit, for women in general: after all, what did hormone fluctuations know about loyalty?

Is this coincidental? Are all stories constructed with a tinge of sexual tension? Why am I re-reading stuff dealing with this particular theme … especially now? Is it an escape from my own problems? Is it pure entertainment? Or am I reading for the sake of reading, going through the motions, searching for answers I may never find?

-------------
Status: I am down to 135 pounds, disappearing into an ever-changing routine. Call me a scarecrow lost in an ancient garden. I’ve quit my therapy in exchange for a support group far better. Thank you, Mark and Jodi for all those coffee sessions. Thank you Erik for the Ramones CD (I’ve heard more are on the way). Also, thank you, Michelle for sending good wishes. The list is much longer: I can’t forget my brother and parents, as well as the best man & maid-of-honor on my wedding day for taking me in and feeding me, or the co-worker who let me stay overnight in his house on such short notice. Thank-you all!

SOME SINGLE-BUNK BUNK

2011-04-14T22:36:00.003-04:00

The divorce process isn’t easy, but I’m finding my comfort zone once again from within the razor-sharp concertina wire and surrounding gun towers where I’m logging in my required thirty-two contact hours per week with Michigan’s finest: convicted felons.

The other day an Albanian student approached my desk for an unofficial therapy session. I’ve always been willing to listen to their problems, their ailments, and have at least acted concerned if not offered advice.

“What’s up?” I asked once he slunked down in the chair near my desk.

“I’m having bunky problems,” he answered. He proceeded to tell me how he felt sorry for his bunky. “His family pretty much disowned him,” he claimed. “He doesn’t have any money coming in. I’ve been sharing some of my personal store items: Ramen noodles, soup, coffee, honey buns, potato chips, peanut butter, crackers, you name it.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I asked.

“I do this out of the kindness of my heart,” he continued.

Then I learned about the payoff: All he wanted was for his bunky to shower once in a while.

“He smells really bad. When I confronted him about it, he got all nasty with me. I told him, ‘Look, I’ve been sharing my food with you, I’m not asking for much.’ Still, he acts as if none of what I did for him matters.”

“How long has he been your bunkmate?” I asked.

“Seven months. Seven months I’ve been sharing my food with him.”

I’m thinking to myself: Try eighteen years of building a future with someone. Try eighteen years of supporting someone, letting her have the freedom to make choices regarding not only her lifestyle, but your lifestyle as well—a lifestyle that included fifteen years of involuntary single-bunking. Try eighteen years of sharing everything, of trying to make a relationship work, only to have your partner put her hand up, as if to say, “That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m done. I’m through with you,” and toss you aside like trash ready to be hauled away.

Instead, I tell him, “You can always request a new bunky. Just remember: whoever you get could be worse.”

JOCKEYING FOR POSITION

2011-04-12T20:34:00.001-04:00

This is what I find most encouraging about the writing trades: They’re all mediocre people who are patient and industrious to revise their stupidity to edit themselves into something like intelligence. They also allow lunatics to seem saner than sane.
—Kurt Vonnegut

I have this new student, call him white-boy if you will, kind of looks like a red-faced Chris Daughtry. Anyway, he’s one mad-at-the-world motherfucker.

“How am I gonna get my GED when you’re never here?” he asks me, or should I say BLAMES ME.

I know what I’d like to say, I’d like to ask him “Why’s it so important now you ASSHOLE? It wasn’t important when you were in the public school system.” Instead, I keep my mouth shut.

He continues his rant, about how the tutors aren’t helping him, how the other students are too loud, how he can’t concentrate. He pulls ear plugs out of his waxy orifices for emphasis.

“Look,” I say, “if you really want to learn, you can block out all kinds of noise.” I start fiddling with my wedding ring for—oh, I don’t know—emphasis.

He storms out of the classroom.

An older black prisoner approaches my desk. “You know,” he says, “that guy got his ass tore up by a bunch of young black guys last week.”

“Oh yeah,” I say.

“Yeah, for using the N-word in the dayroom.”

“Really?” I say, displaying my fake-ass disbelief. “He called them a bunch of Nigerians?”

We both start laughing. I tell him about the time I saw a “white lawn jockey” in someone’s front yard. The laughter continues.

"Had to be Detroit," he says.

OBSERVATIONS MADE FROM THE INSIDE

2011-04-09T14:42:00.000-04:00

He don’t know what day it is.

He be pickin’ up signals from the t.v.

Somethin’ runnin’ interference.

He got spiders crawlin’ on him.

I say he hittin’ that crack-pipe too hard.

Look, he staring out the window again. He lost in space.

He in orbit right now.

Lettin’ go of gravity, Teach?

Shit, da wind’ll blow him away.

Shit, he doin’ blow.

He look like one of us, like a gang-banger.

Ah, he okay, long as he don’t walk outta his pants.

Wet his pants, you mean.

He walkin’ outta his skin.

He give new meaning to lightweight, he fright-weight.

He featherweight.

He losing his feathers.

He a cuckoo bird.

Teach a cuckoo bird. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo .

-------------------
These are some of the comments made in my prison classroom this past week. I still put on my game face, my wedding ring, and teach as much as possible.

In the photograph I’m holding up a running t-shirt from my high school days.

REVIEW OF "THE FIRST LINE"

2011-04-05T17:28:00.000-04:00

I’ve read past issues of The First Line, and with all honesty, their spring journal couldn’t’ve been timelier, both economically and personally. Editor David LaBounty explains that their current first line Sam was a loyal employee was his wife’s creation “… sprung from one of her free-writing exercises” where “she was influenced by our current economic conditions.”

Tom Green’s “Cog” centers around the Transglobal Endeavors Collection Agency where Sam “could slip into a kind of auto pilot and coast through the day” making phone calls, most of which people would not answer. Sam surmises that “… if the only way you could reach a person was by phone, you were unimportant,” and rightfully so, because if you did answer a phone call from Transglobal, if you did answer a phone call from Sam, who often referred to himself as a “lowly cog” in the greater scheme of things, then YOU DID BECOME IMPORTANT. Why the contradiction? Because the “lowly cogs” were part of the housing foreclosure process.

In Izzy David’s “The Kiss” Sam, or should I say Samantha Wayne, a minimum wage worker concerned about her ability to pay for college, sarcastically contemplates “selling her body or something.” Samantha cleans her boss’s son’s vomit off the miniature golf green’s cheap ornamental pergola, talks sharply to the boss’s wife and friend, and walks away from a situation, a kiss initiated by her, that if she had thought it through could’ve scored her some real money in a court of law; instead, she quits her job.

But my personal favorite “Windows and Gateways” by Barbara L.W. Meyers reflects unemotional responses, computer-like conditions, and an inevitable separation of employment. In “Windows …” twenty-three year old Samantha D. Thompson promotes to Senior SENO for Tetrix, Inc. for her “uncanny, unnerving, almost eerie ability to anticipate mental connections and trends.” In other words, she’s an expert at helping clients discover what they’re searching for. And why wouldn’t she? SENO is an acronym for “Search Engine & Network Optimization.” Here’s one of my favorite sentences: “And Sam was the colander through which that data was sifted.”

There are five more stories, each cleverly done, and at $4.00 per printed issue, I’d recommend this under-priced journal to anyone interested in breaking into print. Their next submission deadline is May 1st and the first line is: “We need to talk.” With therapist, doctor, and lawyer appointments, along with sound advice from friends, I just might be able to break into the next issue of The First Line myself. Check it out here.

THERAPY IN A COFFEE SHOP

2011-04-02T17:06:00.001-04:00

I met my other therapist a few days ago—not the professionally trained degreed woman skilled at tossing reflexive questions my way—no, I met a Detroit poet at a coffee shop and he said something to the affect of “Smile motherfucker” before snapping this mugshot. He also gave me his son’s Darth-Vader talking-head-stick with four buttons to push when confronted about marital assets or other trivial possessions accumulated over the years of one’s marriage:

Button one: “I had enough.”
Button two: “Don’t underestimate the force.”
Button three: What is thy bidding, my master?”
Button four: “I want them alive!”

I haven’t been served my divorce papers, or whatever they’re called nowadays, but through that magical portal called the internet I discovered the following “Non-April Fool’s Day” filing/charges against yours truly, the listed defendant:

Ex Parte Order for Status Quo – SGD
Ex Parte Mutual Preliminary Injunction Order – SGD
Record of Divorce/Annulment Received
Summons Issued (Expires 7/5/11)
Complaint/Petition Filed
Entry Fee $150.00.

So the process of wiping out 18 years of marriage will soon be nothing more than court proceedings instead of the personal explanation of “I can’t make you happy.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll store it in my memory bank alongside “I don’t hate you, I just don’t love you” and “You’re an excellent father.”

My buttons have been pushed these past few days and I’m trying to hold my head up and move forward. Running every day seems to help.

In case you’re wondering who that Detroit poet is it’s none-other than Mark C. Durfee, author of The Line Between and Stink. He offered me all kinds of retaliatory options, knowing I’d never act on them. “That isn’t your style,” he said, “you have too much care and concern within you. Your petty meanness is stolen from you at your job and she (meaning “my wife”) is fortunate for that, it makes it easy to target you with what she perceives as your failings.”

I’d like to thank Mark for those free sessions. I can’t help but think about my very own “line between”—a reference he made to that short dash on one’s grave-marker, how it represents all our actions between life and death, and I can only hope that my good deeds outweigh my faults.

LIFE IS SHIT

2011-03-31T22:46:00.000-04:00

I’ve been emotionally drained for the past two weeks and I’d tell you that I’m messed up in the head if it couldn’t be used against me, so instead, let me just say this: “Life is shit.” So here’s an old post dealing with “shit” and “religion.”

---------------------------------------

Once upon a time (Hey, why not? Isn’t that how most children’s stories begin?) … Once upon a time an inmate approached my desk to inform me about a school/religious conflict he had. "Wait a minute," I said slightly confused, "the Melanic’s primary service isn’t today."

He smiled that big ugly grill of his and said, "Yeah, I know. I switched my religion. Check my itinerary, my detail, you’ll see that I am now a Muslim."

Real slick bastard. Anything to avoid going to school. He chose religions as if he were at Baskin Robbins picking an ice cream flavor--"What will it be today, sir?" the woman with the religious-ice-cream scoop would ask. Unfortunately, some religious affiliations you can never quit; You’re a lifetime member--good for the lifetime of the member and not the religious group.

The Melanics were instrumental in pummeling a former inmate beyond recognition with a baseball bat right outside the prison weight-pit. When the victim was discovered, the corrections officer began CPR, blowing into a pulverized face, her uniform and CPR mask soaked in blood. He was already dead, overkill, if you asked me.

One week later, this flavor-of-the-day worshipper unintelligibly asked me if he could be excused from class. His explanation: The spotter in the weight-pit forgot to "spot" him and the weights fell on his face. His jaw was obviously broken.

"So are you a Melanic or a Muslim?" I asked. We both knew the answer to that one.

The prisoner kites and dog shit on my wood deck are somewhat related and not meant to be offensive in any way. I’m tolerant of all religions. It's just that … well, I tried to convey my feelings in my intro. I’ve got nothing more to say.

Seeking Closure Amongst the Sharks

2011-03-29T19:26:00.003-04:00

This may sound cruel, but I’ve always tried to find humor in some of the worse possible experiences of the prisoners I teach (maybe it’s a coping mechanism, maybe its faulty thinking on my part for never having visited the darker side of life myself), but lately there’s been nothing but sadness in my heart. Not even now when prisoners say the most outlandish things do I take note. It’s as if their words no longer have meaning; as if our language, our ability to communicate, has reached an impasse. Bottom line: their stories no longer strike a nerve in me. I’m getting to where I don’t give two shits about all the carnage at my feet, as if I’d rather step over it and continue on my lonesome way than get involved.

The prisoners have been noticing physical changes in my appearance, the twenty-plus pounds I’ve lost, the droopy eyelids, the sunken in expression of a beaten man. They’ve eased up arguing with me, the verbal bantering is almost nonexistent; it’s kind of strange.

When you’re in a large fishbowl and you’re dying spirit dangles by a thread, steeping blood in shark invested waters, the feeding frenzy begins. Yet, in my situation, the murders, the rapists, the pedophiles, the dope dealers, the gang bangers, and whomever else I’ve failed to mention, have actually showed compassion toward me. They don’t know exactly what I’m going through, but they’ve shown empathy. Some even think I may be dying. Still, I know not to let my guard down. It’s the nature of the business I’m in.

One older inmate, a black man prone to psychotic episodes, expressed his concerns regarding my lethargy. “You seem down on yourself,” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. What more could I do?

He suggested various medications that have helped him through some dark periods in his life. I listened, but his words rang hollow.

I guess what really sucks is that after logging in over 40,000 hours dealing with convicts, after 19 plus years of coming straight home to what I thought was a happy life, to where I thought I could feel comfortable and share my feelings, everything has changed. I feel like I no longer have anything to show for all those days I worked to build my future. My biggest mistake: I let my guard down not at prison but at home. I’ve been told that the life I had been living for the past 15 years was nothing more than an illusion, a flat-out lie. And now it hurts. I’ve heard of plans to have the locks changed on my house. I’ve heard about seeing if I could be committed to a hospital. I’ve discovered that others knew my marital finality beforehand, yet no one spoke up, no one warned me for fear that I might “hurt myself” or “others.”

I have become another statistical blip on the map, a soon to be divorced father. Yes, I’m bitter, but I’m also glad to have seen my daughter grow up. I’ve been told that I’m an excellent father and that no, contrary to what I may think, I am not “hated”—I’m just not “loved” and it’s been that way for 15 years—no intimacy, no passion, no nothing. The fruits of my labor will now go to pay lawyers' fees and court costs. Such is life in a civilized society.

SMILE, SAY CHEESE!

2011-03-24T21:55:00.001-04:00

Here’s my Dad at my age,
in much happier times …

Maybe it was the economy
and a delicious piece of
German Chocolate cake?

But I’m not the Cake Boss,
No, I’m Colby Jack Ass—

I’ve reached my expiration date.

And I, to be that naive,
to bite into a bad piece
of moldy cheese.

Do me a favor, I suggested,
hire one food inspector
to decide each item’s fate.

Here’s my Dad … at my age,
with Mom … out of the picture
for all the right reasons, together,
strong as the sunrise, more heat
then my short-wicked candles
flamed-out 16 years earlier.

A prearranged activity,
whose planner does not shed
a single tear, but snaps the picture:

Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year
After Year After Year After
Year After Year After Year

until boredom kills the effort,
until I say cheese no more.

*Currently listening to Cowboy Junkies "You Will Be Loved Again" from the caution horses.

Preventive Health Care for Risky Behavior

2011-03-19T23:11:00.001-04:00

I am neither a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, nor a bleeding-heart liberal; I’m probably somewhere in the common-sense middle. I see nothing wrong with my employer’s stance regarding the medical attention of Michigan’s prisoners (they do their best); yet, Detroit Free Press Editorial Writer Jeff Gerritt would like you to believe otherwise.

It’s probably not in my best interest to use the exact name of a convicted-felon housed at the facility where I work, or to mention the specifics of his medical condition (we are not privy to that sort of information, unless spit on or bit); however, since it’s already been made public by none other than Prisoner Ivan Charles Hart himself (there, I said his name and not the six aliases on his rap sheet), I guess I’ll just blurt it out: HE HAS A FOOTBALL-SIZED ABDOMINAL HERNIA!

Now don’t get me wrong, if I were in Hart’s shoes and had the opportunity to use the Detroit Free Press as my healthcare advocate, I’d jump all over it. And even though Mr. Gerritt states that the Michigan Department of Corrections denied his request to photograph Hart’s stomach, guess what?—a non-credited picture somehow found its way into print. Again, if it were my hernia (heck, I had double-hernia surgery last spring) and if I had no way of paying for the surgery ($24,000 mesh screen to hold the organs in place), than I’d do whatever it takes to plead my case, including a smuggled photograph.

In the article, Dr. Jeffrey Stieve, MDOC’s chief medical officer says, “While it’s shocking to see because it’s so large, it’s a very safe hernia.” Also, he states that surgery would produce a risk of bowel adhesions (complications, I presume, from a colostomy bag on the other side of his stomach), but that if Prisoner Hart would like to pay for the surgery, healthcare would do it.

It isn’t until the end of Gerritt’s editorial that we learn the origin of Hart’s hernia: two abdominal surgeries (free of charge?) “for gun shot wounds he sustained in 2000 and 2008.” The colostomy bag came as a result of his 2008 gun shot wound. I’m fairly sure each surgery contributed in keeping Hart alive.

No where in Gerritt’s editorial does he mention Hart’s rap sheet. I’ll include it here:

October 20, 2000: Home Invasion (1st Degree).

March 7, 2008: Carrying a concealed weapon & Assault/Resisting a Police Officer.

May 18, 2008: Felony Firearms, Home Invasion (1st Degree) & Assault with a Dangerous Weapon.

So, my question to you: Should my employer perform the surgery? Or should they continue to monitor his health for future complications?

*Side note: Two coworkers sustained injuries this week from a highly assaultive prisoner. One suffered a face bite, and the other suffered a thumb bite. Hope you guys have a speedy recovery.

Fixodent, the Sleet Lady, & Ivan Prokopchuk

2011-03-16T19:20:00.000-04:00

While walking my dog along the shoulder of a busy road Saturday morning, I saw a mini-van in a deep ditch, parallel parked, its doors kissing the ravine, its windows caked with dry mud—a telltale sign that it had been there overnight. Don’t ask me why, but I thought I’d get a little closer, investigate, checkout the damage.

Then I saw movement inside and had to get involved. So I extended the dog leash while lowering myself down the embankment. I tapped on the driver’s side window. “Are you okay in there?” The driver, an elderly woman (probably in her early 70’s, I’m not good with ages) lifted her head from the steering wheel and managed to crack the door. “You okay?” I asked.

I had difficulty understanding her because her dentures kept popping out of her mouth and she kept pushing them back in with each slurred syllable. I think she said something about a “tow truck” and “waiting.” Later, my wife, who is infinitely smarter when it comes to science, explained that alcohol dissolves Fixodent.

Anyway, as I climbed out of the muck, a vehicle pulled over and two women got out and approached me. I told them about the lady trapped inside, that I didn’t have a cell phone. They volunteered to make the necessary phone calls. Realizing that I had done my part as the first responder, I dismissed myself from the situation.

As I continued on my walk, I could hear sirens in the distance and knew that everything was under control.

Today’s photograph is titled: “Harry Wentworth’s Stockcar, Owendale Speedway – 1975.” His son (leaning on the car) was the gun-toting kid in my flash memoir “The Trigger Man & His Accomplice” at Sleet Magazine. I’m the kid standing next to him. Speaking of Sleet Magazine, the Sleet Lady is back with a brand new Spring Issue coming up (click here ).

Lastly (but most important), Canadian Writer Ivan Prokopchuk checked himself into a hospital a few days ago. Hopefully he’ll be feeling better soon. Send your regards here .

R.I.P. "Cocoon Man"

2011-03-12T06:29:00.001-05:00

I’m starting to wonder whether my minimalist approach to flash-fiction is a contributing factor to all those rejection letters. Or am I “not getting it?” Or do I need one of those MFA’s (aka My Friends’ Association)? Or am I just plain too stubborn? Here’s the latest:

JR,

We love you. We really do. Thanks for sending “Cocoon Man” for the FF500 contest. Unfortunately, we are going to pass. Yes, we suck, we know. We are happy to say that your piece made the top 10, and it was a difficult top 10 to choose from.

Now go get this piece published. Like right now.

Best and always,

Mel Bosworth & Tina Prouhet
Editors of Flash Fire 500

Everybody “seems” to love “Cocoon Man” but nobody wants to publish it. Maybe it’s time to lay it to rest. If the Journal of MicroLiterature rejects it, then I'm going to request DNR status.

"Under the Bridge" & "Polaroid"

2011-03-09T08:52:00.000-05:00

Here are two poems, one new and one old. There seems to be a common theme about disappearing, or so I think. Or are they just nostalgic words longing for yesterday? I’m not sure.

Under the Bridge

That evening under the bridge,
with a calm summer breeze against
pendulummed feet, we talked.

Of what? I don’t recall. Our sentences:
dream-bubble-currents churned
in the undertow below.

My actions were set in stone that day,
call it Houdini-speak, how I would not
tell you about my vanishing act.

Like that bottle of wine we uncorked and drank
then tossed near the breakwall only to be
consumed again.

Eighteen winters later, with bloodlines drawn,
there’s no message in that bottle, no Ouija board
or séance to be held, only spring’s thaw—

Where water rushes inward and pushes back the vowels
as I think about what you would have said, what you did say,

“I object—”

And for one brief moment down on Emerald Street,
I thought I saw my open-mouthed smile pressed
against the surface of your eye.

Polaroid

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.

*Currently listening to the Moody Blues "Days of Future Passed."

"DEAD GIRL, LIVE BOY"

2011-03-05T11:35:00.001-05:00

Why am I smiling? Why am I perfectly content with the image of an unwed mother and child, devoid of a father-figure, walking along Lake St. Clair, a lake that Michelle Brooks, author of “Dead Girl, Live Boy” describes in her novella as “a body of water that is beautiful in all seasons, but as polluted as a septic tank and unfit for swimming”? Why is it that I’m almost certain that that unwed mother is still wearing a wedding ring she stole from an ex-boyfriend, a wedding ring once adorning the finger of his dead wife? “I stole it because he kept it in this pretty little box like she was the most special thing in the world.”

In “Dead Girl, Live Boy,” the narrator, Josette, a social worker for Planned Parenthood and one-time Detroit auto show model, tells us about her ordeal as the legal guardian of her older brother Josh, a self-mutilator who “carved a grin underneath his mouth.” Together, both brother and sister have formed this toxic relationship where childhood games of “Head on a Stick” and “The Ceiling or the Floor,” have left them in perpetual survival mode, and for good reason: the childhood trauma they suffered at the hands of their father. We discover early on that something is seriously amiss with this family when their mother, who had wanted to keep their outward appearances intact, had warned them not to get into bed with their father. Josette says, “We never crawled into bed with him, but I can’t say we were always good at keeping him out of ours.”

You can’t help but feel the shockwaves, one ripple after another, as Josette self-medicates herself with prescription drugs (Vicodan, Fiorcette, codeine, xanax, valium, darvocette, percodan, Demerol …) and alcohol, has reckless sex, and finally admits how messed up her life has become. Her confession: “… I have a terrible fear of choking and yet I swallow more shit than anyone I know.” Her continuous need for companionship, to not be alone in the world, extends beyond her damaged brother to a married man, the married man’s son, and a bartender. None of which bring joy to her life. Her self-realization: “Is this what it means to be burned out—to be somewhere and not be somewhere? To do something well and not feel it? That would encompass most of my sex life.” Her fear of getting old: “…I dream that I have aged overnight, my dark circles blacker, my hair cut into layers, my skin grey and worn. In the dream, I tell myself that I have to accept how I look, that this new look must become what I consider beautiful, that I must live with it.”

Brooks’s fictional narrative has a dark, spooky edge to it—and why not? It takes place in Detroit from Halloween to Christmas—“… the season of rotting jack-o-lanterns, fallen leaves, the coming winter which always last longer than a person can endure …” Josette explains, “It’s strange to think that neither one of us has ever lived anywhere else, so the city acts as its own haunted house, memories like ghosts, lingering and ready to make you feel their chill the minute you stop expecting them.”

I guess what really intrigues me about “Dead Girl, Live Boy” is the imagery and foreshadowing throughout. One such example is the brother’s reaction to Josette’s divorce: “Josh hung up on me and sent me an e-mail the next day that had an attachment about a man who’d stabbed his girlfriend and buried her alive. She’d crawled out of her grave and arranged to break into a house and call 911 before passing out.” Another grave yard reference occurs earlier when Josette talks about her future ten years from now and how her parents may be dead by then: “I know that I will visit their graves often, if for nothing else, to make sure they’re still in them.” With lines like that, how can you not feel uncomfortable? How could you not want to see the aftermath of this train wreck in the making?

I strongly recommend that you read “Dead Girl, Live Boy” by my former mentor, Michelle Brooks. She’s one hell of a writer. It’s been five years since I sat in her fiction writing class, but I’m stilling learning from her and hope to one day collaborate on a project, even if it’s to shag coffee and sharpen pencils. Here’s the link if you’re interested in purchasing her novella: Storylandia presents: "Dead Girl, Live Boy".

Unsustainable Me & The Smooth Operator

2011-03-02T18:04:00.001-05:00

In light of what’s going on in other Midwestern states, I’m glad I received a reassuring email from Michigan’s Governor Rick Snyder regarding his, or as he claims “our” 10-point plan that was “endorsed” by the voters (or so he says). I’m not quite sure Michigan’s senior citizens would have voted for him if he had revealed his, I mean “our” plan to tax pensions—maybe that was an 11th item and he ran out of space on his website dashboard. Anyway, Snyder said the following in his email:

Tough decisions do not have to be polarizing. Michigan is not Wisconsin. We have a heritage of working together, in good faith …

Good faith? I’m not too sure about that. Sounds kind of like Pollyanna playing the glad game. Contracts have been broken in the past, why would I, or any other unionized worker, trust another politician? Why would anybody?

In his email he justifies his comments about public employees making too much:

I presented data on total compensation (salary, wages, pension benefits and health insurance benefits) because my point was not to make an apples-to-apples jobs comparison but instead take a look at how total public compensation compares to the total compensation of the working public that supports government.

The college kid who takes my order at Subway, he’s part of that “working public.” I’m sure he disapproves of my salary because he's making less and besides he's more concerned with trying to improve his future job prospects. Also, I’m willing to bet he doesn’t “support government” the way Snyder might think he does. Not that the Subway kid is on my side either; he would probably enjoy telling me, “Mr. Convict Teacher, do you know how much college tuition has increased? Do you?” No sympathy there. I guess I should be perfectly content to get my Italian Sub minus the spittle.

Near the end of Snyder’s email he says:

The state cannot afford to pay such a high percentage of health care premiums, nor absorb all of the escalating costs from outmoded defined benefit pension plans.

Now I’m concerned. I have a defined benefit pension. What is the governor saying? They’re going to make me a deal I can’t refuse? (Which word or words do I place the emphasis on in that last question?) As for kicking thee old proverbial can down the road, once pensions go the way of the dinosaur, the politicians will need to find something else to tax.

DAE-DAE AND HIS REPLACEMENT

2011-02-26T12:24:00.001-05:00

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
—Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”

This is what’s left of Dae-Dae: A crumpled up self-portrait I dug out of the trash. He’s been missing in action. He’s in a red cell. They gassed his stomach because he swallowed eight AAA batteries. He’s internalizing his demons; letting them move inward from his arms and shoulders which sport years of cutting. Still, mental healthcare staff is unimpressed with his latest antics.

“We got one guy in 5-block,” a male nurse tells us in the employee lunchroom, “who swallowed an entire electrical box. He had to have it surgically removed.”

Impressive is an understatement; we are in awe.

In my first hour classroom I have this new student, Dae-Dae’s replacement. He sits on the opposite side of my desk and uses its surface to do his assignments. With each stroke of his pencil, with each calculation, he begs encouragement. Guided practice has become the norm. He’s too serious about perfection to make decisions on his own and rarely smiles.

One day I crack a joke and for the first time he laughs—not one of those small self-controlled chuckles, no, his laugh is guttural, rises up from the belly and splashes across the room like a tidal wave.

That’s when I noticed his forked-tongue. “What in the hell ever possessed you to do that?” I asked.

He tells me about his past employment in a tattoo shop, how a regular customer encouraged him to have it done.

“That had to hurt like hell,” I said.

“It swelled up pretty good,” he acknowledged, “but you’d be surprised how fast the body heals.”

His conversation turns personal. He tells me about his ailments, his hobbies, how he misses being with family. I let him have this moment. I continue listening. I consider it an investment in his education.

When class has ended I wonder about Dae-Dae. I know he’ll return as soon as he passes those batteries, as soon as another space becomes available in my classroom.

A Compendium of Voices: DVQ, Issue 8, Vol.3

2011-02-21T15:41:00.004-05:00

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Disclaimer: Although my story “FindYourMate.com” appeared in a previous issue of Diverse Voices Quarterly, I do believe my views here are impartial. You are more than welcome to leave a comment at the end of this review.
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Diverse Voices Quarterly, Issue 8, begins with Antonia Crane’s “Pleasures,” a first person narrative about dying and tempting fate. The narrator avoids the inevitable: a road trip home to see her terminally ill mother, opting instead to perform on a “rusty metal pole” inside a strip club. She knows she can’t compete with the younger dancers who have “legs like blades of Texas Blue Grass and slim pointy ankles,” but doesn’t seem to mind attracting an odd assortment of older gentlemen for their money.

In Gene McCormick’s “Horace Reads the Wall Street Journal,” Horace isn’t reading the newspaper at all because Emma—presumably his wife?—unintentionally elevates household chores to an enticing, yet subtle, strip-tease: Bending over, pushing, pulling, reaching.

It isn’t until A. Frank Bower’s wedding anniversary story “White Lies,” where two married couples argue inside a family restaurant, that we suffer our first repulsive gut shot of tasteless porn-dialogue. Perhaps in choosing this story, the editor of DVQ wants to showcase a wide-range of sexual tension between an array of fictional characters. If so, I’m not sure this piece fits.

Thankfully, the next two poems serve as romantic-interludes, alleviating or toning-down this tension:

Roger Perez Jr.’s “Any Thing Left”: Tulips injected into the granite / with little soil, whisper and remind / me of our first stare, and Raina Lauren Fields “love as a flipbook”: of curiously fondled covers, of slow-turned / pages, until he & i are no longer sipping / warm wine from plastic cups.

Interestingly enough, K.W. Taylor’s flash fiction piece “Phlegmatic” resolves a boyfriend / girlfriend conflict of epic proportion but does so with civility and understanding; whereas Janet Thornburg’s “Musical Tables” (my personal favorite) demonstrates the complexities involved in a platonic relationship where the narrator’s true feelings are symbolically revealed at the closing of her 40-year class reunion.

Relationships, authentic feelings, near the end of DVQ, Issue 8, shift gears, having turned mechanical with Adam Crittenden’s two poems: “A Moment in the Life of the Tin Man’s Girlfriend” and “Zombie.” From the first poem: But you are sterile, you’ve always been, / and I am left with the mess / and an oil can. From the second: he lays down / with lazy eyes he remembers / what she had said earlier / it seems like we are going / through the motions. The emotional impact of these words, although held in check, pack more wallop in the closing pages and heighten the awareness of each piece.

Overall, the placement of each story and each poem in DVQ, Issue 8, makes for an interesting read and is one of the editor’s best efforts yet of displaying a good cross-section of diverse voices and tolerances. As for the digital layout, DVQ, is comparable to other e-journals but lacks an interactive table of contents. I found myself having to bookmark my favorites, which, if you really think about it, isn’t such a bad thing. I would highly recommend this free e-journal to anyone interested in poetry and/or fiction. Fire-up your e-readers. Here’s the link: Diverse Voices Quarterly, Issue 8

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*Note to self: With spring just around the corner, I will be posting more poetry—new & old. You've been warned.

PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS: A LOVE STORY

2011-02-12T10:10:00.000-05:00

I’m not easily offended. So when our former prison librarian stood outside my classroom ready to apologize for something she had said, I told her, “Hey, you’re entitled to your opinion. You needn’t apologize.” Whatever it was wasn’t important—if it were, I would have remembered. Then, as a peace offering that wasn’t necessary, she told me she wanted to give me her dead ex-husband’s neckties. I could see the tears welling-up; I could see she was ready to lose it, right there, right then, in the hallway, in full view of the inmates inside my classroom. After an awkward moment of nonverbal reassurance, I said, “I love ties. Just drop them off at the front desk tomorrow and I’ll pick them up.”

Afterward, some of the inmates commented about how the librarian, fifteen years my senior, had the hots for me. I dismissed such nonsense. Coming from them, a woman who talks to you is looking for one thing and one thing only. Their delusional fantasies get the better of them, get them into trouble. I told them not to speak disrespectfully about my coworker. To shut up.

From what I could gather, but I’m not exactly sure of the arrangement, or the specifics, the librarian had remarried her ex-husband so he could get healthcare benefits. Whether they were able to conceal his pre-existing condition, I’ll never know. What I do know is this: She had referred to him as “the ex-husband,” even after his death. I often wondered why she took him back, why she was willing to go through all that suffering with him.

I did wear those damn neckties. Not that I had wanted to. Why would I give a prisoner an easy opportunity to strangle me? Perhaps I wore those neckties for moral support because, from my observations, the librarian seemed very lonely, very sad, and somewhat isolated from her coworkers. But I didn’t wear those neckties for long. The librarian had been placed under investigation for allegedly performing oral sex on her library clerk, an inmate doing a life sentence. I didn’t want to believe it. F**king convicts stirring up trouble, that's what I thought. I guess I was in denial. After all, inmates will prey on your loneliness, they’ll suck you into their games, they’ll try to make you feel special. She had messed up royally and now other inmates wanted a piece of the action. A denied piece of ass meant snitch kites to the inspector, which in turn created a dangerous situation for everyone involved, thus the investigation.

In the end, the librarian either quit her job or was fired. Last I heard, she married the library clerk and to this very day visits him regularly. My questions are: 1) How much suffering and loneliness can a person endure? And 2) At what point is love no longer worth the effort?

MOOSEHEAD: A MIDWESTERN TRAGEDY

2011-02-09T17:48:00.003-05:00

Everyone’s impressed with that Chrysler / Eminem Super Bowl Commercial: Imported from Detroit; but it’s not the Motor City I’ve grown accustomed to—heck, there’s more brand identification in that cheesy, glittery, ball-dropping “D” used to ring in the New Year: a decline in education, a decline in jobs, and/or a decline in pay. Everything going down down down except prices. Try buying a new vehicle under those circumstances; might be easier stealing one.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to be a Detroiter, which includes those outer-rings of suburbia. Who doesn’t need a good conversation piece when out of town?

“Where’re you from?” a stranger might ask.

“Detroit,” I’d answer, which is code for yeah, I’m a badass, don’t mess with me … I’m so baaaad I’m gonna go all Bollywood on you by chirping that ridiculous song by T-Baby:

“It’s So Cold in the D.”

—Why?

—Well, why not?

I’m no more of a badass then your grandmother, or your elderly neighbor. The only difference: I’ve seen the worst product of human potentional enter my classroom on a daily basis.

First, let me apologize for the T-Baby link. It’s a poorly executed song paying homage to yet another dead body, another homicide stat—I’m fairly certain the guy in the video didn’t choke on a hotdog at the Coney Island. If “It's so Cold in the D” is really about some fallen victim of the streets of Detroit then he’s definitely turning over in his grave. It’s a shame when someone fails in their attempt to elevate the aftermath of murder into an “art form.” You’d be better off watching Detroit 187.

My “D” consists of public school failures who think they’re the cat’s meow, who think they’ve got nine-lives. I’ve got this student, can’t spell for shit, he’s been working on his memoir—as if people are dying to know all about his troubled past. He doesn’t think he needs an education.

“Hey teach,” he says, “how do you spell juice?”

“It rhymes with moose,” I answer. I continue with my paperwork.

“How do you spell moose?”

“M-O-O-S-E.”

He’s busy writing each letter. An older gentleman, waiting for the finished product, takes a peek. “Hey teach,” he says, “I think he just spelt goose.”

It’s definitely cold in the “D.” Not all high school dropouts can become millionaire rappers. But there's still hope for Detroit. Check out the following link for more on the gritty, real Detroit:

http://www.palladiumboots.com/exploration/detroit .

Give Me a Roethlisberger, Hold the Pickle

2011-02-06T09:58:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure why I waited or if it would have even mattered, but I started reading Stephen M.R. Covey’s “The Speed of Trust,” a self-help book given to me by management over the summer. I decided to read the book not out of necessity or obligation; At least that’s what I’d like to believe. I started reading it because of one particular incident that has left me, as they’d say in baseball, “in a pickle.”

Here is what I did: I informed an employee that it wasn’t a good idea to offer up a fellow coworker’s name for whatever problems arose in their shared workspace, especially when questioned in the office area. Before I could finish, she made it known that my advice meant nothing.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t. I sincerely believe my intentions were noble. I told her there’s a certain individual who listens to everything we say and communicates that knowledge to the inmates. She knew exactly who I was referring to, and yeah, I mentioned his name. As I walked away, another coworker said, “You’d’ve been better off sticking your tongue in a light socket.”

Before I tell you how I got ostracized, let me point out Covey’s three factors involving intent: motive, agenda, and behavior. He asks, “Are you going to trust someone who could really care less about you … or about work … or about principles, or values, or anyone or anything else?”

Reflecting back, this may have been where I made my biggest mistake. I thought I was protecting a coworker from having her business freely shared with prisoners, information that could be used to manipulate policies and procedures and ultimately compromise the safety of the institution.

In the book I learned about Covey’s two categorizations for agenda: 1). Mutual benefit and 2) Self-serving. He claims that “The Speed of Trust” is greatest when seeking mutual benefit.

I agree. Not once did I think about how advising my coworker would benefit me. Not once. And within two days it became quite clear that as far as mutual benefit (which I intended) there was zilch, nada, zero. I’ve learned long ago how to navigate volatile situations; unfortunately, in this case, my speed of trust traveled from one coworker to another, who in turn, told the office worker, who in turn, confronted me.

“Did you tell so and so that I was talking about her to the prisoners?” he asked outside my classroom door.

“You talk about everybody in front of the prisoners,” I replied.

“You’re a fucking idiot!” he yelled.

Wow! I think that Trust-Mobile careened out of control and rolled into the ditch. My students heard the name calling and started laughing.

But it doesn’t end there! Next, the office worker called the boss at home (who does that?) to say that I stirred the pot by telling a female employee that he made sexual remarks about her in front of the prisoners.

Huh? What?

The plot thickens, the rumor mill’s now at full production: his informant, the one who may have twisted my message … gulp … there’s allegations … gulp … there’s subtle hints—hell, I don’t know what to make of any of this—that there’s been an affair … enough drama.

I’ll finish the &*#@*!!! Book and keep my mouth shut. I’ve seen too much crap jump off in prison to get involved in this kind of horseshit. From now on, the only time I’ll speak out is when an inmate is waving a lock in a sock at an unsuspecting coworker.

Lesson learned.

As for football: Pittsburgh will punish Green Bay with a slow, steady ground attack.

... AN' HERE I GO

2011-02-03T18:11:00.000-05:00

Dolly Parton said it best: “Here you come again.” At least that was the song running through my head when I received the latest memorandum from the Michigan Department of Education. Here’s what the Director of the Office of Professional Preparation Services had to say regarding my Professional Educator Certification Renewal Application:

We wish to acknowledge your renewal application … blah blah blah … OPPS is in the process of transitioning from the License 2000 (L2K) educator certification database to the new Michigan Online Educator Certification System (MOECS). At this time OPPS is not accepting paper applications. The old system was retired December 1, 2010. Applicants cannot apply for renewal until the MOECS pilot begins on February 8, 2011.

Next, I was instructed to initiate the renewal process by self-registering for a MEIS account, then registering for a MOECS account where I can pay the $160 fee by credit card.

Okay, so now I have two more online accounts to register for, two more online accounts that will need my personal information. I started this renewal process in October 2010 where I had to create an account with Learn Port and transfer my information to another MDE account to get credit toward my new teaching certificate; correct me if I’m wrong but that’s a total of 4 accounts (so far). I learned fairly quickly that the Learn Port site is unsecured; in fact, I was able to peruse the home addresses of other public school teachers and school principals. If you’re curious as to my address, fat chance: it’s a prison address.

In order to keep my job I’ve jumped through all these hoops the Michigan Department of Education “gurus” or “post-hole diggers” or better yet “pile higher and deeper” education doctors have invented. I’m not too thrilled about continuously having to create new accounts on the internet, knowing all too well that personal information is stolen all the time. After jumping through their hoopity-doopity-doos (what other options do I have?) I will once again request that they make “the year I was born” inaccessible to the masses. They, on the other hand, will fail to see how this reeks of ageism. The older I get, the more cantankerous I get (not that I’ve aged much: see photo taken today).

I have until June to complete this renewal process and, hopefully once it’s completed, the MDE will send my new certificate promptly, as well as update their verification website of teacher certification. I’d hate to be escorted from the prison school building … again … as if I were an outlaw … which seemed more important at the time than dealing with an employee arrested for DUI … had to bury that one under the table … no sense in getting juiced … no sense in revving up the V-8.

FROM BEHIND THE OBSERVATION GLASS

2011-01-30T08:44:00.000-05:00

As I was checking my email in the recreation director’s office overlooking the gymnasium, a fairly large inmate under the immediate supervision of a psychologist decked another inmate and stomped on his face … repeatedly. Friday mornings, I had learned, were not a good time to be in that area; mental health staff held therapy sessions for five block then, and by the looks of what went down—one older prisoner with shoe imprints and blood all over his head—I’m not sure I wanted to be anywhere near what I’d like to call the criminally insane. From the office window I observed the corrections officers escorting the attacker from the gymnasium. What had been so disturbing about the incident wasn’t so much the perpetrator’s non-emotional response toward his violent behavior as much as the blank expressions of the other mentally disturbed prisoners. It was as if they were incapable of making a connection with what had just happened. “Hey,” a person with most of his faculties might think, “that could’ve been me! I could’ve had my head squished like a tomato!”

I’m not sure how those therapy sessions work. How does mental health staff suppress the inmates’ demons, when do they say, “So and so can function in the general population,” and who is held responsible when those demons are unleashed on staff?

Currently I have a rather unique student, an older gentleman, in one of my morning classes. He’s been riding a roller coaster of emotions since I’ve met him; one minute he’ll tell me that I’m the best teacher he’s ever had; the next minute I’m the son-of-a-bitch keeping him from getting his education. There’s no middle ground with this guy. He’s scheduled for med-lines three times a day and has admitted to having psychotic episodes. I’ve learned not to joke with him anymore because he’ll engage me in laughter; he’ll say something funny and laugh himself, and then at the drop of a coin he’ll say, “You think this shits funny, don’t you? I’m not here for your entertainment!” And I’m thinking where the hell did that come from? It was his joke. It’s not always easy navigating the land-mines of the mentally ill, but I’ve learned to acknowledge their fears and frustrations and to do it from more than one arms length away. I’ve seen how quickly someone can suffer head trauma and I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure it isn’t me.

I'M BRINGING OUT THE BOO!

2011-01-27T16:31:00.004-05:00

When an employee tries to sneak a can of V8 juice past the gate officer, his actions speak loud and clear: HE DOESN’T GIVE TWO-SHITS ABOUT HIS COWORKERS.

When a sergeant catches him trying to weasel through the gate traffic, he asks him if he’d like to have his throat slit from the metal.

Of course, the question is a silly one because no reasonable person wants a Columbian Necktie, and let’s be honest here, Mr. V8 would not intentionally discard the tin can after drinking its contents; he’d do the responsible thing; he’d simply place the can in a trash receptacle for an inmate-porter to dispose of properly. I’m sure that if you pointed out the error in Mr. V8’s actions, he’d come up with a simple solution; he’d say, “I’ll take it back through the gate and dispose of it at home.”

Oh, I’m sure everyone’s thinking: Hey, he’s our coworker; we should give him the benefit of the doubt, just like he gives us with the dozens of music cd’s he leaves on his desk overnight. He’s got quite a nice collection, and he has, in good faith, put his trust in his fellow heavy-metal-music-loving-coworkers not to steal any of his cd’s. I, along with my head-banging peers (and I’m most certain of this), know beyond a shadow of a doubt that most of the prison population does not prefer such high-testosterone, devil-worshipping noise, and even if they did, they don’t have cd players; which means they’ve got very little motive for performing a five-fingered discount.

In conclusion, I can assure you that if Mr. V8 had brought in a bunch of rap cd’s—and let’s not be racist here, let’s include Eminem, let’s include Betty Boo (yeah, I know, it’s a stretch)—then I, along with my coworkers, would not only bleed from our ears, but from our jugulars as well.

INCOMING, ANOTHER OXYGEN-WASTER

2011-01-25T16:46:00.001-05:00

“He went from kid to adult in prison, probably really quickly, too,” Coleman’s lawyer James Galen Jr., said outside court while flanked by Coleman’s family. “If Coleman is the rapist police say he is, I have to wonder if we didn’t create a monster by putting him in the Michigan Department of Corrections at such a tender age.”

Detroit Free Press, January 25, 2011.

You’ve got to be joking? To imply that my employer is somehow responsible for making Raynard Coleman what he is today is just plain ludicrous. The only thing my employer did that was detrimental to ex-felon Coleman is take his DNA before he paroled; a DNA sample that, according to police, links him to six out of seven rapes in Detroit. My employer is not in the business of raising teenagers; my employer’s goal is to see to it that Coleman, as well as other prisoners, serve at least their minimum sentences, if not more. The ultimate responsibility of “doing the right thing” falls on the shoulders of Coleman himself. Perhaps my employer was too easy on him; giving him three hots, a cot, weight-pit, sports activities, television, church (including bingo), and various self-help programs. It’s fairly obvious that he’s still a man-child who needs constant supervision. I guess fourteen years of lock-up isn’t enough. Unfortunately, when he returns to prison he will be high-fiving his buddies, while my peers will be shaking their heads and saying, “Another oxygen-waster has returned.”

CARAMEL & BUTTERSCOTCH

2011-01-20T17:14:00.000-05:00

“You wanna get someone good …” Prisoner Bismarck half-asks, half-suggests, referring to the flash-fiction piece I just read to the entire class, “… use sugar.” This leads to a discussion about caramelizing sugar. “White sugar is for making caramel,” he says, “and brown sugar is for butterscotch.”

The flash-fiction piece that generated this discussion is called “Hot Chocolate & Microwaves.” You can read it at Staccato by clicking here .

Comments are strongly encouraged at their website.

Thank you, Matthew Boyd, Editor of Staccato.

FROM THE BULLY PULPIT

2011-01-18T16:22:00.001-05:00

I don’t know why I read the newspaper. Maybe it’s because of all those perks and guilty pleasures I get; I’m speaking about MLK Day, how I had the day off, how I scanned the Detroit Free Press and discovered that as an employee for the State of Michigan I should be ashamed of myself. I’m speaking about the front page article: “State Workers Holiday Perks Could Be Cut.” I learned that not only should I not have MLK Day off; I should not have the day after Thanksgiving either. No surprise there, when you take into consideration the Detroit newspaper’s union busting past.

But I’m a convict-teacher. I work year round. What about all those educators in our public schools? Summers off! Winter break! Spring break! How dare they! Funny thing is: our puzzle palace, aka Lansing, can’t even fund the mandates placed on our public schools. Or so they have said.

Not too long ago they found a surplus of school money; unfortunately, they don’t want to spend it on education; reminds me of the extra 3% of my salary earmarked for healthcare—money they want to steer into the general coffer, but then my union and the courts got involved; now the 3% is in escrow, waiting to be spent on—get this—not balancing the budget, but on our healthcare costs! Shame on us public employees. How dare we question their motives! How many private companies filled in their budgetary gaps with their employees’ healthcare funds? Makes you wonder.

Today’s sketch is titled: Michael Vick’s Pit Bull.

CATFISH TALK

2011-01-13T18:26:00.001-05:00

There are, and there are not, situations, predicaments, hassles, aggravations, or just plain happenings that I’m willing to tolerate. The occasional serial murderer roaming the school hallway: I’m okay with that; the under-medicated schizophrenic staring out my classroom window while conversing with no one: Fine by me; or the false accusations on prisoner grievance forms suggesting I be fired effective immediately: Is that the best you can do?

But here’s what I never signed up for: 1) The Lansing State Journal publishing my name and salary in their paper because they felt the public had “a right to know” and 2) The Michigan Department of Education providing my age to potential employers so they can decide whether to interview me. Do you think Michigan’s Governor Snyder, otherwise known as “One Tough Nerd,” thinks revealing such information is okay?—and if so, perhaps he’ll suggest that the private sector follow suit or suffer the misery of higher taxes. Fat chance.

Some folks may argue that that’s the price you pay for being a public employee. Freedom of speech becomes freedom to target … FYI becomes the right to personal information. Look, I’m told, Governor Snyder no longer makes his own decisions regarding his investments because he wants transparency in government. Am I that gullible? Are the Chinese? Maybe we have something in common with the Chinese; maybe we don’t have a choice anymore.

And now, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, along comes Spokeo. “We’re not your grandmother’s phone book,” they advertise. So I checked-out their website, I typed in my name and hit return, and said, “Hot-diggity-damn!” Joe Q Public has access to my home address, phone number, approximate house value, and wife’s name, and get this: for a small nominal fee Spokeo will reveal much more. Just what I need: some ex-felon with an ax to grind (physically, if not metaphorically) sitting on my front porch. Fortunately I had the option of removing my personnel information from their digital phonebook. Insert one finger in the dike, no “Wiki-Leak” here. There’ll be more holes to fill, I’m sure of that.

For all you facebookers out there, I strongly recommend the documentary “Catfish.” Go rent it ASAP! Deactivate. Reinvent. Reactivate. It’s all good! Mustn’t be complacent like live codfish exported to China. We need more catfish to keep us agile.

THE HOLE I HAD DUG & WHAT I HAD BURIED

2011-01-10T15:18:00.001-05:00

Cold-blooded killers make interesting narrators, especially when speaking about such mundane topics as “Hot Chocolate & Microwaves.” My flash-fiction piece of the same title has been accepted by Staccato. It’ll be my third appearance on their website. Thank you Matt!

In the meantime, if you get the chance, check out Staccato’s first story of 2011, "Surface Wounds" by Nancy Stebbins. Also, zoom in and tell me what you think the significance is behind the glyphs. I’m still contemplating whether they will be there a week from now. I’m praying those sightings can be substantiated, that it isn’t my imagination running amuck!

I'M SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT DEACTIVATION

2011-01-08T08:14:00.000-05:00

I have this urge to “deactivate,” but whenever I say, “this is it, today is the day,” I back peddle; I think about what Peter Schwartz, editor at Dogzplot, had said to me well over a year ago: James, I’m obsessed with what else writers do besides write and you’re living proof of my latest theory. See, you work teaching in a prison which is a real ass job, and so no surprise, your writing is very honest, intimate, powerful and…real. I want to read more of your stuff and invite you to submit to Dogzplot, so I’ll start by checking if you’re on FB.

That’s when it all started. I thought I was missing out on something. How could I ever be discovered as a writer without a facebook account? Still, I dawdled. Then my wife encouraged me to take the plunge and plunge I did—with 99 friends so far, of which most of them are from my high school years. Perhaps my timing is all off. I never sent a friend’s request to Mr. Schwartz, and even though I’ve got a few of my favorite writers and literary journals linked to my FB, I’ve been preoccupied with my 30-year high school reunion and whether it’ll even take place this summer.

So I’ve strayed.

FB was going to do for me what Blogger didn’t, or so I thought: generate an interest in my writing. Still, those rejection letters keep coming. And why shouldn’t they? That’s part of the process. And I’m fine with that.

But here’s what really chaps my ass: How FB can actually hinder your social life. For instance: about three weeks ago my wife and I stood in line at Lowes, waiting to make our purchase. Another customer was buying something directly across from us. She and I had made brief eye-contact earlier in the store and I had smiled. She, in turn, had quickly changed directions and ducked down a different aisle.

“Did you notice the lady across from us,” I asked my wife once we got into the parking lot. “She graduated from my high school.” My wife said she sensed an awkward moment at the checkout. I replied, “Yeah, I sent her a FB request and got ignored.” My wife knows that I’m fine with rejection, especially on FB because some folks reserve it for family, and hey, accepting a friend’s request from a convict-teacher could invite a bad element. I understand that. But what if I had never sent a request, would the woman I had gone to high school with such a long long time ago have spoken to me? Maybe. Maybe not.

Thus, I’m thinking of “deactivating” my FB account. I figure if I lay low for awhile, I’ll have been forgotten. Then I can “reactivate” with the intention of embracing the writing community. What do you think?

2010: YEAR IN REVIEW (Horn Tootin')

2011-01-04T17:09:00.000-05:00

I may not have met my biggest goal for 2010, but I did manage a few things. Listed below are last year’s accomplishments and/or note-worthy events:

March 8, 2010: Staccato Fiction publishes “Still Life in Detroit.”

May 8, 2010: Driftwood, A Review of Michigan Writing publishes “Needing Attention.”

May 14, 2010: Six Little Things publishes “Getting Out from Under a Rock.”

(Two months later, Prisoner Timothy O’Reilly goes on trial in a rare federal death penalty case; The FBI planted a listening device in his bunkie’s radio, hoping he’d get O’Reilly to talk about his crime. Both inmates were housed at my place of employment. “Getting Out from Under a Rock” dealt with this incident prior to my knowledge of it. Weird.)

July 4, 2010: Motor City Burning Press publishes Adopted Behaviors.

July 22, 2010: Spencer Dew of decomP magazinE reviews Adopted Behaviors.

August 5, 2010: Designed first e-book, The Clarity of Night, Contests, Vol. 1: 2006 – 2010 for Jason Evans.

August 11, 2010: First attempt at writing science fiction with “Stratagems: Polonium-210.” Makes the cut at The Clarity of Night.

September 2010: Featured reader at Pointe Java’s open mic in Eastpointe, MI, thanks to Mark C Durfee.

October 1, 2010: Sleet Magazine publishes “The Trigger Man & His Accomplice.”

November 19, 2010: Joined fellow MCBP poets Mark C Durfee & Michelle Brooks for a reading at the Lawrence Street Gallery in Ferndale, MI. Received an acknowledgement in Durfee’s book The Line Between.

December 2010: Trailer Park Quarterly accepts “From the Blue Sky” for their next issue.

Hopefully I can do even better in 2011.

Speaking of accomplishments, congrats to Michelle Brooks for the latest news regarding her novella, Dead Boy, Live Girl. I can’t wait to read it!

OLD LONG SINCE; BO-NEN-KAI

2010-12-31T07:44:00.000-05:00

The assignment was quite simple and even though I was greeted with “You’re the only son-of-a-bitch here” most of my convict-students went about completing the task. As I monitored my classroom I said, “It’s not going to be a polished piece. What’s important is that you get your thoughts down on paper; that you jot down a few possible New Year’s resolutions for 2011.”

“I’m locked-up in this bitch, so what’s it matter?” Prisoner Clayton said.

“Even in here,” I answered, “you’ve got to look forward to another day.”

Prisoner Clayton asked if he could sketch a celebratory scene of how he’d ring in the New Year. I figured it was better than arguing; at least he’d be doing something. What you see above is a direct result of his efforts.

Although some of the resolutions were better than others, I thought I’d share a low-functioning prisoner’s “over-simplification” of how to improve your lot in life. He starts out wanting to purchase a $300,000 home. Then he offers his unrealistic solution on how to acquire it, followed by ways of saving money. Please click on the document below and enjoy his rough draft; I’m sure you would agree, especially after reading his piece, that dreaming is easy and cheap.

Most of my convict-students have high hopes of changing their attitudes and reconnecting with family; boring stuff actually, considering their limited choices in the hoosegow. Still, it’s interesting examining resolutions made by others. I’m not sure why I thought this assignment was such a good idea; in fact, I think subconsciously I wanted to take my mind off of my own failed goals for 2010.

The Japanese have what they call “bo-nen-kai” parties, otherwise known as “forget-the-year-gatherings.” I’m struggling with the appropriateness of it, considering their cultures high suicide rate and how killing off the year with temporary amnesia solves absolutely nothing; but, I’ll have a drink or two from the comforts of my home and quietly reflect on where I’d went wrong with last year’s dreams and desires. At the stroke of midnight, when the people in Times Square drunkenly sing:

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne ?

I’ll turn off the television and the lights, lie down, and wake up to a new sunset.

Happy New Year everyone!

MORE HOLIDAY CHEER

2010-12-27T16:30:00.000-05:00

While I uncorked two bottles of wine to complement our prime rib dinner, my dad asked if I was working over the holidays.

“Yes,” I told him. But I think he already knew that; I haven’t taken a Christmas break in six or seven years, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve grown accustomed to the melancholy atmosphere inside the joint. I told my dad about some unfinished business I had with a teenage-convict known for squirreling away his “holiday cheer.”

“This fool,” I said, careful not to overfill the wine glasses, “keeps getting caught making spud juice.” I told my dad about the private stash I’d found in my classroom. “He hid it in a plastic baggy in, of all places, his school folder. I didn’t turn him in because he was taking his GED Exams all week. I wanted to make sure he finished his tests before I jammed him.”

“Your Grandfather had three men die on him,” my dad said. I’d heard this story before, but it was worth hearing again. My grandfather had supervised trustees on a prison farm in Jackson, Michigan. “They were making large batches of hooch inside a milk can. Damn lead leeched in, made them real sick. Some survived, but not all of them.”

I placed the wine glasses on the linen-clothed table. “You can’t tell these guys anything,” I said. “Prisoner Stokely had one more test to complete, but he couldn’t wait, they caught him with spud juice in his housing unit. He’s in segregation now.”

I told my dad that my original plan was to write Prisoner Stokely a ticket after he completed the full battery of GED tests. “I don’t know,” I said, “since he’s in the hole and it’s the holidays, I’ll probably toss out his school batch. I’m keeping my options open.”

We sat down for dinner, and wouldn’t you know it: I forgot to make a toast.

We Wish a Merry Christmas to Everyone Tonight

2010-12-24T07:04:00.002-05:00

ESCAPING REALITY IN 90 MINUTE INCREMENTS

2010-12-21T16:41:00.000-05:00

“What are you doing?” my boss asked me at approximately 0900 hours this morning.

I was in the prison gymnasium with a bunch of inmates who were watching a movie on the big screen. My assignment: make sure that each prisoner took one soda.

I answered, “Eating popcorn.”

“There are surveillance cameras in here.”

Well I’ll be damned! Never mind whatever extra-curricular activities might be going on now that the lights were turned down, zoom in on the convict-teacher eating popcorn for breakfast.

My boss had a valid point; The Inmate Benefit Fund paid for the rights to show the movie, paid for the nachos & cheese, popcorn, and Faygo pop, and for the low low ticket price of five bucks a convict could escape his predicament as well as eat some munchies.

Maybe I needed to leave.

“Get out of here with that,” my boss said.

“Okie-doke. No problem,” I said.

I don’t like action-packed movies anyway. Too many car chases. Too many bullets flying. Too many explosions. The name of the movie? “Armour.” One of my peers told me how it ends. “The good guy wins,” he said.

I knew not to stick around. A disappointed audience, especially of this caliber, is capable of doing just about anything.

RETURN TRIP FROM THE DENTIST

2010-12-15T16:41:00.003-05:00

I feel like I’m losing my character. With all that snow and ice on the roads I kept looking in the review mirror, not because someone was following me or that I had wanted to change lanes, no, I kept staring in the review mirror at my smile. I kept asking, “Where’s the history? The history’s vanished,” followed by, “It’s only temporary.”

I’m no Jerry Flanory. Now there’s a character! In 2004 his toothy grill consisted of a handful of adult teeth. Not bad considering a healthy adult with good oral hygiene has 32. But good ol’ Jerry—count’em—he had a whopping 5 teeth, “one, two, three, four, five!” However, this did not stop good ol’ Jerry from slapping the Michigan Department of Corrections with a lawsuit for denying him toothpaste. Jerry claims that because he refused to attend prison classes he was being punished by my employer, that they knowingly and deliberately denied him toothpaste for well over a year.

Sadly, in 2006, he lost another tooth.

Well I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’m sure good ol’ Jerry filed for indigent status, hoping he’d be able to sit on his ass and get a small stipend for hygiene products. But it doesn’t work that way. He never earned his high school diploma so my employer enrolled him in school where classes pay 59 cents a day (approximately $8.85 a month)—enough to cover the cost of a tube of Colgate. A win-win situation.

But good ol’ Jerry doesn’t see it that way. The real kicker behind his lawsuit is that my employer inventoried Jerry’s cell and found 20 tubes of toothpaste, 4 toothbrushes, 17 bars of soap, and 3 combs, enough hygiene products for an entire cellblock wing.

Jerry plans on representing himself. After serving his time, gaining his freedom, then returning to prison, one can conclude that he’ll lose his case. As for me, I just want my character back. “It’s only temporary,” I keep telling myself, “it’s only temporary.”

THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF MICHIGAN, 2011

2010-12-13T23:13:00.000-05:00

SUBMISHMASHIN'

2010-12-11T08:27:00.001-05:00

I’ve been Submishmashin’ these past few months, submitting my flash fiction here and there, at PANK, Smokelong Quarterly, Bull Men’s Fiction, >kill author, Hobart and few other online literary journals. Also, since they’re the Trailer Park Quarterly and haven’t associated themselves with Submishmash I sent them two flashes as email attachments.

Thank you Julie Buffaloe-Yoder for the heads-up regarding TPQ and for your words of encouragement. After communicating with the Trailer Park Management, they’ve accepted my flash fiction piece titled “From the Blue Sky”—a piece I had read in slightly different form at the Lawrence Street Gallery back in November.

Also, thank you Rebecca Schumejda, Trailer Park Manager, for the pre-approval; acceptance into the trailer park is truly an honor. I can’t wait to see the next issue.

WHEN WILL THE MADNESS END?

2010-12-06T16:51:00.000-05:00

I don’t have time for conversation. I’ve got too much paperwork, too many reports, I’ve got a bunch of crybabies lined three deep accusing me of leaving them off the GED schedule; So when Inmate Marshall says, “My new bunky says he knows you,” I ignore him. He continues anyway. He says, “My bunky worked for you once before, as a tutor.”

I’m still not interested. I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories regarding ex-students and ex-tutors. “That’s nice,” I say, not as an acknowledgment, but more as a yeah I heard you, now go away.

He doesn’t budge. He says, “His name is Rider.”

I drop my paperwork. Rider paroled a few years back. His freedom lasted about one year. He was living in a broken down car somewhere near Walled Lake. I last saw him on Channel 4. This family placed an ad in the newspaper: used car for sale. Rider went to look at it. I’m not sure who showed him the car, or whether he test drove it, or what. I can only guess that the seller’s child had been playing in the yard when this ex-felon arrived.

“He wants his old job back,” Inmate Marshall says.

I’m thinking you’ve got to be kidding me. This here Rider fellow caught a new case. After looking at that used car, he returned later that night and snuck into the family’s home. He kidnapped their five-year old child and raped her.

“He says he was a good worker,” Inmate Marshall says. “That you gave him a good evaluation.”

I’m thinking, Good worker? Based on what? That he brought a child he had raped back to her home, back to where he had snatched her from, and then fled? How’s that for having a moral compass?
“He wants to know if you’ll hire him,” Inmate Marshall adds.

“I don’t hire anyone,” I answer. “The classification director assigns the jobs.”

I tell Inmate Marshall that there are no guarantees in prison; if Rider gets a tutor job it may be for another teacher. I certainly don’t want him in my classroom, not that I have much of a choice, not that there’s a bunch of high quality candidates to choose from.

THE APPLIANCE SALESPERSON

2010-12-02T18:34:00.002-05:00

All roles are dangerous. The world tends to trap you in the roles you play, and it is always extremely hard to maintain a watchful, mocking distance between oneself as one appears to be and oneself as one actually is.

—James Baldwin

I am just a convict-teacher; nothing more, nothing less. I am placed several rungs below the appliance salesperson who flits about, trying to stir the pot, deflecting any and all deficiencies into the wind. “Look over there,” the appliance salesperson might say, his feet propped up on his desk where the phone rings and rings and rings. So I look in whatever direction he’s pointing, a diversion from the “real” problem: the appliance salesperson.

I am just a convict-teacher. My new school computer, the one that I was supposed to get many many moons ago, never went past the appliance salesperson’s desk. Toss the convict-teacher a bone, give him the old computer that the appliance salesperson almost fried with a space heater; the convict-teacher will be eternally grateful regardless.

The convict-teacher, unlike the appliance salesperson, is the equivalent of a mushroom. Shovel shit his way and keep him in the dark. But here’s the real irony: The convict-teacher will continue to grow. As long as the convict-teacher is not a poisonous mushroom, the appliance salesperson will feel comfortable with this arrangement.

But the convict-teacher has learned patience. He waits and observes each and every impropriety. The appliance salesperson brags about a washer and dryer he sold to a man—but not just any man—the former boss of a prisoner at our facility.

“I’ve got his business card,” the appliance salesperson says. He shows it to me “He owns his own company.” He tells me how this guy is going to visit his former employee / prisoner / friend. I think to myself, why did he bring this business card inside the prison? Is he the conduit, the messenger for something?

Earlier this week our judicial system tried to determine whether this boss, this purchaser of a washer & dryer, should bare some of the responsibility for dismissing his employee from work early one day, whether this boss had known his employee was drunk at the time. This convict-teacher does not know all the details, nor has he met this prisoner’s former boss. What he does know is that a mother and her two sons died one fateful day when a man plowed into their car. What he does know is that the appliance salesperson is a stones throw away from the prisoner responsible for such a tragedy. So why help him and not your fellow coworker?

I am just a convict-teacher. This is my only job. What do I know?

LEFTOVER TURKEY

2010-11-29T17:11:00.001-05:00

Incredulous. I know of no other word to describe our computerized prisoner call-out system. Those who did not show for their first testing session last week, including the lame turkey I had mentioned in the previous post, were to have their next testing session cancelled.

I gave the school secretary a list. I said, “Remove the following prisoners from the testing schedule.” This was last week. I thought I’d made my instructions perfectly clear.

His response: “O-kee-doke.”

So I come to work today to find the same leftover Turkey on my schedule.

I don’t have a problem being lied to; it happens all the time in a correctional facility. What I do have a problem with is when someone contradicts their previous lie with another lie.

“How come these guys are still on my schedule?” I ask.

“It’s a one-time call-out,” I’m told. “They can’t be removed from a one-time call-out.”

Hmmm… a one-time call-out where prisoners are scheduled for two-days of testing. Hmmm… wouldn’t that be a two-time call-out? To confuse matters even more: I thought—but I could be wrong, after all, I’m kind of new at this (if nineteen years is considered new)—I thought prisoner call-outs were daily, “D-A-I-L-Y,” daily. I’ll have to give the secretary the benefit of the doubt; maybe he tried to remove the requested prisoners but couldn’t. Maybe there’s a glitch in the computer program that handles prisoner movement. I hope not; I’d sure hate for an employee to get raped or killed because some convict had access to an area because of a “glitch.”

From this day forward I will submit a partial testing schedule, and if someone doesn’t show, then they will not be included on the next prepared partial testing schedule. The hell with efficiency; safety first! How’s that for problem solving?

Now that that’s cleared up, maybe I can get this self-audit of how we GED Test off my desk. Just because Newberry Correctional Facility had another cheating incident doesn’t mean that our testing format has been compromised; we do things differently.

THINKING TURKEY, GIVING THANKS

2010-11-24T05:25:00.001-05:00

It’s hard to soar like an eagle when you’re living like a turkey . . . John Maxwell

No matter how hard I try, no matter what advice I give, there are students fighting me every step of the way. Their resistance, you would think, would weaken with age. We call it: growing up. Prisoner Harris has defied that maturation process.

“I’m ready for the GED Exams,” he says.

Even though he’s approaching thirty and has been enrolled in school more times than I’d like to count, I explain the rules to the game: 1) you need to show up for class, 2) you need to do your assignments, and 3) you need to qualify for the actual GED Exams by passing a series of half-tests. “Put forth an effort,” I tell him, “and you may surprise yourself.”

He’s not buying it. He thinks I’m the problem; I’m the obstacle preventing him from earning his General Equivalency Diploma. I’m not Monte Hall. This is not “Let’s Make a Deal.” Even if it were, even if I asked, “Door number one? Or door number two?” I guarantee you that after handing him the key he’d lose it, he’d lock himself out.

“Okay,” I tell him, “We’ll disregard your attendance; we’ll disregard your dismal study habits, your poor work ethic. I’ll schedule you for the next half-tests.”

I already know my decision will not affect the outcome. Although he’s in agreement with this arrangement, he continues to miss class which leads to him not seeing the posted test schedule. However, on the day of reckoning he’s given an itinerary with his scheduled time for testing. He never arrives. I fill-out an absence form. The school officer calls his unit. Soon I'm provided with an explanation: “Prisoner Harris overslept and was not aware of the testing session.”

More John Maxwell: Turkey-thinking + turkey-talk = turkey-walk.
Soar like an eagle everyone, and have a Happy Thanksgiving!

*Note: Pictured from left to right at the Lawrence Street Gallery are Rick Moore, Michelle Brooks, myself, and Mark Durfee. More to come.

VOLATILE CONDITIONS

2010-11-21T08:13:00.002-05:00

I gave a reading last week and the youngster in the front row said, “You suck,” and no matter how hard I tried, the verbal jabs kept coming:

“Man, I wish I had some ear plugs.” “This blows major chunks.” “When I was at Boysville there was this woman, now she COULD write!”

I’d had enough and felt quite comfortable confronting him. “You’ve been mighty fucking rude,” I said. Then, since he stoked my interest, I asked, “What writer are you talking about?”

Of course none of this happened at the Lawrence Street Gallery performance (more on that in a later post). No, I’m referring to my “dry run,” my practice reading in front of a room full of convicts.

The youngster upfront knew the writer by last name only—“Reardon,” he said. “She wrote crime fiction.”

When I asked him, “What exactly did she do at Boysville?” he didn’t seem to know.

“But she worked there,” he stated, as if I were ready to call him a big fat liar.

“So,” I continued, “can you name some of her books?”

He couldn’t. Instead, he countered, “You don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

Unfortunately, at least for him, I did know exactly who he was referring to. When my basement flooded, her water-soaked novel, “Billy Dead,” made the trash heap. I wasn’t particularly fond of the novel, but still she’d gone the distance—more than I could say.

“She shot her father in the ass,” I told my number one heckler.

“You’re full of bullshit,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, “but she shot her father in the ass.” I wasn’t trying to be funny; violence is not funny. I was stating a fact.

He refused to believe me. “She was a really nice lady.”

Her name’s Lisa Ann Reardon. Her criminal offense happened on 8/21/09. Her ERD (Earliest Release Date) is 8/20/13. Her maximum discharge date is 8/20/26. I wonder whether she’s still writing. Whether the Michigan Department of Corrections will allow it without demanding profits from her latest work?

As I’ve said before, “We are all capable of violence.” In this case, Reardon claims she needed to protect her nieces from a sexually abusive father; none of which has been proven. Then there’s the other side of the coin, her mental condition at the time of the shooting, her references to Godfrey, her lost cat.

Her website can be accessed here: Lisa Reardon.

As for the LSG reading, check-out Rick Moore’s review here The Writer and The White Cat. And, no I didn’t pay him or hold a gun to his head. Rick, you’re too kind.

THE TRIO, GEARING UP FOR FRIDAY

2010-11-17T00:21:00.002-05:00

I’ve narrowed down my set list for Friday’s reading at the Lawrence Street Art Gallery. It hasn’t been easy. The biggest factor in my selection: What stories, flash fiction, or flash memoir best reflect who I am as a writer?

Also, keeping in mind that folks want to be entertained, what feelings will these pieces elicit? I certainly don’t want to offend the audience or send anyone into a deep state of depression (even though some of my writing is indeed offensive and/or doomy and gloomy). Also, I need to think about the order of each piece. I’ll probably end my set with something semi-humorous, perhaps “The Mathematical Genius”—short, but sweet.

I look forward to seeing everyone, and I’m glad that I get to go first, that way: I can sit back and enjoy the performances of Mark Durfee and Michelle Brooks. For more info click on the picture or go to: POETIC TRAVELERS.

THEY GO IN THREES

2010-11-13T07:23:00.000-05:00

Usually, when the corrections officer makes his rounds, there’ll be a youngster sitting in the hot-seat next to my desk. The hot-seat is reserved at regular intervals for the latest teenage-convict acting up. Others mockingly call it the time-out chair, or the cooling station—a place to chill, to gather one’s thoughts before attempting (yet again) to study the required GED material without getting sucked back into the vortex of prison negativity.

Earlier in the week while walking the corridor the corrections officer did a double-take. There were three hot-seats in front of my desk with three teenage-convicts flipping through page after page of “major misconduct” tickets I had written, copied, and filed in a three-ring binder.

“Damn,” one of them said, “he’s got tickets in here that are older than I am.”

“My point exactly,” I said. “Don’t think for a minute that I won’t write your asses up, that I won’t make you disappear. Continue doing what you’re doing and you just might end up in an observation cell in your skivvies, weighted down in a bam-bam suit, lying on a thin mattress with no blanket, no nothing. Do you really think anyone in here gives two-shits about you?”

As two of them decided to get out of earshot—my advice: a wind tunnel of words rushing through their ears—muttering white bread muthafucka, asshooole, the third hung back. “I’m gonna die in here,” he said.

“You’re doing life?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well then, you have a choice: die now or die later.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

I explained how he needed to learn how to do his time without pissing off the other convicts. “Over the years we’ve had inmates mysteriously hang themselves; we’ve had more stabbings then I’d care to count; we’ve also had an inmate drown in a toilet with another inmate’s foot conveniently placed on the back of his neck.” I’m not sure he understood my message; he slumped down in the hot-seat; he looked defeated. “Now go back to your desk and do your assignment.” I had nothing more to give, nothing more to say. Then, as he turned to leave, I offered the following consolation, “Hey, at least you’re alive. That’s got to count for something.”

When Michael-X Steals a Tape Recorder at Mound Correctional and Feels Like a Man

2010-11-10T18:05:00.013-05:00

There’s no tellin’ what he’ll do
with a tattoo gun
the steady hum, because
its spring-loaded action
makes music to his ears,
drips ink from a guitar string
& sing sings, more than
bullet holes or
his nolo contendre
now that he’s an artist
penning what?
“East Side Gangsta”
on someone else’s neck
and a tear drop
fleck (or two)
beneath his brother’s eye,
the permanence, the stain,
more ghetto than any
jury of his peers recalling
from their notes each
eye-witness account
placing him at the scene.

THE ONE-SIDED EXCHANGE

2010-11-06T00:19:00.002-04:00

I’m getting too old for this shit. I simply requested that Coleman, a teenage carjacker, pick up the scrap paper from the desk he was sitting at and throw it away; it was on his way out for Chrissake.

“I’m not your bitch,” he said. “It’s not mine.”

“I didn’t say it was yours.”

“Give me my ID motherfucker before I do something to you.”

I knew enough to stay at least two arms lengths away. He rifled through my desk searching for his ID card. Never mind his exchanging it for a pencil earlier in the class period; he had absolutely no intention of giving it back.

The teacher next door entered just in time for me to make it official: "I'm giving you a direct order to throw the paper in the trash." He continued with the verbal threats.

Not long after that, a corrections officer stepped into my classroom. I explained the situation.

“It’s not mine,” Coleman interrupted. “He’s gonna make me do something to him.”

Don’t ask me why, perhaps there’s strength in numbers … 3 to 1 … but he eventually obeyed the direct order.

“Wait until tomorrow,” he added.

I noticed his clenched fists. I asked for clarification.

He continued, “Tomorrow’s gonna be the worst fucking day of your life in this bitch.”

The corrections officer tried to calm him down.

“He heard me,” Coleman said. “He’ll find out tomorrow, that’s a promise.”

How many opportunities did he need before he’d tone down the rhetoric? What would it take for his jaw to quit flapping? He never missed a beat, even when the handcuffs were slapped on him.

I gave the corrections officer Coleman’s ID card. “Do you mind,” I asked, “reaching in his pocket? He has my pencil.” I had two more classes to teach and a limited supply of writing utensils.

Surpressing Metaphorical Distance . . . . with an Idiot Cord

2010-11-02T06:39:00.006-04:00

Prisoner Crenshaw might as well be chasing a basketball during a half court trap. He has lots of energy, yet his future plans go no further than the end of his nose. I guess he’s near-sighted; why else would he stick a handgun in someone’s face over a pair of Cartier Sunglasses?

2010-10-27T19:52:00.003-04:00

John Jeffrie’s novel Motown Burning breathes life into an all too familiar battered and bruised Detroit, reminding me of John Dos Passos’s Manhattan Transfer, how 200-plus characters as a collective group define New York City, where the setting “becomes” the main character with a steady flow of immigrants coming and going, searching for opportunity, for a place to call home.

In Motown Burning the ’67 Detroit Riots serve as the major focal point in unraveling the unfortunate events involving Aram Pehlivanian, aka A.P., aka Motown. He’s a hot-head, a perceived trouble-maker, raised by his uncle in the inner city, loved by a girl named Katie. The story begins in medias res, with Motown battling the Viet Cong. Other soldiers seek his experience in the jungle; believing their chances of survival will increase if they stick close to him. In the words of Saint:

Man, I tell you, I loved that white boy. I mean, I wasn’t too hip on being moved into that unit, like I was moving into Green Acres, you know, all those white folks … I was about survival, man, my own survival, and I don’t care if you black, white, purple, or striped I was gonna hang with you if I thought you would cover my ass for a few extra seconds a life.

As the story unfolds, business owners, police, National Guardsmen, Blank Panthers, Vietnam veterans, and regular citizens share experiences and opinions of the ’67 Detroit Riots and how they were able to survive. All these perspectives, whether you agree with them or not, reveal the complexities and misconceptions of the different types of people. Here’s one such character’s take on the rioting, Judge Donaldson:

How many buildings and vehicles and communications networks destroyed, how many millions of dollars worth of infrastructure lost? ... You know what’s going to happen now? Hmm? I’ll tell you, and you mark my words, you’re going to see a mass exodus of white citizens from within the city limits. You watch.

He goes on to talk about his role in the justice system, a role that affects Motown:

We’ve got to weed out our culture, take a hoe and cut out the vermin and parasites so the fruit can grow. If we have to ship the waste to Vietnam, then so be it … Give unproductive, dead-end misfits rifles and send them off to a jungle someplace, hopefully never to return.

He also believes this to be a viable solution for alleviating prison overcrowding.

But what happens to those so-called “productive” citizens, those “law-abiding” citizens who are issued weapons and sent to quell the disturbance in Detroit? Private Simkowski, a National Guardsman, says:

Shoot first, ask questions later. Something comes up, I only got one life and I was going to defend myself no matter who I had to pull the trigger on.

At what cost to society can peace be restored? Because of Simkowski’s actions a mother suffers greatly. Selma:

My baby died because of a glass of water …Those soldiers and tanks and police weren’t here to protect us.

Jeffrie does a wonderful job of depicting the hopes and fears through the voices of his characters. The novel is divided into three sections:

I. The Jungle – what happened to A.P. in Vietnam?
II. The City – how A.P. met Katie and got through the ’67 Detroit Riot (and more about how he ended up in Vietnam)
III.The Return – how Katie saved A.P. and how he got home.

By telling the story of Motown in a non-linear fashion using different vantage points, Jeffrie challenges the reader to observe the social unrest here and abroad as if to say: Here is the biggest defining moment of our fair city of Detroit and its people; here is why Detroiters, regardless of how dire the circumstances, have resilience and never give-up. Aram Pehlivanian, aka Motown, is such a character.

Motown Burning is available for purchase at John Jeffire's website: click here.

THE THINGS THAT MOVE US

2010-10-21T16:51:00.006-04:00

“You don’t understand,” Prisoner Carnell says above the laughter. He’s defending his absence from class, trying to put last week’s observation cell and padded gloves behind him.

“You just want attention,” Prisoner Melton, one of my brighter students, says.

Carnell pushes his long-john sleeves all the way to his shoulders as if he’s ready to whup some ass. He’s fairly small, 140-lbs, and his forearms and biceps have a history beyond his years.

“Damnnn!” a few students say. They’re impressed with the display of old and new battle scars.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Prisoner Carnell says, “I’ve kicked plenty of ass in my day. I’ve got more pent-up rage, more anger, than anyone here could ever handle.”

“Fuck off,” Prisoner Melton says, “I ain’t a-scared of you.” He puffs out his chest, his testosterone level increases.

“You have no reason to be afraid of me.” Carnell slides his sleeves back down. “My chances of going home are better if I don’t fight.”

“Doin’ THAT,” another student indicates, “ain’t gonna help you to freedom.”

Carnell explains his actions. “Whenever someone’s wronged me, pissed me off, I cut. It’s my way of dealing with the bullshit. I’m not hurtin’ no one.”

An argument ensues between Carnell and Melton. It’s fairly obvious Melton is egging him on, trying to verbally abuse him. After a few minutes of back-and-forth insults, I intervene. “Gentlemen, I need your itineraries. Now.”

They know the drill. Both are booted from the classroom for excessive noise. Carnell demands a waiver form. “I’m not coming back,” he says. Melton shrugs his shoulders, “see you tomorrow Teach.”

***

Recommendation: John Jeffire’s “Stone + Fist, Brick + Bone.” There’s some powerful poetry in this collection. My personal favorite, which relates to the above post, is “The Composition Teacher Ponders Questions Posed by His Students at the Allen Correctional Institute.”

***

Note: Lori A. May's interview with Tonja Bagwell, curator of the Poetic Travelers series.

A DANGEROUS JOB

2010-10-16T06:31:00.000-04:00

My neighbor power washes his uniform and equipment. I’ve seen him by the side of his house. I asked him, “How often do you need to do that?”

“After most fires,” he answered. He went on to explain how his employer couldn’t afford to clean his gear. “I hit it with the hose,” he said, “as often as possible. Knock off the asbestos and whatever hazardous building materials are on it.”

***

I had my roof re-shingled this summer. My wife paid before the job was finished. The roofers had promised to paint the fireplace chimney to match our new shingles. I said to my wife, “How do you know they’ll return to finish the job?”

“They’re Detroit Firemen,” she answered.

We waited for approximately two months … but with good reason: The roofers were busy with hospital visits. Their coworker and fellow side-job man, a 31 year old fireman, suffered paralysis from the waist down when a building collapsed on him. He hadn’t entered the burning storefront; it simply fell on him as he stood on the sidewalk.

***

The fireplace chimney did get painted. I pulled into my driveway and saw one fireman standing on the roof spray-painting the metal flashing. He waved and I waved back. His ladder blocked my garage door and I thought about moving it so I could hitch my boat to my car. I only had a few good hours of fishing before darkness arrived. I decided it wouldn’t hurt for me to wait. A few minutes later he climbed down and said, “You’re all set.” I thanked him.

***

My neighbor gave me an update on his coworker’s status. He said they were raising money to help his family. “It’s the little things,” he said, “like the loss of income from his side-jobs, or who will cut his grass or shovel his snow.”

I agreed. I bought a tee-shirt. It’s the least I could do.

EMOTIONAL RESCUE

2010-10-11T16:51:00.002-04:00

"Prison pulls the masks away from men. You can’t hide what you are, in prison. You can’t pretend to be tough. You are, or you’re not, and everyone knows it."

Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts

I’m not ashamed to say it—“I feared getting hurt.” I envisioned my teeth knocked in, an assortment of ceramic and wire cutting into my gums. I had followed protocol. My students entered the classroom exchanging ID cards for pencils—except Prisoner JB. He walked in and announced how he would not be attending class today, he was returning to his unit.

After everyone was seated, I filled out an absence slip: Prisoner JB, 04-018T, 0735 hours. Twenty minutes later he returned. “I’ll beat the living shit out of that whore ass bitch Samuelson!” He was referring to my coworker, a female school officer. And for what, locating his whereabouts, making sure he attended school?

His peers listened attentively, curious to see how this unfolded. Before I could speak, he snapped, “You don’t know where I came from, do you?” I held my ballpoint pen like an ice-pick, concealed under my desk. “I’m Level V,” he continued. “I’ve assaulted staff before.”

I stood up as slowly as possible, trying to stay calm, my weapon conveniently tucked in my trouser pocket. I made my way to the door, made myself visible to the hallway camera. “I need you to step out here,” I said. He complied. I stayed an arms-length away. “Start walking toward the officer’s podium.”

Once we reached our destination, I said, “Why don’t you tell Officer Riser here what you told me.”

He wouldn’t speak.

I killed the silence. “Keep him away from me,” I said to Officer Riser. “I’ll explain later.”

It didn’t take long to sort this out. Not too long afterward, Prisoner JB was handcuffed and taken to segregation, while I prepared a “Threatening Behavior” ticket. The real irony behind all of this was that when I spoke to Corrections Officer Samuelson, thinking they had a verbal confrontation, she said, “I never spoke to him today, never saw him.”

Another coworker looked up Prisoner JB’s rap sheet: breaking & entering, home invasion, and assaulting a police officer. Two year sentence. From what I had gathered, he wanted to lock-up in segregation; he grew tired of his bunkie pressing him for sex.

BUZZWORDS

2010-10-07T16:21:00.001-04:00

Prisoner Richardson did not want to fall asleep in class, so he paced around the classroom. He seemed a bit agitated.

I didn’t help matters, I told him to sit down.

“I’m exhausted,” he said. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

I wanted to sing his words in the deepest bass voice possible … but I knew better.

“Can I go back to my cell?”

“No,” I said.

He parked his ass in front of my desk. “Then I’m sleeping right here.” His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils pin-pricks. He started nodding.

“I’m giving you a direct order to stay awake.”

“Let me go back,” he said rather passively.

I tried to simplify matters. I said, “I’ll tell you what: give me your itinerary and I’ll write ‘sleeping in class, return to unit’ on it.”

“Fuck no,” he responded. His once heavy eyelids retreated. He didn’t want anything written on his itinerary that would limit his mobility.

“Then do some work.”

A few minutes later he requested a dictionary, knowing damn well my last one was stolen. “I want to look up some words,” he said.

“Then buy your own dictionary,” I said. “They’re hot sellers, second in popularity to the King James Bible.”

He laughed.

Pictured: A hollowed-out dictionary used to smuggle marijuana into the prison.

Note: The pages of a King James Bible make excellent rolling papers.

PARCH CORN CREEK WILDERNESS LODGE

2010-10-01T21:01:00.001-04:00

I’ve been sifting through old hunting slides, admiring the fine marksmanship of my family. Hunting is for sport, for the thrill of the kill, and it’s justifiable when the end result is food on your table. In the mid-70s my father went on a wild boar hunt in the woods of Tennessee. He shot a grand-daddy of a hog, not knowing that younger pigs are tastier. If memory serves me correct, they never went back. Was the thrill gone? Was the trip not worth the expense? Or were they no longer welcome at the Parch Corn Creek Wilderness Lodge due to my Uncle Ivan accidentally shooting the hunting guide’s favorite dog? (Pictured from left to right: Lenny G, Uncle Ivan, Grandpa, & Dad.)

There’s more to say about hunters and that killer instinct in Sleet Magazine’s fall issue under the “Irregular” section (seems like a wonderful place for my writing). Also, be sure to checkout the 2-part interview with Erik Donald France.

Sleet Magazine

Interview (Part I) & (Part II)

A SYSTEM OF JUSTICE

2010-09-22T17:06:00.002-04:00

“Ask any man with a long-enough experience of prisons, and he’ll tell you that all it takes to harden a man’s heart is a system of justice.”

Gregory David Roberts, “Shantaram”

The tiniest of things bother me and even though I have boat loads of patience my low tolerance for nonsense makes me a prime candidate for stress induced health problems. During my morning classes—that time of day where old timers are more prone to heart attacks—I’m busy stomping out fires. Ten prisoners under the age of twenty-one, know-it-alls who can’t keep their hands off of one another, who think “getting louder” wins the argument, give me few options.

“Listen up,” I’ve announced on more than one occasion, usually during an impromptu rap session, “this is adult education, not ‘jooovy’ education.” They think prison is like sixth grade camp. “I’m giving everyone a direct order to remain seated for the duration of class.”

They scamper to their seats. A few minutes later a young white prisoner decides to test the waters. He gets up and walks past my desk.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. Before he can answer I say, “Give me the pencil.”

“I bought this pencil,” he says.

I take it anyway and order him to leave the classroom immediately.

He accuses me of stealing what is rightfully his. I’m beyond caring. “Out!” I point toward the door.

When class ends I exchange prisoner identification cards for pencils. One youngster has reached a crossroads. “Can I have my I.D. card?” he asks.

“Pencil!” I bark.

“I don’t have one.”

“Then I don’t have your I.D.”

“Yes you do,” he says. “It’s in your desk, along with the pencil. You took it from Harmon.”

“I’ll need a written statement,” I say.

We both know a written statement is out of the question. Not that it matters, this young man is doing time for slitting someone’s throat over a debt. I tell him that not only did Prisoner Harmon disrespect me but he disrespected him as well. He understands. I give him his I.D. card. I’m sure a discussion between the two will take place out on the yard. Perhaps there’ll be a little prison justice after all.

NOTICE OF INTENT

2010-09-17T04:31:00.004-04:00

“You can’t just take my property,” an inmate says. “You’ve got to do a notice of intent.” He’s mad because I confiscated his clippers. I guess he thought I wouldn’t hear the buzzing noise.

“I’m not doing shit,” I respond.

“Then give it back!”

“No.”

“Then I’ll file a grievance.”

“At least you’ll be improving your writing skills.”

A few minutes later he’s begging me to give him a ticket.

“It’s a minor offense,” I tell him. “Violation of a Posted Rule: No personal property in the school building.” I rub my chin with my index finger and thumb. “I think I’ll pass.”

He knows that he’d get his clippers back faster if I filed the necessary paperwork. I’d rather hurt his pocketbook—no clippers, no clients, no income. Contrary to what he may believe, it’s not about his rights or my following protocol. He’ll receive his clippers on my terms.

Another inmate asks me for the meaning behind the word “morality.”

“It’s where you help the little old lady cross the street,” I answer, “before you steal her purse.”

For whatever reason, the youngsters in my classroom are upset and I don’t know why.

BALL, BIRD, DOG

2010-09-13T06:15:00.001-04:00

“You’re just a small ball in the tall weeds,” an older inmate tells the younger inmate, “trying to find your way.”

The youngster paces my classroom, flapping his arms and making hawk-like noises. He’s craving attention. I, along with the majority of the class, have learned to ignore him.

“Sit your ass down,” someone says, which extends his flight.

He did the same thing yesterday and after ten minute I gave him a direct order to sit down in his chair for the remainder of the class period. “You might as well write the ticket,” he said. “Caaaw Caaaw Caaaw!” So I did.

Perhaps today he thinks he’s Holden Caulfield soaring above the rye. “Do we need to play Simon Says again?” I ask.

He swoops down, perches himself in the hot-seat next to my desk. “Caaaw caaaw.”

I ignore it.

“I’m mad at you,” he says.

“What for?”

“You wrote me a ticket.”

“I’m going to write another one if you don’t stay in your seat.”

He stands up, displays his wing span, and then pounds his open hand with his right fist. He flies back to his chair and sits.

Twenty-minutes later the shift commander and two corrections officers enter my area. The shift commander shows me a slip of paper. “Is this guy in your room?”

“Yes.” I point.

They handcuff the youngster and proceed to shake him down. “Are there any sharp objects in your possession?” one officer asks as he slides on latex gloves.

“No.”

They’re looking for a razor blade; it’s in his mouth. They take him to segregation.

Word get’s back to me: He’s transformed himself into a dog. He’s pacing his cage. Still, the ball is irretrievable; he’ll never get it back. Woof, woof, woof!

Recommended read: “It’s Kind of A Funny Story” by Ned Vizzini.

MY PROBLEM WITH THE MENTALLY ILL

2010-09-09T16:39:00.000-04:00

When the woman who bought my chapbook pulled me aside to discuss writing and publishing, another woman threw a verbal jab my way. “Do you have a problem with the mentally ill?” Before I could answer, the woman who bought my chapbook dismissed the verbal jab with a wave of her hand.

I thought I had done fairly well, considering the difficulty I had enunciating words with a mouth full of braces, considering I haven’t read at an open mic in twenty-some years. In my opinion, with the low attendance at the Pointe Java, pissing off one person (out of seven or eight) and selling two chapbooks wasn’t all that bad.

My only regret: I should have answered that question. “Yes,” I’m saying now, “I do have a problem with the mentally ill. They don’t belong in prison. If they were mentally ill prior to committing their crime, then prison is not the place for them. But there’s this huge gray area where prisoners become mentally ill after incarceration. What should society do with them?” If my references to “those mental guys from Huron Valley,”—a place where the Michigan Department of Corrections once housed the mentally ill—offended anyone, then I apologize. Maybe I should stick to reading fiction to avoid further misunderstandings.

On a similar note, I did have one person walk-out during my reading, but I’m willing to bet it had more to do with how he was treated by the same woman who posed that question to me. He had asked her, “So what do your parents think about you coming here on Saturday nights?” She told him not to go there and stormed outside to have a smoke and make a phone call. A retired autoworker, his performance piece included factory noises from a boom-box. Shortly thereafter, during my routine, he split.

I’d like to give a special thanks to the young lady who videotaped all thirty-minutes of my reading. Only two and a half minutes were devoted to a nonfiction story about a mentally unstable student. Enjoy. Or don’t. Your choice. No more apologies.

OPERATION: PRISON FEBREZE

2010-09-02T13:40:00.000-04:00

“No movement at this time,” the control center announced. “No movement AT THIS TIME.”

Pulled from their designated areas, the corrections officers rushed over to five-block.

What was so important that all prison programs were left in a holding pattern? What could it be? Staff assault? Convicts fighting? A critical tool missing? What? To add to the confusion the emergency siren never whirred into an ear-piercing sound. No movement, nothing more, nothing less. Stay put. Stay where you are. And the inmates listened. Unlike the tornado drill where they were hoping for the perimeter fence to be carried off.

The ordeal took longer than expected. The corrections officers were told to put hard restraints and a spit-mask on Prisoner X. After two years of not showering, his legal guardian (his mother) signed a consent form; without it, Prisoner X had the right to enjoy his foul body order forever.

I checked my Prisoner Rule Violation book for hygiene rules. There were none. Management advises us to treat the mentally impaired inmates the same as general population. I thought about the typical “Disobeying a Direct Order” ticket. A staff person might say, “Prisoner X, I am ordering you to take a shower before noon.” Seems reasonable. I guess he would beat the ticket because he’s not able to make an informed decision without the consent of his legal guardian. Writing a ticket, any ticket, on any prisoner of his caliber, would be a waste of time.

Anyway … Prisoner X is now cleaned-up. Custody staff even removed his spit-mask so the inmate-barber could give him a clean shave. We're back to business as usual.

PRISON ETIQUETTE (with my indoor voice)

2010-08-29T00:46:00.002-04:00

Why would a middle-aged white woman with minimal inmate contact, someone who collects the same amount of hazard pay as I, someone comfortable enough to prop her panty-hosed feet atop her desk and take personal phone calls, why would such a woman, as able-bodied as she is, if not opinionated per se, why would such a woman do the chicken-walk down the corridor and announce to the corrections officer standing at the podium: “Tomlinson’s students are out of control.”

First of all, I’m on my ten-minute break—that segment of time between classes where teachers handle their “business.” THEIR “BUSINESS,” in case you’ve forgotten, in case you thought I had superhuman powers, is called: NUMBER 1 and/or NUMBER 2.

Second of all, my students are no longer my students when they’re not in my classroom; they’re just convicted felons doing whatever convicted felons do when in the corridor.

Third of all, never ever attach my name, or any other coworker for that matter, to a problem I/They did not inherit. Single out the perpetrators disrupting your “pre-release” session, ask for their identification cards (nine times out of ten they will do the chicken-walk in a different direction) and write them misconduct tickets.

Better yet, how about this: SAY NOTHING, DO NOTHING. There are security cameras in the hallways recording the prisoners’ actions. Intervention is a radio-call away. Leave the problem solving to the uniformed professionals. I’m not trying to be insensitive; it’s just that when you say “my students are out of control” others start thinking my classroom management skills are declining.

I apologize for the rant; I'm just a convict-teacher in survival mode.

CONVERSATION AT THE PEPPERMILL

2010-08-25T19:26:00.001-04:00

What I heard at the Peppermill did not shock me. We were celebrating my grandmother’s 90th birthday.

“So you work in a prison,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said.

I had a pretty good idea where the conversation was headed. As a surprise to my grandmother, she brought her 11-year old grandson, great-grandson to my grandmother, great-grandson to my deceased grandfather who died when I was eight or nine after driving his car off a dock.

“Every time there’s a parole hearing,” my deceased uncle’s ex-wife said, “the department of corrections notifies me.” She was referring to the drunk driver who killed her son, my cousin. “His name’s Bobby Brown*, can you believe it? He’s in the system somewhere. He’s past his 5-year minimum.”

Five years for killing another man doesn’t seem like much time. It’s been roughly ten years since the so-called accident; the boy sitting across the table from me never got to know his father.

“The minimum is just a guideline,” I reassured her. “He probably hasn’t fulfilled his requirements.” Worse case scenario, I’m thinking, is that he refuses to go to Alcoholics Anonymous or has to retake it because he got caught making spud juice.

The conversation quickly changes to my deceased uncle’s ex-wife’s brother; how he was mauled to death by dogs. I’d heard about it, how one of the dogs punctured a main artery and he bled out in the dead of winter. Our casual conversation at the Peppermill seemed surreal, strange, unbelievable. But it’s factual. We are the survivors, we have stories to tell.

My grandmother blew out the candles on her cake. She opened her presents. She wept tears of joy. Not many people make it to 90.

*After checking the Michigan Offender Tracking Information System, I did not find a Bobby Brown with a vehicular manslaughter sentence; He may have served his minimum and moved on with his life.

O.P.T. for the T.T.B.

2010-08-21T06:19:00.002-04:00

It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, except it’s Navy Blue with Orange Stripes, the med-lines, the inmates in their uniforms, waiting for their pills, cordially unblocking the path as I pass by, my co-worker recalling a story about a seagull ingesting someone’s spat-out medicine.

“From what I’d heard,” he said, “the seagull perched himself atop that Marlin house.” And why shouldn’t he? It’s located not too far from where the prisoners exit the chow hall, where they toss pieces of stale bread onto the grass. “The medicine must’ve been strong,” he added, “because the seagull had difficulty flying and ended-up flopping onto the ground.”

With approximately $34,000 a month earmarked for prescription drugs there’s bound to be a few catatonic birds.

Earlier in the day I spoke to my boss about an extremely volatile student. While stealing paper from my other students’ folders a classroom tutor suggested that he approach me for supplies. “What are you, a snitch bitch?” Soon, feathers were ruffled. I tried to de-escalate the situation by calling the disturbed student to my desk. He wouldn't listen. I stood up and started walking towards them. Then I thought about all the dental work on my teeth and decided against intervening. Luckily, nothing happened.

Later that day my boss and someone from mental health met with me to discuss this particular inmate. “I agree with you,” the mental health professional said. “This individual is a time-bomb in the making. I know it, you know it, and he knows it. Unfortunately, he refuses to take his medication.” Then he got to the core of the problem. “Look, I don’t have any problem telling you this because he’s been in my office screaming at the top of his longs: He claims his wife is cheating on him with his best friend.”

Wonderful, just wonderful. I’m advised to monitor the situation. If it gets any worse, then he’ll be removed from my classroom and he will not be allowed to return until he agrees to take his medication. Hmmm… what’s going to prevent him from spitting it out?

THE APPLE DUMPLING GANG

2010-08-18T06:42:00.000-04:00

Fall, a time for apple cider and powdered donuts, fast approaches. I can smell it in the air. The public schools will soon open their doors to promising youths craving new beginnings. As for my students … let’s just say their learning environment is a bit restrictive if not downright stagnant. While one dog’s busy chasing his tail, others are observing, trying to figure a way out of prison school.

“Mr. T, I’m not feeling well, can I go back to my unit?” Prisoner Bernier asks—a common theme.

As much as I’d like to remove him from my area, it’s beyond my power. Two weeks ago he used my stapler to get attention. At first the class laughed, which was definitely what he had wanted, so he repeated his little trick over and over and over until I intervened. “I see no reason,” I said, “for you to continue stapling your arm.” I held out an open palm. “Fun’s over, give it up.”

Prisoner Bernier has been in state custody since the ripe old age of eleven. Mentally he hasn’t progressed much. “Can I at least go to the bathroom?” He asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

He returns (rather quickly) and sits where most of my students sit: in the back. Shortly thereafter, someone informs me that there’s vomit outside my classroom door. I call Prisoner Bernier up to my desk. “Did you just puke outside my door?” He smiles. “I take that as a yes.” I send him back to his unit, but before he leaves I thank him for not vomiting on the classroom carpet. “Make sure you tell the school porter on your way out,” I add.

Once he’s gone, the complaints start. “You know,” someone says, “he stuck his finger down his throat.” “Yeah, he’s doing that shit on purpose.”

Instead of acknowledging the complaints I make an observation. “You guys must’ve had applesauce for lunch.”

“No,” one of my better students says. “They gave us apples.”

CLEANING UP AFTER THE DOG CATCHER

2010-08-14T06:20:00.000-04:00

When you have the dog chasing its tail the game goes something like this: “I told the corrections officer that I’m not feeling well and he told me to talk to you.”

My reply: “Oh, that’s nice.”

“You need to send me back.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Well I’m not feeling well so I’m going back to my cell.” The prisoner stands in front of my desk waiting for my reaction, waiting for me to tell him what to do, as if he’s the child and I’m the parent. “You gonna let me go back?”

“I have no control over what you do.”

“Well I’m leaving.”

I shrug my shoulders. He steps into the hallway, thinks about it, steps back into the classroom. I take attendance, fill out the absence slip. He waits to see if I’ll include his name. I, in turn, wait for him to sit down.

“You’re full of shit and you know it. You could let me return to my unit, you just don’t want to.”

“Thanks for informing me on how it’s done. I guess I’ve been doing it wrong these past nineteen years.”

He sits down in the back of the classroom and mumbles a few choice words. “I want to see the school principal,” he decides, says.

I include his name on the bottom of the absence slip with a note to see my boss (if she’s not busy) and send him on his merry way to the corrections officer’s podium.

Five-minutes later he’s back in my classroom. “The officer says it’s up to you.”

“That’s nice.”

“Why can’t you make a decision?”

“Why CAN’T YOU make a decision?”

He’s seated again. “You’re going to mess with the wrong person one of these days.”

I could ask him to elaborate. I could write a threatening behavior ticket and have him handcuffed and hauled to segregation. He’s serving a minimum sentence of 4 years, 3 months for Armed Robbery. According to Michigan Law, Section 750.529: If an aggravated assault or serious injury is inflicted (while committing this offense), the person shall be sentenced to a minimum term of imprisonment of NOT LESS THAN 2 YEARS. He’s lucky I chose to let him chase his tail. He’ll get tired … eventually. He has plenty of time to learn. Or not. I have patience.

JUST THE FACTS

2010-08-12T17:38:00.000-04:00

A CRASH COURSE IN HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

2010-08-10T05:56:00.003-04:00

I drove by a Lutheran church with one of those flashing electronic signs. The message:

Is God your steering wheel?
Or your spare tire?

I’m bad at analogies. I’m not sure how I’d answer this. A steering wheel implies “direction” whereas a spare tire implies “shoulder of the road, tire-jack in hand.”

The other day an inmate left his overdue library book in my classroom—the title: “Karla Faye Tucker, Set Free.” In case you’ve forgotten (or didn’t know), in 1983, Karla Faye and her boyfriend at the time, Danny Garrett, snuck into her ex-boyfriend’s apartment to steal his motorcycle. High on heroin, cocaine, and what-not, they murdered Jerry Lynn Dean and Deborah Thornton with, of all things, a pickax. Linda Strom, the author, said this should not be Karla Faye’s defining moment, that she became a born-again Christian.

Maybe. Maybe not.

As for sincerity, Karla Faye did what no other Death-Row inmate had ever done: In 1984, without a request for leniency or a plea deal, she testified against Danny Garrett. Fourteen years later, with her execution date closing in, she wrote Governor Bush & the Texas Board of Pardon & Paroles:

I know that justice and law demand my life for the two innocent lives I brutally murdered that night. If my execution is the only thing, the final act that can fulfill the demand for restitution & justice, then I accept that … I will pay the price for what I did in any way our law demands it.

I’m probably oversimplifying a rather complex issue but it looked to me as if Karla Faye Tucker accepted her fate. She had run out of spare tires. The author says she gave her life to God, that He became her steering wheel. All I know is she died by lethal injection.

I’ve often wondered why prisoners doing life bits are generally easier to work with than the short timers. Probably for the same reason that Death-Row inmates like Karla Faye Tucker take their religion seriously—they’re no longer in control of their destiny here on earth.

What are your thoughts regarding the death penalty?