DISMANTLING THE CHANDELIER

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.

FROM THE "HELLO KITTY" ROOM

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.

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

SHOOTING RUBBER BULLETS

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.

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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.

SOME SINGLE-BUNK BUNK

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

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

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 .

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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.

LIFE IS SHIT

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.”

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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

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.

Preventive Health Care for Risky Behavior

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.

DAE-DAE AND HIS REPLACEMENT

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.

PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS: A LOVE STORY

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

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

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.

FROM BEHIND THE OBSERVATION GLASS

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!

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

“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

“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

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

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.

OLD LONG SINCE; BO-NEN-KAI

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!