Oh Charlene! Why have you forsaken me?

Q: If you find yourself in a pickle, how should you answer?

"Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please."
  
"If you tell the truth, then you don't have to remember anything."

 "Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it."
 —Mark Twain



That gal/pal Charlene sure knows how to party. He/she’s all about socializing at work. In fact, when this here omniscient narrator did a little role-playing himself as the acting school principal (which only lasted two hours) the melodrama began. I handed Charlene a memorandum requesting specific information on fifteen newly enrolled students; insignificant items (to my gal/pal anyway): reading, language, and mathematics grade levels, initial enrollment dates, and previous GED scores.

 You would’ve thought I asked for Charlene’s first-born. He/she tossed the memo aside, eliciting this response from yours truly: “Have that information in my mailbox by the end of your shift.”

 Reasonable? I thought so, considering he/she had 6 ½ more hours to work.

 Charlene left his/her secretary desk and stormed into the school principal’s office. I stood in the doorway.

 “Is there something you need in here?” I asked. He/she picked up the phone and started punching numbers. “Who’re you calling, Charlene?” I added.

 He/she slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “We’ll see what the deputy warden has to say about this!”

 “No problem … end of your shift,” I reminded him/her.

 Oh Charlene, why-why-why did you leave me feeling so empty inside? Why didn’t you give me a chance?

 When Charlene returned, he/she dumped me. “You’re no longer my immediate supervisor, the deputy warden is.”

 I’ve suffered rejection all my life. I held my emotions intact. “Good for you Charlene. End of my shift.”

 In the lunchroom the deputy warden approached. He explained to me that Charlene had called our boss vacationing in Florida and she in turn absolved my favorite gal/pal from answering to me. I, in turn, gave the deputy warden a copy of the memorandum. He looked puzzled.

 “I know …” I said.

 It took two full days, more game playing, and a classroom visit by the deputy warden to get the necessary documents for me to do my teaching job. The deputy warden hand delivered it himself. “Is that all?” he asked.

 “Well,” I said, “I have another dozen new students enrolled in my class, but I think I’ll wait until the school principal returns.”

 -----------

 Back to reality: My prayers go out to the corrections officer whose wife died this week from brain cancer. May she rest in peace.

Charlene, The Incredible He / She

Disclaimer: The account you’re about to read is purely fictional, made up, pulled from the vacuous spaces of Charlene’s head and told from another vantage point.


Charlene once stated that control center staff had photos of our former school corrections officer entering and exiting a crack-house in Port Huron. Of course, he/she said this after the fact, after his/her one-time working buddy had been fired.

Whether this crack-house story is true (which I doubt since the officer in question was given his job back) leads to one important question: Why is it that management lets Charlene stick his/her nose in places where it doesn’t belong?

Rumors spread like wildfire inside the prison system; all you’ve got to do is strike a match, drop it, and let the flames take-off. After a minor set-back, where Charlene called yours truly, the omniscient narrator, “a fucking idiot,” he/she planted a gossip seed of how I was on the chopping block, inches away from being fired. Of course, in order to go undetected Charlene did his/her planting with a(n) employee(s) from another prison.

“This,” a special education teacher, a young lady and lunch companion of Charlene, informed me, “is my last day at your facility.” Soon, she switched the subject from how she had been told her services were no longer needed to the subsequent, but unsubstantiated, demise of yours truly.

“Interesting,” I responded. “There’s truth to rumors, but I seriously doubt I’m going to get fired any time soon. In fact I just got a high-performance work evaluation.” What I didn’t tell her is that Charlene played a small, intricate role in her fate when she had left a book at our facility a few weeks back. She told me it was a book about relationships, but somehow word got out that it was a book about sex. Ouch! No one’s safe in the company of Charlene.

COMMENTS

Temporarily Out of Order

And so the journey begins. See you in 2011.

Where have all the years gone? I need to concentrate on a lengthier writing project, perhaps a novel. I've been thinking about it since 1983 when Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli autographed her debut novel for me. Wish me luck.

Also, thanks for all those encouraging words. Have a happy and safe New Year.

Cheers!

GOOD PEOPLE ARE OUT THERE

Unlike our public and/or private school teachers, I reported for duty. Not that I saw any action; Classes were cancelled for the holidays. I started my yearly online computer training—real repetitive stuff, accompanied by sleepy elevator music. Had to remove my headphones after the first hour so as not to yawn.

Not all of it was dull. In my Hostage Awareness Course I’d been warned: The program you are about to complete IS NOT to be discussed with persons other than Michigan Department of Corrections employees. Guess I won’t speak about the Scott Freed incident where Prisoner Zane Sturgill held him hostage with a skillfully made shank. I won’t even tell my wife. I’ll spare her the details.

Instead, I’ll pay tribute to the kind-hearted family who read about my Grandmother in the Fall 2009 Issue of “Faith” (The magazine of the Catholic Diocese of Saginaw). This family sent my Grandmother a letter explaining how every year they send a gift of money to someone in need. For Christmas she became the recipient of their generosity.

When I visited her, you could see the joy in her eyes. “Grandma,” I said rather jokingly, “whatever you do, don’t report it as income.”

*Update: I visited both Grandmothers this past weekend. My other Grandmother has been released from the nursing home.

DELMA JANE

My Grandmother isn’t doing too well. She had to be placed in a nursing home right before Christmas. A few years back, after the death of my Grandfather, she gave me some handwritten stories, asking if I’d edit them for her. I never got around to it—until now. I thought I’d share my personal favorite. Here it is:

Once upon a time—as all good stories should start (but this isn’t just a story, this is something that really happened to your Grandfather)—this family living on a farm near Kinde, Michigan in the 1920’s, had six children: Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy, Leland, and Delma Jane. Delma Jane was the youngest at 3 months old and she had been very very sick. Roy and Mary, the parents, knew their baby was dying and sheltered their other children as best as they could from the inevitable.

It was a nice day, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Roy and Mary told their children to go into the field and bring the cows back for milking. So off the children went down a long lane, through some woods, and into an open field. They gathered the cows and drove them through the woods. But as they entered the lane the cows stopped. The children thought that maybe something had startled the cows. They looked around, but couldn’t see anything. Then, one by one, each child looked up over the fence line. They weren’t sure about what they were witnessing; it looked like a young man with golden hair and a gown; and if so, he didn’t speak.

They prodded the cows to keep moving, which they did, and the person near the fence glided along, keeping pace. As they approached the barn yard to milk the cows, their acquaintance began to fade away. By this time, the children were so excited that they ran to see their mother and father.

When they entered the farm house, they found both of them crying. They learned that poor little Delma Jane had passed. They were too little to understand the permanence of death, or perhaps their anxiousness outweighed their sadness; they wanted to tell their parents about the flying person.

After a brief moment of silence, once their mother and father stopped crying, Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy and Leland retold their story, each adding a bit more detail. When they had finished taking turns describing the flying person, their mother and father informed them that God had sent an Angel for Delma Jane; that she had went to Heaven.

This happened a long, long time ago. These children have grown old; some have gone to heaven themselves. But whenever there’s a family get-together, someone always mentions the beautiful Angel and Delma Jane.

-The End-

Merry Christmas everyone!

ANIMA & ANIMUS

“The animus is the deposit, as it were, of all woman’s ancestral experiences of man—and not only that, he (man) is also a creative and procreative being, not in the sense of masculine creativity, but in the sense that he brings forth something we might call … the spermatic word.”
—Anima & Animus, Carl Jung’s Collected Works

“What we women have to overcome in our relation to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves (up).”
—Animus & Animal, Emma Jung, Carl’s wife.

After I wrote three quick flashes (“Animus,” “Cocoon Man,” and “Still Life in Detroit”) and muddled through the edits, my classroom tutor, a thirty-year member of the National Lifer’s Association, someone who confided in me that during movies he occasionally bursts into tears for no apparent reason, perused each flash and ranked them accordingly. When he picked “Animus” as his personal favorite, I asked for a reason. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say “beats me,” but after a moment of reflection he said, “It’s different … unique … sort of odd, yet understandable. Nature, you know, is one of life's great mysteries.” He did not offer to elaborate beyond that and I knew not to ask for more.

“Animus” is posted at Staccato.  If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, please do so at their website; in fact, I’d greatly appreciate it. Also, there are forty-four previous stories worth examining, with a new one appearing every three or four days—a treasure trove of interesting material.

Thanks for reading—in advance.

CFL AWARDS CEREMONY

Someone from Programs invited me to a CFL Awards Ceremony. “They’re having hot wings and fries. It’s okay if you cancel class. Your tutors can come too.”

When is it not okay to cancel class? How many students in the prison would actually complain? “CFL,” I repeat. “What’s that?” And before an answer is provided, I take a stab, “Canadian Football League?”

During our laughter, she says, “Chance for Life.” Prisoners, I’m told, are trained to be mediators. They deal with their hostile peers. It’s an intervention type program where inmates iron out their differences. The mediators are advisors, referees, and Mommy and Daddy all rolled into one; they offer brotherly advice. I’m also told that they’re allowed to have these types of meetings without custody staff standing over their shoulders. Closed door sessions? I raise an eyebrow.

So I bring my posse of tutors to the shindig. Five to be exact. As we approach the greeting table, two prisoners start filling out our name tags. A third prisoner, his hands gesticulating in the distance, runs up to the table. “We’re not going to have enough food,” he says.

“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “I already ate.”

He’s referring to the posse. He rephrases his statement, turns it into a question, as if he’s having trouble with his eyesight. “How many tutors do you have?”

I can take a hint. I turn around and instead of using my index finger to count, I point. “You, you, and you, leave.” Then I tell him, “Two.”

As my lower seniority tutors exit, one of them says to the uptight-don’t-know-how-to-count inmate, “You’re a whiny little bitch.”

I walk toward the seating area, wondering if a closed door session is needed before the CFL Award Ceremony begins. I’m sure they’ll work it out at a later date.

DON'T HATE THE PLAYER, HATE THE GAME

I often get angry when it comes to heated discussions regarding education issues, especially when our public schools and teachers become political footballs. Not that long ago our former Michigan Governor, John Engler, waived Detroit Public School’s low test score result in front of the television cameras and threatened a state takeover. Little did his viewing audience know that he was instrumental in lowering the certification requirements for new teachers. And why not? Flood the already saturated market with inexperienced, fresh out of college rookies, create competition, lower salaries—it’s all good. Anything to keep taxes from rising, along with a school funding shift from property taxes to state sales tax.

Two governors ago (during James Blanchard’s reign) the politicians, under the guidance of our fine teacher colleges, created a new law eliminating the Continuing Teaching Certificate; replacing it with Provisional and Professional Teaching Certificates. These new fangled documents would need to be renewed every five years by taking additional college coursework. So our young rising stars, the lucky ones to get hired, figured out ways to boost their salaries by earning master’s degrees online or through college extension courses. Higher salaries, although good for the teachers, meant tighter school budgets (not the only contributing factor), layoffs, increased class size, etc. As the prisoners would say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

It’s a sad vicious cycle, a power grab for money by the teachers, by the colleges, and now by the State of Michigan Education Department in the form of Federal stimulus dollars. How can they get some of those greenbacks? Simple. Make it easier to obtain a teaching certificate. Hmmm…. We’ve been down that road before.

As for the Detroit Public Schools, their teachers have nothing to negotiate and are being asked to loan their employer $10,000 each. What about those downtown casinos? Are they not helping out? If so, how much per year?

Our public schools are a microcosm of society, of their surrounding neighborhoods. There are some bright spots. At the beginning of this week Detroit Public Schools asked for volunteers to help teach children how to read. Guess who immediately answered their call? Mark Durfee, aka The Walking Man. He’s quoted in the Detroit Free Press: “I have to have faith that the coming generation can make Detroit, Michigan, the nation, and the world a better place than the one we are leaving behind. If the coming generation of kids cannot read, they will fail in bringing that change. That is why I volunteered.”

Mark, you’re a better man than I. I guess I’ll do what I can from the inside, from those concertina-wired fences and gun towers.

EMPOWERMENT

Last Month: A young Vice Lord says, “I’m gonna get you fired.” He’s waving a torn sheet of paper in the air. It has one lousy word written on it. “They (custody staff) will know it’s your handwriting.”

“Who really cares?” I reply.

“You’re gonna look mighty stupid once they find out.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“What you gotta say for yourself, Teach?”

I choose my words carefully, giving him a clear understanding of the aftermath. “First of all,” I explain, “it was inappropriate of you to ask me to spell the M-word. I could’ve written you a 057 Sexual Misconduct ticket. Instead, I remained professional and spelled a word similar in meaning. Second, the nature of your felony (Criminal Sexual Conduct) should be enough for you not to press this non-issue. And third, it’s not as big a deal as you’re trying to make it, especially since I can make it bigger.” Then, for added emphasis, “It’s your move.”

He stuffs the scrap paper back into his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he says, “for insurance purposes.”

I tell him it’s okay, everyone needs a security blanket once in awhile.

The controversial word that’s such a non-issue: onanism.

Today: A young Vice Lord, still carrying around that scrap sheet of paper, qualifies for his GED Exams. He does it the good old fashion way—by studying and doing well on his standardized tests.

Old Pic: Fisher's 666 in Detroit

Level IV, II, I

“So,” I interrupt, I’m dealing with a surly prisoner’s temper tantrum, “are you a ‘true’ Level II or an ‘actual’?”

He knows what I’m getting at. IV’s and II’s refer to security levels; the higher the Roman numeral, the bigger the risk factor. A ‘true’ security level is where an inmate is ‘supposed’ to be; it’s based on a classification point system determined by the type of crime committed, staff assaults, tickets, and so forth; whereas, an ‘actual’ security level is determined by bed space. If a facility’s Level IV cells are at capacity, an inmate is placed at a lower security level, allowing him more access, more freedoms within the confines of the prison environment.

Level I’s are supposedly less of a threat. They sometimes work jobs out in public.

Two days ago a corrections officer supervising Level I prisoners on a work crew (roadside work) was stabbed with a pitchfork and left for dead. His assailant made a short-lived getaway in a state van full of his peers. The corrections officer is currently in the hospital. Everyone in the Michigan Department of Corrections is praying for his recovery.

“So,” I remind my student, “what’s your ‘true’ security level?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shouts. “I’m going home!”

BURNING BRIDGES

Once again I’m receiving complaints regarding Christmas music in my classroom and there’s no reason for it. I understand that being locked-up during the holidays can be downright depressing: no loved ones to gather around the Christmas tree with, no spiked eggnog to drink and no mistletoe for … (on second thought, because the prisoners are known to improvise, strike those last two). As I was saying, the radio station, I changed it, changed it last week to an easy listening format. Dick Purtan in the morning. Sure, he sandwiched “Jingle Bells” between Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and The Monkee’s “I’m a Believer,” but still, it’s better than Christmas music on the airwaves 24-7.

Prisoner H, a 20-something-year-old, is the biggest cry baby. “Turn that shit off! I hate Christmas.”

“There must be a few fond memories from your childhood that you can reflect on and smile,” I suggest.

“Not a one.”

I’m not so sure about his claim, but I know not to press certain issues; He may have burned every bridge, every connection to his family. I ignore him instead.

Within a half-hour “Frosty the Snowman” hits the rotation.

“Look,” he says, pounding his fist on the table, “if everybody in the room is warm, but one person says they’re cold, you gotta close the window.”

“That’s a bad analogy,” I reply. I’m hoping for Aaron Neville’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” I think that’ll warm him up.

RIGHT HAND CLUBBING

Dale,
I haven't heard back from you regarding "The Trigger Man and his Accomplice," so I decided to take the bull by the horns and do a rewrite (see RTF attachment).

I hope it's the right fit for Left Handing Waving. I've also attached a JPEG file for your convenience.

In closing, I'd like to say that my favorite piece (so far) is by CL Bledsoe. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, JR

*****

John,
I'm sorry I didn't get back to you.

I showed this to the other 2 editors and I'm afraid we just can't use it. Thanks for trying (twice!)

Dale

*****

Dale,

Name's JR, or Jim, or James, but not John. I'll keep an eye on LHW, see if I can come up with something better.

Thanks, JR