MY FASHION STATEMENT

Maybe I’m not on the same wavelength as everybody else. Should I be? All the recent hoopla about school dress codes pales in comparison to what I had to endure. I’m not talking about the serene calm permeating the air on the day that all Michigan prisoners had their personal clothing confiscated and were forced to wear state-issued blues. Sure, when they electronically opened their cells on that special day, most correctional employees erred on the side of caution.

And why not? If something jumped-off, let’s say a random shanking, how would the perpetrator be identified? Hmmm… He had on a blue shirt with matching blue pants with a hunter’s orange stripe running down the pant leg. Oh, and he was dark complected. Okaaay … sort that out.

Not that I care. So all you youngsters (and your parents) out there sniveling over a dress code—get over it! My students wear the same outfits, and as far as I’m concerned, “Why shouldn’t you?” Actually, most public schools are still allowing you to choose your own clothing. Just don’t show up looking like a hoochie-mama or jimmy-mac. Distractions in an educational setting need to be eliminated.

And yeah, I’m a hypocrite. So what? Stop your rapid eye movement. The last time I wore a suit and tie to work, the immobilization siren blew, and I had to serve cake to over a thousand inmates in the chow hall. I thought my arm was going to fall off. The only reason I was in formal attire on that day was because my regular work clothes were still in the dirty laundry basket at home.

As a matter of fact, teachers should be able to wear whatever they want. When I worked at a Detroit prison, they implemented a silly dress code. They wanted me to wear slacks, dress shirts, and dress shoes. Can you believe it? No tennis shoes. No twill pants—I had to look that one up—what they meant was no Dockers. I had a closet full of Dockers. I sought further clarification. They made allowances; Dockers are okay if you wear a tie.

One day I showed up sporting Dockers, a Croft & Barrow dress shirt, and the required tie. The correction officer yelled, “FREEZE THE GATES!”

Slightly confused, I had already gone through the metal detector undetected once, I decided to go through it again. She stopped me. “Sir, I cannot allow you on the premises with tennis shoes. Per the deputy warden’s memorandum.”

“Huh,” I said. “I’m not wearing tennis shoes.”

“Sir,” she said, “they have a rubberized sole.”

There wasn’t any need to argue. She contacted the deputy warden, who came up front. They glanced down at my shoes. With a smile on my face, I said, “They're Sperrys—the original boat shoe.” Needless to say, I was allowed to perform my duties that day.

A WRITER'S DILEMMA

There’s this student in my GED class who hates reading the required material. I’ll admit, it’s a bit dry and uninteresting, so I told him, “Mr. Sheffield, bring a magazine, newspaper, novel, whatever you’d like to read. As long as you’re doing something in here.” My basic philosophy is that regardless of a person’s reading level, if they’re not reading on a daily basis, then they might as well be illiterate.

Mr. Sheffield has become a voracious reader. He orders novels from the “Get Yours” Catalog (www.getyourscatalog.com). Prior to that, I tried to get him to read some of my prison stories; which he said were too wordy and confusing. He went on to say, “You should try writing one of these novels.” Now I’m entertaining the thought. I could be the “Eminem” of ghetto-lit, or gangsta-lit, or whatever the hell you call it.

On another note, I sent a previously published story to Hobart’s online journal (www.hobartpulp.com), hoping to keep the story alive, hoping to gain new readers. Here’s the follow-up email I received the other day:

Hi James. I liked your story submission, but ultimately decided it was a bit too long for inclusion in our online October issue. I don’t read for the print Hobart, but I suggest you submit to our print issue. I think Aaron Burch would like this piece; it’s funny, biting, and surprisingly full of hear. I thought the ending was just right. Thank you for sending it our way; please consider us when submitting your work in the future. Best, Claudia Smith and the Hobart Editorial Team.

Again, another lovely rejection. What do I do? Ghetto-lit? Or Reality-lit? Follow the money (the brochure says: “We Ship To All State Correctional Facilities”)? Or small literary journals? I know this much: not to quit my day job.

GETTING SCHOOLED

I’ve had new students enter my classroom silently honoring Ground Hog’s Day for three to six months on end—plunking their asses in the back of the room, studying my every move, problem solving their way out of physically attending class. They’re searching for weaknesses, the teacher’s soft spots, the necessary angles, and if they can’t get a good enough read on me, they’ll approach my desk and ask, "Are you going to give me something, or what?"

That’s when I reply, "Sir, you’ve just taken your first step to an education. Congratulations."

In September 1968 (above photo), I did just that—took my "first step." Little did I know that the teachers could stop the wheels on the bus from going ‘round and ‘round. The Detroit Public School teachers may be doing just that. Faced with a tough choice, they’ve decided to strike. What were they offered anyway? Let’s see: Do you want to get hit in the head with a two-by-four (a.k.a. 5% pay cut & reduced benefits), or do you want to get hit in the head with a two-by-four with a nail in it (a.k.a. 5% pay cut, reduced benefits, fines, & possible job loss)? They chose the latter.

And why not? So what if it’s illegal for public school teachers to strike in Michigan. They have a right to a fair contract just like everyone else. Back in 1992, when I worked for DPS, instead of picketing, I chose to work in a prison. Not that I’m against carrying a sign. My union brothers and sisters, the Michigan correction officers, held an informational picket a few years back. They gave me a sign that read, "These are the people your mother warned you about." I traded it for one that reminded the public of our dear legislature’s 34% pay increases.

I'M SUCH A CATFISH!

There has to be an incentive for me to shake hands with a bored twelve-year old chubby kid at his older sister’s birthday party. Watching him greet his sister’s friends with a secret handful of chip dip makes me chuckle. “Who taught you that?” an angry mother asks. That’s my cue to exit the room.



I guess you could say I’m probably not a textbook example of how an uncle should act. I can’t help myself. Why not make things interesting in the subtlest of ways? It gets people on the edge of their seats. Never a dull moment.

We had our annual catfish cook-up at my mother’s house on Saturday, and while delivering a plate of Cajun cats to the table, my wife had me pose for a picture (okay, not exactly—I suggested it). Unfortunately—depending on your perspective—two of my three nieces, ranging in age from four to twelve, saw what I had done. I’m sure that since they're the older two, they told their mother (my sister-in-law); however, she’s fairly tolerant of my antics and dismisses their concerns. No need to question Uncle Jim’s motives. At least my wife thinks I'm quite the catch.

I’m forever pulling this same prank in my classroom. An inmate will request the use of the bathroom. I’ll reach in my desk drawer and pull out a small lacquered wooden paddle with the word “PASS” on it. I’ll make sure to hand it to him in such a way for all to see. “Just for you,” I’ll announce, commanding the attention of everyone else. It’s never a deterrent.

HOLD YOUR FIRE!

This will be the last time I mention my neighbor's boat trailer. I promise. It's where it should be, on their property and not on mine. I wanted to write about victory--the Detroit Lions were definitely out of the question--then I realized, it's the preseason, it's not about winning and losing, it's how you play the game.

Yesterday, my neighbors slipped a musical Hallmark Card into our Detroit Free Press box. A loud distorted transistor sound of "Sweet Home Alabama" assaulted my ears when I opened it. My neighbor's live-in fiancee must have coerced him into signing the card. Notice his signature in the bottom right corner.


I'm willing to bet he put forth more effort launching bottle rockets into my yard last weekend than into his written apology. My wife and I had to pick up thirty-some bottle rocket sticks. I'll have to check our gutters too, as I suspect there are more of them waiting to clog up my downspouts once our future autumn leaves turn and fall.

It's funny how the women tackled the crisis, communicating with words, directly or indirectly. What's done is done. In the past. Now it's up to me to turn over a new leaf and approach my neighbors like a fool on the horizon. Speaking of leaves, the cherry tree seems to like its new location. It will grow quickly, and my wife and I will remember our thirteenth wedding anniversary and the events surrounding it.

THE ICE CREAM ANTISOCIAL

I know what you’re thinking: I look like a homeless guy eating a bowl of ice cream in the dead of winter. But I’m not homeless, it’s not winter, and yes, I’m posing with a bowl of Caramel Caribou, which I intend to eat.

By now you’re pissed, thinking I’m making fun of the down and out, and I apologize for that. Nothing could be further from the truth, it could happen to any one of us—look at the Hurricane Katrina victims. Thank God we’ve got the NLA (National Lifer’s Association) making Teddy Bears for the Katrina victims’ children. A bunch of big burly tattooed men kibitzing around their sewing machines. Even our dear Governor of Michigan, Jennifer Granholm, received a cuddly bear—a symbolic gesture of appreciation.

All of us should donate our time or money to a worthy cause, not just the inmates with nothing better to do. Afterall, it’s our kindness and generosity that make this world a much better place. Nothing beats a good old fashion fund-raiser to help the needy. President Bush should try having a bake sale some time to help out with his war effort. I’m sure he’d be able to raise thousands too.

Enough with the sarcasm. Back to the ice cream. In order to raise money for the IBF (Inmate Benefit Fund), the Warden’s Forum Members requested an ice cream stand on the prison yard. This would give a few inmates jobs, while pleasing the general population with empty calories. Never mind that arguments would ensue over which flavors to carry. Besides, the aggravations would be well worth the profits, most of which would be donated to a local charity.

Talk is cheap, they say, and being prepared with a business proposal is another matter. By the time the Warden’s Forum Members enacted a detailed plan, several monthly meetings came and went. Once the deal was finalized and approved by the Warden, an inmate maintenance crew erected an ice cream stand in the prison yard. Soon they were ready to sell 31 Flavors. Unfortunately, sales were dismal, no one wanted to eat ice cream. I kept reminding my students, “When you leave class today, regardless of the below zero temperature, you should get yourself some ice cream; it’s for a worthy cause.” I’d usually get cussed at for my remarks, and I’m sorry to say, their plan failed miserably.

EXTRA EXTRA, READ LESS ABOUT IT

When word got out that I was the next supervisor of an inmate newspaper, and the editor, a man who found God after killing his twelve-year old son with a shotgun, tried to manipulate another staff member into volunteering for the job, then I knew something wasn’t quite right. I knew my job wouldn’t be easy. The previous supervisor, an assistant librarian, had allowed the newspaper staff to make crucial decisions for him. Management observed this and made the pitching change. (Years later, after I had transferred to another joint, I heard that the assistant librarian was fired for bringing marijuana into the facility. Prior to that, custody staff caught him bringing in Polaroids of nude female body parts.)

My major goal as supervisor was to separate the paid subscribers from the inmate population. The newspaper was delivered to each inmate free of charge on a monthly basis. They could read the Warden’s Forum minutes to see if their Housing Unit Representatives were looking out for their best interests, or they could debate the controversial editorial page, or lazily skim the other regurgitated articles. Most of the funding for the inmate newspaper came from the IBF (Inmate Benefit Fund). The IBF’s revenue came from the prison store and visiting room vending machines.

At first I was curious as to who would subscribe to an inmate newspaper. I asked the editor to provide me with a list of paid subscribers. After one week of constantly nagging him for the list, he turned in a twenty-page mess. I saw through his ploy and demanded a paid subscriber list by a certain date, or I’d make sure their paper never made another deadline. It wasn’t long after that that the editor provided a list of names, including the former Governor of Michigan (John Engler) and assorted Detroit newscasters.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck,” I said to the editor, “I know damned well that no one on this list is interested in this paper.” Next, I threatened to take this incident to the Warden’s Forum members, to show them how their money was being wasted. “Why mail a newspaper to someone that’s not interested in reading it? More than likely, it’ll be tossed in the garbage.”

The editor tried to bullshit me about the right to free speech and the right to send the newspaper to whomever they chose. I reminded him that per our institution’s operating procedures they could only send it out to paid subscribers.

Needless to say, I kept digging. Unfortunately, instead of getting the necessary support of management, I was put under investigation for mail fraud. To make a long story short, the editor and layout man had a fake bulk rate stamp printed on the newspapers. For over a year, the mailman would pick up a stack of newspapers in our mailroom and have them delivered.

Armed with a calculator, I approximated the weight of one newspaper, multiplied it by an arbitrary number of fake, paid subscribers, multiplied that total by an arbitrary number of months, and had the IBF pony-up the necessary money owed to the United States Postal Service. The newspaper editor ended up in segregation, and shortly after that, the general prison population referred to me as “the son of a bitch that had our newspaper shut down.” Not that it had anything to do with me, or this particular incident, but within a month, Lansing decided to shut down the remaining prison newspapers statewide.

STAMP OUT CRIME

Some of you may not agree with the Michigan prison economy system, but you have to give a full-grown man (jokingly referred to as a groan man for all his constant whining) some type of incentive for attending class. Think about it, every traumatic experience an inmate has had in an academic setting resurfaces once he attempts to study the required material. There are an infinite amount of ways to fail, in fact their good at it, and only a handful of ways to succeed.

Not too long ago, inmates were paid thirty-two cents a day, usually around the price of a postage stamp, to go to school. The money could be spent on personal hygiene items from the prison store, or for potato chips, candy bars, Bugler (tobacco), coffee, or whatever miscellaneous things that happened to be in stock. Their housing representatives (fellow inmates) would help to determine which items were important to have by attending the Warden’s Forum and voicing their constituents’ wishes. Also, back in the day, an inmate could stand in line to make his purchases, and if he didn’t have any clout, by the time he made it back to his cell, he’d be holding an empty paper bag. I also remember some inmates that were charged with breaking and entering for stealing from the store.

Well, those days are long gone. Now we’ve turned to silent shopping. An inmate fills out a store order form and his items are delivered to his unit. Also, due to inflation, inmates earn fifty-nine cents a day for school. “We still get paid,” someone always asks, “when you’re on vacation, don’t we?” The answer to that one is: “Hell no.”

"Well why not?" They'll ask. Then I quote policy, and suggest that they go to the law library and look it up.

I’m responsible for the monthly academic school payroll, a voluntary duty that wields a lot of power and influence over the inmates. I work behind the scenes, stamping out crime from the inside, getting them educated by making them hit the books. If we can get them to learn the error of their ways, to demonstrate empathy, to realize that no one owes them a damn thing, then maybe later on they'll get a real job and pay taxes like the rest of us.

THE CHERRY TREE

I had yesterday off, my thirteen-year wedding anniversary. You couldn’t ask for a better day to plant a cherry tree. Not too hot. Not too cool. I did the digging, fill-in, and watering. Now, nature will take its course. The tree should get about thirty feet high. We planted it on the side of our house where the boat-trailer once was parked. Our neighbor moved it Sunday afternoon. According to my wife, he came out of his house and onto his unfinished addition (no building permit and fourteen months later) where he sat with his back to our property.

Before I tell you what happened, let me give you some background on my wife. She’s experienced in property management in Detroit. She used to go to 36th District Court all the time. She showed apartments to prospective tenants until it wasn’t worth the risk anymore. I remember walking through a Detroit riverfront apartment, when a big guy, 6’ 4" tall and about 250 lbs., noticed her and quickly turned and headed the other way. I asked, "What’s his problem?" She said, "I sent him a Notice to Quit. It won’t be long and his worldly possessions will be thrown into the street." I often had to tell my wife no to the occasional pet that she became concerned about.

Anyway, she approached the chain link fence and said, "You will have to move your boat now." He turned, and before he could say anything, she continued, "We told you last fall we did not want a boat parked on our property. What makes you think a boat-trailer is any different?"

He said, "I thought your husband was okay with it."

"No, he’s not," she said, "You never asked. You need to move it now."

He started stammering and apologizing. She stood her ground until he got out of the chair and moved the trailer. I give her credit. Now let’s hope there’s no bad feelings.

I THOUGHT I COULD BLOG

I'm a big boy. My mother held me as a baby. So I won't complain, I won't cry. I've had over one hundred posts. My third place finish in the second "So You Think You Can Blog" Contest is respectable. My entry, "Jaws Of A Different Kind," lost out to a bunch of rabid Girl Scouts selling cookies and ... and ... a Luna Moth. Are these stories for real? I know mine are.

Here are my virtual awards, side by side, from each contest:



Once again, I finished in the top half. No second banana for me. I will say this, "I want a rematch." Go to Theory of Thought for details. I'm not holding back this time, but don't let me intimidate you. Give me your best shot.

APPROACHING 13

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I'm not really good at remembering dates, but I'll never forget the day I got married, August 21st. The date's easy enough, after the way we celebrated our first year together. My wife and I had decided to have a quiet Sunday at home, just the two of us, no interruptions. It seemed like such a simple plan. Until the phone calls. The first few we ignored, but soon our phone started ringing nonstop. We took turns answering.

None of the calls were happy anniversary messages. The first call came from my brother. "Jim, these guys you’re working around are murderers, some are doing life sentences," he said, "You should find another job.” Then my mother-in-law, who usually phones to say, “You should be watching Oprah,” but changed her modus operandi, "Are you watching Channel 4 news?” Indeed, we were. There had been a news alert about ten dangerous convicts breaking out of the Ryan Correctional Facility in Detroit. We couldn’t believe it. Somebody had thrown numerous guns over the perimeter fence, along with bolt cutters. Most of the names being reported were familiar to me, yet the whole incident seemed so far away. It had been a quick reminder of who I had become, of who I dealt with on a daily basis.

When I initially started at Ryan Correctional, I worked eighteen months straight before taking my first vacation, which happened to be my planned wedding and honeymoon. I remember Old Man Adams, in prison for killing his wife, yelling across the mall area as I was leaving, “Don’t do it! What you really need is a restraining-order!” The other inmates within earshot started laughing.

Nothing really goes according to plan. Ask my wife about our wedding and she’ll mention her grandfather’s desire to see his last grandchild get married. Unfortunately, he died thirteen years ago today, one day short of fulfilling his wish. I spent part of my honeymoon as a pallbearer.

Then there’s that memorable moment of the actual wedding day, where the priest ignores your request not to mention the recently departed. We exchanged wedding vows in the company of grief stricken relatives.

Today’s photograph shows my wife and I, hand in hand, ready to cut our wedding cake. The first cut is the deepest, deeper than you could ever imagine. We were not ourselves on that day. According to the picture, according to the knife’s engraving, we were some other couple on some other day.

WE HOPE YOU DON'T MIND

When my neighbor approached me last fall he said, “I’m thinking of buying a boat.”

I told him, “Great! What type of boat do you want?”

Instead of answering my question, he caught me off-guard by saying, “But I need a place to park it, so I thought I’d put it here,” indicating my property.

I couldn’t believe his statement and quickly replied, “No you’re not.” He understood. Here’s why: He purchased a nice size fishing boat and parked it in his driveway all winter and spring long. Then came summer, he continued to do the neighborly thing—HIS DRIVEWAY. I haven’t a clue as to why, all of a sudden, he thinks his boat-trailer is fine on my property. Why can’t he leave it at the same place where his boat is?

My wife and I have yet to come to an agreement on strategy. It better happen quick because when it’s time for me to cut my 10-blades of grass, I’m going to flip his #%$!!%**! boat-trailer up against the side of his house (see picture diagram above). My wife’s concerned that I’ll damage his property. She’d rather plant a tree on our side instead.

Right now we’re in the process of calling various storage facilities for price quotes. Of course, we’re using his name and address for the free brochures. Also, my wife use to do lease agreements where she worked, so we’re thinking of that too. Any suggestions are welcome. I understand that some of you disagree with my land ownership rights, or, you really don’t—it’s just that I tricked you into believing I was the boat owner. I’m just trying to get a handle on the situation. Comment more than once if you come up with ideas.

TYPEWRITER MAN

There’s no such thing as an accordion style typewriter, but if there were, Tutor Lefty sure did play it like an amateur. His real specialty was computers. After two all nighters talking with HP’s tech support and drinking gallons of Coca-Cola, I couldn’t take it any more. Bleary-eyed and hallucinating, I asked Lefty if he knew anything about missing DLL files. I knew to ask him—whenever our DP (data processing) coordinator installed the newest security measures on our classroom computers, it was Lefty who would demonstrate the newest security breeches. It never took him longer than ten minutes to get around all the firewalls.

"Boss," he said, "write down exactly what DLL file you’re missing. I’ll show you where to find it so you can make a copy for your home computer."

Such an easy fix. Why didn’t tech support tell me this?

One day, like most workdays, amidst the organized chaos, I shouted at Lefty to type out our classroom inventory sheet.

"Yes Boss," he replies.

While he’s pecking away at the keys, the other four tutors and I monitor each student’s progress. They all work at different grade levels (kindergarten through twelfth). I document all their completed assignments on my computer. I swear, some of them think I have access to God on that thing, or at least a direct connection to Lansing, Michigan.

"Can you tell me how much I got in my account?"
"Can you tell me if I got my parole?"
"Can you tell me if they have a size thirty-six underwear in stock?"

I pretend to do a file search on my computer and blurt out any old answers that pop up into my head—"Your account balance is fifty-three cents. You got a twenty-four month flop. The largest size in stock are thirty-two's."

By the end of my shift I’m usually mentally drained and ready to go home. My motto: I’ll do my eight and hit the gate. "Pack it up," I yell at my tutors, who immediately put my resource materials back on the rolling cart for me to lock up. I’m usually clearing off my desk at this point.

I hear Lefty still pecking away at the keys. "Lefty," I shout. "What’re you, the slowest typer in the west? Put it on the cart."

"In a minute Boss. I’m almost finished."

The other tutors start laughing. I look over at Lefty. He waves at me with his prosthetic arm. "Oh for crying outloud! Why didn’t you say something?"

"Just doing my job, Boss."

I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND

I asked my neighbor if I could park my boat on his property. "I don’t have enough room on my side," I explained, nodding to my postage-stamp-sized yard . He, on the other hand, has a three bedroom brick ranch that sits in the middle of a double lot. He has a gorgeous pond, swimming pool, two tier wood deck, large shed, and vegetable and flower garden. He can spare a few square feet of land.

Well . . . some people have their nerve. He got all defensive, like a mangy mutt marking its territory. He flat out told me, "No."

Last week I backed my empty boat trailer onto his property. I couldn’t see what I was doing and accidentally knocked over his mailbox. I told him I’d replace it as soon as he lent me a hacksaw to cut away the box from the post. He obliged, and I repaired it. That’s what good neighbors do. He seemed eternally grateful.

Now he says my boat trailer can no longer sit on his property. I don’t understand what the big fuss is all about. It’s not like he’s using every inch of his land. It’s not like I’m causing him pain and suffering. It’s not like I’m actually parking my boat on his turf—just the trailer.

Perhaps he’s jealous of my having a boat, which I now dock at a friend’s lakefront house. Perhaps he'd like to go fishing sometime. Perhaps I should’ve asked him if he’d like to go once in awhile. Perhaps I should’ve asked him if it was okay to park just the trailer on his land. "Is it okay?" I asked after the fact. "It’ll only be there for the boating season."

He says, "HELL NO! IT’S MY PROPERTY." Then he wants his hacksaw back.

Some people are just plain rude and inconsiderate. He must be just like the inmates in his charges.

THE LION KING

Once upon a time I had a mighty brave tutor, the bravest in the land. He told tales about moving drugs from South America to Detroit. Prior to being caged, he said some of his best clients were judges, politicians, lawyers, and professional athletes. "But I can’t give you their names," he said while brushing back his lengthy mane, "because I’m trying to get back to court for re-sentencing."

Everyone called him the Lion King because, as he put it, "I have exotic pets." He showed me his photo album, stopping at one picture in particular. I saw a lion cub, not yet fully grown, not yet at maximum aggression, his front paw in midair, playfully anticipating a slap from his master; his master crouched down on one knee, ball-cap off-kilter and ice sparkling around his neck.

The Lion King commanded respect, and although he stayed pretty much to himself, I observed him occasionally helping a student. Or so I thought.

One day he asked if he could speak to the Deputy Warden of Housing, who happened to be making rounds down the hallway. I told him, "No. Stay in the classroom." He didn’t listen. He went anyway. A half-hour after their discussion, the Deputy Warden returned with two correction officers in tow. The Lion King said, "Please, not here, not here."

The other inmates yelled, "Punk-ass bitch" and "Motherfucker." The Lion King was handcuffed and taken away. It wasn’t until later that I discovered what had happened. He had requested a transfer to another prison. He owed the other inmates. He did not barter in good faith. This was his way out. The Deputy Warden, an ex-felon himself, honored the Lion King’s request; however, he knew to "show him off," prior to his departure.

ON THE INSIDE

I’m heading to work today with my new teaching certificate in hand, wondering whether I should say something to the personnel director, deputy warden, and warden—all of whom tried to jam me with loss time. I'll tell you, it sure feels good to be part of the team.

A few years back, I attended a Myers-Briggs Assessment Workshop at the Thumb Correctional Facility in Lapeer, Michigan. The whole idea of the training was to better understand myself, to become enlightened as to where I fit into the prison system’s daily grind. What I had learned on that day is that I don’t really fit in at all. According to my Myers-Briggs Personality Type, I fall under the “INTJ” category; whereas, most prison employees fall under the “ISTJ” and “ESTJ” categories.

Here’s the description I fall under: I have an original mind and great drive for my own ideas and purposes. I have a fine power to organize a job and carry it through with or without help. I’m skeptical, critical, independent, determined, and sometimes stubborn. Suggestions from the training: I should learn to yield less important points to win the most important.

I also learned the characteristics most associated with prison administrators. I’ll skip the introvert/extrovert bullshit and get right down to the main points. According to Myers-Briggs: They make up their own minds as to what should be accomplished and work toward it steadily, regardless of protests or distractions. They’re not interested in subjects they see no use for, but can apply themselves when necessary.

What does all this mean? Probably that I’ll just let the whole damned issue regarding my teaching certificate slide. As I tell my students, “It’s unhealthy to hold a grudge.” Besides, if the Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator pegged me down, which it did, then why play the odds against it; I’m sure the description for prison administrators is on the money also. No temporary fixes here. Although I’ve heard my students say, “It sure does feel good to get even.”

GRATITUDE, ATTITUDE

"For everything you’ve done you know

I’m bound to thank you for it."
Natalie Merchant
"Kind & Generous"

I don’t expect anything from anybody. No free handouts. No pats on the back. No nothing. I’ve always had to work for everything I’ve got. My payoff: my paycheck.

Some inmates will remind me that my check doesn’t look much different than a welfare check—same State of Michigan emblem, only the numbers are bigger. I tell them I have direct deposit.

Yesterday, I was cleaning out my office area when I came across the only thank you letter (or as we call them in prison—kite) in my fifteen years of working with the Michigan Department of Corrections. When I first received this kite, I kept it on my refrigerator at home for at least three months. My wife, tired of looking at it, asked if it could be removed. Some how it ended up in a paper pile in my basement hideaway. Actually, I have several paper piles—an indication that my organizational skills might improve if I were to eliminate all the crap.

For instance, in one pile, I have the same damned story printed out twenty different ways—to the point that I no longer know which version is the latest, or which version is the best. My wife refuses to read any of it because I’m never satisfied with the end result anyway. She’s even discovered that publishing a story doesn’t halt my dissatisfaction. I can’t blame her—why get caught up in a writer’s misery?

As for receiving only one written thank you from an inmate in fifteen years, that’s partially my fault too. I never give them credit. Instead, I push them as far as I can. I’ll say, "Look, a GED ain’t squat. Let’s test my dog next." Few understand what I actually mean. The inmate who wrote this kite, he understood. Hopefully he was able to further his education, or at least recognize the importance of striving to do better.

A SEASON CUT SHORT

Football season is fast approaching. Anyone wanting my rookie card can download it here. I suggest you place it under a glass-topped coffee table. It’s a guaranteed topic of discussion, just don’t cover it with a coaster or a bowl of chips during game time. I held the following position: second string wide receiver. Years of play: one. I decided to resign because the quarterback never saw me, my arms outstretched, running down the open field.

I never made it to the professional league either, like Keith Karpinski, a former offensive lineman for the Detroit Lions and fellow coworker of mine at St. Matthew’s School in Detroit. When we first met, I said, "Hey, I know you from somewhere. Your name’s awfully familiar." He explained that he used to play ball for Joe Paterno at Penn State before getting drafted by the Detroit Lions. Turns out, after a few seasons in the NFL, he couldn’t pass his physical. They said his knees were shot. I told him, "Man, you took one helluva pay cut to teach in Detroit." It didn’t seem to bother him; he grew up in Hamtramck, his parents owned a pub not too far from where we taught. He also claimed to have received a nice severance package.

Keith and I were the only two young male teachers at St. Matthew’s. Unfortunately, the principal decided it was I, the smaller guy, that should have the classroom next to the little boys’ bathroom on the second floor. My extra job responsibility included making sure they didn’t piss on the radiators. "And if they do," the principal explained, "you’ll regret the smell." Perhaps I never caught a pass in my short football career; however, I did catch a few culprits in midstream. Sent them to the school office too.

I enjoyed working with Keith. Last I heard, he was coaching football in Alpena, Michigan. Below is my St. Matthew’s team photo. Keith’s the big guy in the white shirt in the last row. I’m willing to bet he follows the Lions season too.

(Preseason Game 1: Detroit 20 Denver 13)

MIRROR MIRROR

Ask any inmate what he plans on doing once he gets out of prison and he’ll tell you, “I’m going to own my own business.” I’ve seen some laughable business plans—too many worth mentioning. I promise only one: An inmate doing time for B & E thought he’d provide a valuable service of videotaping a homeowner’s possessions. “You get a lower rate on your home insurance,” he said, “if you can document what you have in the house.” He claimed to have researched the market. Boy, I’ll bet he’s got customers lining up for this special offer. Do you think he has ulterior motives? Even with the best of intentions, I informed him that camcorders are relatively cheap. “Why wouldn’t the homeowner videotape their own stuff?” I asked.

Here’s a sound business plan: Create a need for acrylic, magnetic locker mirrors. Start by printing a local radio station’s logo on the mirrors and get 7-Elevens to carry the product in exchange for free advertisement over the airwaves.

A friend of mine, someone I haven’t seen in years, gave up a fencing scholarship at Wayne State University (and an opportunity to tryout for the Olympics) to pursue his dreams of becoming a millionaire. At least he had a sound plan. His company, Magna Mirror, became a holdover for me once I quit engineering school, a place for me to work my proverbial ass off until I figured out exactly what I wanted to do with my life. Neal, the ex-fencer, took his business plan to a Chamber of Commerce meeting and met a land developer who fronted the initial investment. In the beginning, my brother and I delivered counter displays of “WRIF, The Home of Rock-n-Roll” locker mirrors to every 7-Eleven in the Metro Detroit area.

It wasn’t long and we had markets in Los Angeles and Houston as well. We were on a roll. Next, Neal coordinated a meeting with some purchasers at the KMart World Headquarters in Troy, Michigan. They were definitely interested in carrying the product for their back-to-school promotion, making an initial purchase of $180,000 worth of mirrors for every Kmart in the United States including Puerto Rico. Soon, Neal and his initial partner found a bigger investor, Richard Kughn, owner of Lionel Trains. He fronted the money for mass production.

We started manufacturing mirrors twenty-four hours a day. My brother, who stuck with engineering school, opted to work a press machine, punching out car hoods instead of staying with the company; whereas, I became Magna Mirror’s midnight supervisor of manufacturing. From the start, we had problems with packaging. The mirrors fit snugly into a bag and a staple machine attached a header card. The staples sometimes tore the bags and scratched the acrylic. However, Kmart increased their orders. Unfortunately, the initial investor started ripping off Mr. Kughn, and poor Neal got stuck in the middle. Mr. Kughn pulled his money out of the operation and Magna Mirror lost the Kmart account. Undeterred, Neal found other creative ways to move the product through fund-raisers and promotions. He still had a plan. In fact, he was trying to distance himself from the initial investor by coordinating a business relationship with Jostens (they sell class rings to the high schools). Unfortunately, the initial investor found out, and since he owned the building, he changed the locks.

It’s funny how things turn out in life. I had a responsibility to the people I supervised. I had to convince the initial investor to give me the new keys. People needed their jobs. I certainly needed mine. Neal, on the other hand, signed an agreement not to start another magnetic locker mirror company for one year, and left the company behind, absolving himself from the responsibilities of paying the various suppliers. To this day, I haven’t a clue as to what he’s up to.

I, on the other hand, stayed with the company through its bankruptcy, even after having two workchecks bounce. But I did go back to school, earning my degree and teaching certificate.
Sometimes the best laid plans backfire and you need something to fall back on. I guess that’s what makes us different than most ex-felons with big dreams.

WITNESS MY REJECTION

The Detroit YMCA Writers Group had sponsored a poetry/short story reading night at a coffeehouse in St. Clair Shores the night I met Peter Stine, Editor of Witness (www.occ.cc.mi.us/witness). He did a barely audible nature reading, which seemed unimpressive to most of the audience. I suspect that those in attendance didn’t know of him, let alone read Witness. Instead, I suspect that they were there to support a family member or friend brave enough to read. When Mr. Stine finished his piece, he looked lost, as if he didn’t fit in with the crowd, or didn’t know what should happen next. As he stepped aside, the event coordinator thanked him for attending, and on cue, everyone clapped.

I approached Mr. Stine as he ordered a coffee and introduced myself. I told him about the stories that impressed me the most in the last three issues of his magazine. Our conversation didn’t last long due to a vast line-up of poets and writers. He asked if I was performing that night, and slightly embarrassed, I answered, "no." We soon parted ways.

Mr. Stine sent me a nice "backlog" rejection letter (if there is such an animal) for a prison story I had written, and he promised me a back issue called "Writing from Prison." I’m looking forward to receiving it. Perhaps this is his way of consoling me; Afterall, the editorial board didn't even glance at the story I'd sent.

THREE HOTS & A COT

I have this theory on why prisoners live a better life than the rest of us. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but hear me out. I used to call it the "Fat, Dumb, and Happy" Theory after a eureka moment I'd had while walking with my wife at the Ann Arbor Arts Fair. I had told her, "I envy that guy over there," gesturing toward some slovenly, unkempt man smiling at the sun, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth with his untied shoes firmly planted on the sidewalk. My wife seemed puzzled until I said, "Not a care in the world."

It's a strange outlook for sure, an outlook I've used several times in my classroom to get the attention of my students. I'll say to an inmate, "Sir, unlike my sorry ass existence, you have it all, and I admire you for that." I get the usual suggestion, "Let's trade places then," and my response, "If only we could." Next, I'm off and running with a mathematical concept that I'd once learned in an Early American Literature class. I grab a marker and start my list.

"Give me three things that are absolutely necessary for us to survive."

After some conversation, my class comes up with the following: food, water, and shelter. We agree to lump clothing in with shelter (seems to be the only flaw in the Thoreau concept I'm using). I write these three items under the heading "Need." Next, I ask an inmate to tell me what materialistic object he'd like to have. Under the heading "Have" I list different objects: car, boat, gun etc. Then the fun begins. I write the following equation on the board: "Have/Want."

"Okay, so let's say you now have a car. What makes the car run properly?" I write their answers under want: gas, oil, windshield wiper fluid, etc. My equation changes: 1 car/3 items, or in simpler terms 1/3. The exercise continues: "What happens if the tires wear out or the windshield wiper blades go bad?" "Get some new ones," someone suggests. Once again the equation changes: I now have a car, gas, oil, windshield wiper fluid, new blades, and new tires, but the list of items wanted increases, new spark plugs, timing belt, air filter ... The equation continues to change over time as we continue to accumulate more things: 1/3 becomes 6/15 becomes 23/47 and so on and so on. My mathematical illustration, I tell them, fluctuates as we grow older.

I drag this exercise on for as long as I can, before refering back to the intial inmate that I stated had it all. "If you could change your wants to equal your needs, then what happens?" I write the following on the board: "Wants=Needs" and "Have/Need." "If you have food, clothing and shelter, and it fulfills your needs, then what does your equation look like?"

I get a blank, impassive stare. "Isn't the formula now three over three? And what does that equal, sir?"

"One," he says proudly.

"Correct, sir. One whole life. While I'm caught up in the rat race living a fraction of a life, you sir have it all, and I admire you for that."

He says, "Yeah, but you got your freedom!"

And I ask, "Do I?"

GUTTER BALLS & STRIKES

Monday I had to answer six questions from a prisoner grievance regarding abuse of power and assault. The deputy warden of programs advised me to have my union representative present. Here we go again. The allegations are totally false. I answered each question with an abrupt “NO.” The deputy warden wrote my answers on the questionnaire and circled two of the “No’s.” I really can’t say much more pending the outcome of the investigation. I will say this: The prisoner does not want to attend school, and he is requesting my immediate termination from the department. I hate prisoner grievances. A majority of them are without merit. They certainly have more rights than the juveniles I taught from the Department of Social Services (now known as The Family Independence Agency).

I remember a time when I took a bunch of delinquent youths to East Warren Lanes near Detroit’s Finney High School for a staff-versus-kids bowling tournament. On the way there, a kid named Timmy started cussing at staff and tried picking a fight with one of his peers. The other state employees, known as youth specialists, informed me that I could cancel the field trip and we could head back to the facility, or one of them could sit in the van with the troublemaker while the rest of us bowled. I chose the latter.

The whole purpose behind our field trip was to foster teamwork and to have the kids keep their own scores. Even though it was simple math, some of them had difficulty with the scoring procedures. Into our second game, I noticed an additional staff member bowling. I asked him about the youth in the van and he told me not to worry.

I won’t bore you with what ensued. Let’s just say the director of our facility had a thorough investigation regarding some fairly serious allegations. She asked the same question to each staff member and “child” involved: “Is it true that Timmy was handcuffed to the van while everyone went inside to bowl?”

The director received the same answer from everyone involved, staff and kids, “No.”

Later on, darling little Timmy confronted me. He said, “Teachers shouldn’t lie.”

I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Timmy, I just did you a big favor. I just saved you from getting your ass kicked. What do you think would’ve happened if these allegations you made were actually true? Did you ever think about that? Huh?—No more field trips. Then what?”

He just smiled.

JAWS OF A DIFFERENT KIND

I can assure you that the stories I tell are indeed soundly grounded in reality and not at all like the fish that got away. I’ll admit that I sometimes change the names of the characters involved; I simply have to—sexual assaults are serious matters and the victim’s identity isn’t necessary; however, the attacker’s nickname is definitely fair game. Also, I realize that blogging is much like treading water. You’ve seen how my employer treats it’s own over a piece of paper, a teaching certificate renewed but not gotten, the hard copy in transit. But as usual, I do have a few more stories worth telling, incidental tales that could’ve spelled catastrophe for my career with each misstep taken. So I dip my toe in the murky water, not wanting to stir up the smallest of mini-sharks, much like the one I held by its slippery tail when I was a little boy wearing a horizontal striped tee-shirt.

Caution is an everyday thing in the Michigan Department of Corrections. The first day I entered a prison I felt extremely nervous. There were killers, rapists, you name it, moving about the compound like schools of fish, observing my every move from a distance, curious to see whether I was the new teacher, the new guppy, someone to toy with, to terrorize, before moving in for blood. Since I was a rookie, my boss knew to pair me with Mr. Tyner, an experienced educator, and a former Detroit Public School administrator. He was much older, his advice practical. I made a mental note of his attire—solid white dress shirt and neatly pressed slacks, more casual then my suit, but professional looking nonetheless. He definitely one-upped me with his fresh hair cut, unlike my Bo Ric $1-off-coupon hack-job.

Mr. Tyner knew the students enrolled in my classes, and as we scanned each file matching them with the roster my boss had given me, he warned me about the various annoyances I would encounter. "Robinson’s going to tell you he’s just waiting to take the GED. He’s not prepared. Harter’s ready but he’ll intentionally flunk the exams because he’s doing a life-bit. He’s pacing himself. Jackson won’t lift a finger, but if you give him a bad evaluation he’ll be the biggest pain in the ass you’ll ever meet."

Mr. Tyner set me at ease. Our conversation cordial and polite. He told me about the different teaching jobs he’d held, and I in turn told him about my past work experiences, how I came from a long line of factory workers, the university I got my degree from, and my plans for marriage. We had talked for well over three hours; much of what I had said escaping me to this very day.

We were on the fourth drawer of the file cabinet, each drawer representing a class period, when I asked where the nearest bathroom was located. A corrections officer happened to be walking by, so Mr. Tyner informed him that I had to go. As a rookie you’re not issued your own set of keys, so I was very thankful for the escort down the school hallway. When I returned, Mr. Tyner had disappeared. I continued examining each file, throwing out those that weren’t on my roster and alphabetizing the rest. My boss came to check on me, so I asked her, "Hey, where’d Mr. Tyner go?"

She replied, "He went to lock-up for count."

Shocked, I said, "I didn’t know he was an inmate."

In 1992 prisoners didn’t wear state issued clothing. Mr. Tyner was in prison for murdering his wife, whom he kept on ice in a padlocked basement freezer for approximately three years. All I kept thinking was "great, I told him my life story … now what?"

SIXTEEN MORE TO A THOUSAND!

How do you make your blog numbers rise quickly over one weekend? By entering a contest. Nevermind that the event coordinator is only sixteen (a wise sixteen I must say). Nevermind that there were only six entries. Hey, do the math--the odds were against me; I had a sixteen and two-thirds percent chance of winning.


Well guess what? I finished in first place, beating out five tough competitors. I am now an official winner. No more loser status for me. Go to Theory of Thought to check out the other blogs, or to just verify that I'm not bullshitting you. Make sure you scroll all the way down. For some reason first place is at the bottom. I know, I know ... drum roll please.

In case you're more interested in the picture, it's not a blogging trophy, but it's the best I could do on such short notice. I didn't even have time to prepare my acceptance speech.

THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH ...

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

IT'S A SMALL WORLD

After combing through my Disney photo albums searching for a picture of myself on the "It’s a Small World Afterall" ride and coming up empty-handed, I thought I’d just go ahead and use the photo shown, where my back is to the camera. I understand why TygressTwin (her link, "From Behind Bars") would choose a series of artwork for her blog and a profile view that doesn’t show her face. In this chosen profession, where you sometimes deal with an unsavory crowd, you’re bound to run into a few ex-felons from time to time.

For instance: Before Media Play went belly up, my wife and I stood in line waiting to make a purchase when a rather heavyset man approached me. I stepped out of line and soon we were in the front of the store talking. He was an ex-felon and former student of mine at a Detroit prison. He used to tell me, especially after I’d written tickets on him for missing class, that one day he’d get out and I’d better hope I didn’t run into him. I remember him flexing his pecs, one up, one down, trying to intimidate the hell out of me. Well, not anymore. I joked with him, quietly of course, out of earshot of his wife or girlfriend, that it looked like he’d been eating quite well, and he in turn asked if I still worked at the joint. Nothing really came of our conversation, we soon parted ways, and my wife, seeing that he was of a different complexion (not that that should matter), asked if it was okay to go out into the parking lot. Unsure of an answer, I said, "Well, we’ll soon find out."

I’ve always tried to treat people with respect, regardless of their predicament in life. Here are some other incidents:

In Michelle Brooks’s Creative Writing Class (Her link, "Michelle’s Spells"), a student asked me if I worked at "such-such" correctional facility. Hesitantly, I answered, "Yes." He told me his brother’s doing time there for robbing a Pep Boys.

A current student of mine, whom I just wrote an "Out of Place/AWOL" ticket on, doesn’t know that my dad had sold his dad a tailgate off a totaled F-150 truck.

A previous tutor of mine, an old Polish guy doing time for CSC (Criminal Sexual Misconduct), worked in the maintenance department at my wife’s place of employment. She and the others in her office suite knew of him. They’d thought he went to prison for stealing.

My wife’s cousin from Novi encountered an ex-inmate tutor of mine and let him walk through their house which was up for sale.

My dad’s fellow coworker, in a drunken state of mind, ran over a sheriff patrolman on Lake St. Clair with his boat, decapitating him. He ended up doing time at the facility I’m currently working at. I believe he has since transferred.

An old-timer prisoner asked if I was related to so-and-so. Turns out, he was referring to my deceased grandfather. Back in the 70’s my grandfather supervised trustees on a Jackson Prison farm.

A fellow catfish tournament member from our immediate group visits his son at the Adrian Correctional Facility, where his son is doing time for drug possession.

An ex-felon had to tow my van out of the parking lot where I work. He said he reluctantly made the trip to my facility, recalling too many bad memories of the time he had been "locked up." I had to give him my driver’s license and Triple A card.

If you go out into public, you’re bound to run into someone who has been in prison. Keep that in mind. I'm not saying to live your life in fear. Just remember: It’s a small world.

CHILD'S PLAY

Hard to believe, but I will soon be approaching my fifteenth year as a correctional educator for the State of Michigan. My survival can be attributed to two basic rules: #1 Trust No One (Always question a person's intentions) and #2 Be Prepared For Anything.


Other than that, it's all child's play. The inmates are "Little Chuckies" craving for attention, and when you don't give them their props, they'll sometimes turn on you. But that's the easy part! We also have coworkers that are a bit overzealous when it comes to their job duties (like a bus driver stopping the bus for repairs; when a passenger questions his motives, the bus driver says, "We have a broken seat.") I guess we'd all like to feel important.

In yesterday's picture I was not, let me repeat, WAS NOT, holding a current teaching certificate; instead, I was pointing to my May 2006 "Teacher Appreciation Certificate." How soon some people forget.

Here's a trivia question for you (and I believe the policy still stands): What state employee in a Michigan prison is exempt from drug testing? I'll give you the correct answer later on in the comments section of this post. Until then, "See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya."

YOU SAY GOODBYE, I SAY HELLO

Here’s the title I should’ve used: “You’re Only As Good As Your Last Day.” No, no, no—wouldn’t that imply that I’m still waiting to be good; which, in turn means that I’m very very bad, considering I just experienced a temporary last day, one of many many more to come? Wouldn’t that mean I’m no better than my former coworker, a special education teacher with twenty-eight years of State Employment, whom the Michigan State Police escorted away in matching silver bracelets? Hey, in all fairness, she beat the drug smuggling case; threats to her family were never shared with our correctional facility’s inspectors. Shame on her! She should’ve trusted the Department of Corrections in her time of crisis; afterall, we’re family too!

So here’s what happened: Yesterday I was told to report to the deputy warden’s office. Upon my arrival I was offered a cup of coffee, which I declined, asking instead for a glass of water. Before I could take my first sip, the warden and my union representative appeared. The deputy warden did the talking. “You must leave the grounds effective immediately. You can not teach here without a current teaching certificate.”

My rebuttal, “My certificate is current. I can’t make the Department of Education move any faster in mailing me the piece of paper. In fact, they have until August 30th, the beginning of a public school year, to get it to me.”

Their counter, “Then you will be on lost time until then.”

My counter to their counter, “Then you will end up paying me regardless.”

We had a cordial meeting. I asked if I could at least lock-up my classroom materials before heading over to personnel (their suggestion as a last ditch effort to rectify the situation, a suggestion they didn’t have to make considering that the personnel department, at one time, had been held hostage.)

I reconnected with my union representative in the personnel manager’s office. I had the opportunity to exam the documents implicating me in my crime. The first document came from the Department of Education’s website. I pointed out that it was last updated on April 12, 2005. The second document came from a civil service email and stated that my renewal date was June 30, 2006. I explained that “renewal” and “expiration” could not be used interchangeably because I have a window period of time to provide my teaching certificate. The personnel manager, through her mannerisms, basically said, “Too bad.” I, in turn, reminded her of our facility's past hiring practice where they hired a laid-off graphic artist, someone who did not have the required credentials, and let him teach GED classes.

She informed me that he was a contractual employee.

I informed her that perhaps they should hire all contractual employees and screw unions.

By now you’re wondering about my United Autoworkers’ representation. My rep stepped in at this point and asked if she could make the necessary phone calls to straighten out the whole situation. The personnel manager reluctantly agreed.

I waited in the employee lunchroom. Within fifteen minutes my union rep had the Department of Education fax a permission slip for me to continue working; I guess their state employee who updates their teaching certificates website had been out on sick leave.

So who do you think gave me the green light? You got it—my union rep. Hi-ho, hi-ho, off to work I go, you say good-bye and I say hello.

ON THE ROCKS, OFF THE ROCK

No drink recipes here. Too damned hot for that. Just me on the rocks trying to beat the heat. (Okay, okay—so this is an old photo; my wife's idea to get me in a variety of poses when we were strolling along Lake Huron’s shoreline. Other rock poses were used to talk about real tragedies, one where I’m part of a Hindenberg newspaper article and another where some poor sap in an old Sear’s catalog modeling underwear accidentally exposes his tea bag.) But let me get back on track. It’s too damned hot period!—unless you’re an inmate making spud juice, a nasty concoction of potato peels, bread, raisins, and other assorted goodies soaked in water. They say the heat helps speed up the natural fermentation process.

Once, when I worked at a Detroit correctional facility, some inmates came to class a bit woozy. Custody narrowed their stash down to a particular unit and started searching cells, looking in the usual places—garbage cans, plastic containers, even toilets. It wasn’t until they searched the school building that they found what I refer to as "a kegger"—a 40-gallon shop vac hidden in a storage closet. Imagine quenching your thirst on some room temperature, alcohol-slushies.

Another time, at my current facility, they blew the siren and sent MW and I to a unit to log in contraband from cell searches. Nothing out of the ordinary, lots of stolen items, etc—plus a tied plastic bag of spud. A take-charge officer came to the dayroom with a camera and proceeded to open it; We pleaded with him not to. "I have orders from the control center," he said. Again, we begged him to at least take it outside, but it was too late. He opened it, snapped the picture, tied the bag back together, and left. We had two more hours of working in a unit that smelled like warm apple vomit—and before lunch too.

In other news, I was escorted from the rock (prison) today, my proverbial "tea bag" exposed. The warden, deputy warden and my union representative greeted me. The three of them together is not a good sign. I'll tell you more about it in tomorrow’s post.