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?"