MOVING ON

It’s always a pleasure sharing prison stories, especially with new employees during lunchtime. Their incredulous stares, their “What am I getting myself into?” expressions as one veteran teacher says to another, “Remember the time Inmate Harris got his throat slit in the library?” Thus, the story begins … Harris-the-once-free-man had raped another inmate’s grandmother. He hadn’t anticipated that other form of retribution, until years later, after the plastic toothbrush with embedded razor slid across his jugular. We call it: Justice served twice.

Each memory spawns another.

“What ever happened to the new gal in personnel?” I ask. “Talk about rotten luck. Wasn’t it her first week here?”

No one remembers her name, as if she evaporated into thin air. Yet, everyone knows exactly what they were doing on that particular day. One of our very own, a sergeant, stressed out and angry, marched into the personnel office with a loaded shotgun and took everyone hostage.

The new employees in the lunchroom hear our laughter. An awkward moment arises. They try to concentrate on all aspects of the conversation, the bits and pieces, the added details.

“I can’t believe the door fell off the WDIV helicopter,” I remark. I wasn't at work. I had a doctor's appointment on the day it happened.

“The cameraman must’ve wanted a better shot of the facility,” another speculates.

Someone mentions the coroner’s office, how administration may have anticipated a body count. We remind the new employees that these stories are not the norm, that prison work is often dull. Still, I often think about that gal in personnel. Did she quit because of that one bad experience? Or did she simply move on to a different job?

There are more stories I’d like to share, and perhaps someday I will. But not for awhile. At least not in this venue. I’m shelving my blog and concentrating my efforts on a few writing projects that I hope to complete soon, or perhaps they will complete me.

It’s been fun. Have a safe and happy holiday.

Sincerely, JR Thumbprints

NAMING TEDDY BEARS

I’ve been a wee bit skittish lately, my fingers no longer clanging away at the keyboard like they once did; they’re more like the legs on a nervous spider, jittery, jumpy, wondering how to proceed without endangering itself. Not that I’ve spun a web of deceit, at least I don’t think I have. I haven’t violated any rules. I haven't named any Teddy Bears Mohammad.

I’ve searched my employee handbook for confirmation. Could my words, pictures, and video content be used against me? Is there any particular topic I should have stayed clear of? I certainly don’t want to flush sixteen years of my teaching career down the shit-hole because someone higher-up, someone who undoubtedly hates teachers, decides to make an example out of me.

Maybe I should have asked for permission to start a blog? This isn’t too far-fetched. According to my employer's rules, employees must ask for permission before they can work a second job. So maybe I’m teetering on the edge here, maybe I’m inadvertently misrepresenting the department of corrections through my image.

What brought all this on? How come I’m second-guessing myself? I’m sure the incident with the high school students from Belleville, Michigan, who posed with (fake) guns, (fake) dope, and money on MySpace heightened my sense of awareness. Shame on these “gangsta wannabes.” They got their just desserts—suspended/expelled from school. But who am I to judge what is appropriate and inappropriate in cyberspace?

So I’m rethinking my next move. Nowadays, information is readily accessible and if you’re not careful, it just might come back to haunt you.

COWBOY ETHICS

Before I went on vacation with a viral infection brewing in my body, a young African-American man in my morning classes along with his posse (for lack of a better word) discussed how they would rob a party store. Although somewhat rushed and loud—How else do you get a word in?—their talk seemed natural and unforced, as if they were planning what to pack for lunch that day.

But they weren’t arguing over making sandwiches or picking soda.

“Pop-pop-pop!” this youngster said. The others laughed hysterically.

I wasn’t amused. A week earlier he had told me how he robbed a Walgreen’s on the south side of Chicago and got away with it.

I reminded the group to quiet down, and as usual, the discussion grew to an excitable level. I threatened a seating chart, knowing damn well they would just shout across the room to one another. I also mentioned bad evaluations and tickets.

“So what,” one of them said, singling himself out, “what you gonna do, have us locked up? We’re already in prison.”

Running out of options, I made myself a mental note to get rid of the ringleader after my vacation … but not before administering him the TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education). You never know, his grade level equivalency may have improved meaning more federal dollars toward our educational program. No inmate left behind. At least on paper.

TOUCHING THE MOON

When confronted with his misconduct the psychopath has enough false sincerity and apparent remorse that he renews hope and trust among his accusers. However, after several repetitions, his convincing show is finally recognized for what it is—a show.


Nearly every type of treatment method has been tried with the psychopath. In general, the treatment . . . has not been rewarding or enlightening.

—Richard M. Suinn, “Fundamentals of Behavior Pathology”


In my world, regardless of the circumstances—whether it is a monumental task such as landing on the moon or something more routine such as tying shoelaces—failure will always be an option. I see it every day in the sunken eyes of murderers, rapists, and thieves, their transparent faces, those masks of invincibility, worse than any dollar-store panty hose they may have pulled over their heads.

After they’ve told me what they can do, I sit back and wait and in no time at all I feel the ripple effect caused from the blame-game. “It’s your fault I didn’t succeed,” or something of that nature. As if I deliberately stuck a defective rocket booster under their asses.

But don’t think you’ll clear up any misunderstandings, don’t think for a second you’ll be able to say, “You learn with your ears and not with your mouth.” Such canned statements are devoid of passion; they will spurn arguments faster than any blast-off ever would; besides, my ears are backed-up and my throat is unbearably sore—sure signs of weakness, of a communication breakdown.

Truth be told, I haven’t been to work in three days because I’m sick as hell. I’m sure I’ll hear about it from the inmates when I return, especially since a coworker informed me that only thirteen out of thirty-one students passed their GED Exams. But for now I need my rest … and a doctor’s note. Cause of illness: Wife forgot to give me a dollop of Purell after I touched the moon.

SOME THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T LEAVE BEHIND

I’m not going to turn this into a “what I did on my vacation” slideshow, where I stand in front of a lectern and give play-by-play accounts of the indoor garden and museums my wife and I visited. I’m sure you’re not interested in that anyway, and even if you were, without getting downright mean, let me just say, “None of it should matter.”

Instead, I’m going to swallow two teaspoons of codeine-laced cough syrup (yes, a double dose) and engage in a little bit of writing before checking in for the night.

It’s back to my daily routine: teaching Michigan prisoners in an environment I’ve tried my damnedest to forget about while visiting friends in Houston. True to my word, I stayed away from blogging for fear of writing about my job, yet, when my wife saw the true-crime novel I pulled out of my carry-on luggage, I might as well have confessed for having brought Michigan’s cold miserable weather all the way to Texas.

During our flight, I managed to read a considerable amount of “The Blooding” by Joseph Wambaugh, a former Los Angeles policeman; The book covered the first murder case to use genetic fingerprinting. Interestingly enough, the police had decided to get blood samples from as many men in town as possible. Is there a better way to weed out the innocent? Of course, the guilty party, a sicko, conniving-rapist-killer by the name of Colin Pitchfork, persuaded an acquaintance to give blood in his name after switching the picture on his passport.

By now you’re probably wondering why I’m steering you away from what happened on my vacation. Believe me, there’s an eerie tie-in here; It has to do with a sketch of Baby Grace I witnessed on my friend’s television for the very first time. They informed me about numerous parents and grandparents calling from all over the United States willing to give DNA samples to see if Baby Grace belonged to them. For those of you who may not know, Baby Grace’s badly decomposed body turned up in the Galveston Bay stuffed in a utility box. One grandmother, like many more before and after her, thought the sketch looked similar to her granddaughter, who she hadn’t seen since her ex-daughter-in-law left Ohio. To make matters worse, once located, the ex-daughter-in-law refused to give a DNA sample—a sure sign of guilt.

I swear to God, as my wife and I and our friends traveled to Moody Gardens in Galveston, I tried to find comfort in the cold drizzling rain of Texas. What bothered me, really really bothered me, had been the unraveling of the Baby Grace case.

When I finished my book, I learned that it wasn’t genetic fingerprinting that led to Colin Pitchfork’s arrest for murder, it was a conversation amongst coworkers in a pub a few years after the killings, an off-hand remark of “filling-in” for Colin on a simple blood test. As for the little girl discovered in Galveston Bay, the well-publicized sketch not only led to her killers, but also heightened awareness about many other missing children.

There’s not much I can say. In fact I’m speechless; it has nothing to do with a very sore throat. As for those friendly Texans that welcomed us into their home, they mentioned the death penalty in their state, and in the case of two-year old Riley Ann Sawyers, I’m beginning to think it’s not such a bad idea for the perpetrators. If it weren’t for the codeine, I’d probably go into a tirade over what the mother and her boyfriend did to an innocent child. As for me, it’s back to work dealing with Michigan criminals who must serve their times for a variety of offenses, including child abuse.

SUMMER OF 1972

Sometimes we lose sight of what’s important in life, the daily grind of work robbing us of precious moments spent with family and friends. Not so in the summer of 1972. My parents and grandparents packed their campers and we headed out West to see wild buffalo, prairie dogs, the Bad Lands, Mount Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park, among other things.

It’s hard to imagine where thirty-five years have gone. I can still feel the warm breeze on my face as my brother maneuvers a miniature milk truck in a dusty parking lot. I was the loyal passenger, a nine-year old boy, waving to Dad while he filmed us; My brother making ever widening turns, our circles becoming larger and larger, as if we had known our freedom wouldn’t last forever.

It’s the silly things in life we cherish the most—like staying at a Flintstone themed park or enjoying the built-in swimming pool with mammoth slide (hey, that’s how I remember it). I may have chickened-out at going down the damn thing—I’d hear about it and regret it whenever Dad set up the projector and ran the film—but it didn’t traumatize me too much; I've learned to laugh at myself. And to see our late grandfather heading for the luxury showers with a towel in hand made us all smile.

Unfortunately, as I tried to duplicate my brother’s feat of feeding a fawn, I got a little extra something that I hadn’t bargained for. Seems to be the story of my life.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’m leaving for Texas and promised not to blog while on vacation. See you when I get back.

IF I ONLY KNEW THE MAKE & MODEL

There will come a time when I run out of childhood pictures, those grainy snapshots that have more meaning than any current digital photographs will ever have. I say to myself, “What will I do? How will I be able to recall past events without these visual clues?” Let me be honest here: my memory isn’t as keen as it once was. I need something to kick-start the ol’ noggin.

I’ve tried to peel those black and white pictures from the discolored pages of photo albums, some with success, others to no avail, their backs fused onto the sticky page. I’ve found more depth and more substance in those old black and whites where my brother and I pose in front of an old car or motorcycle, evidence of the time period we had once lived in, knowing mom or dad captured that specific moment with the best of intentions, with dreams of improving our family status.

In this shot, my brother and I are standing in our driveway off of 23 Mile, a two-lane road. Immediately behind us is dad’s Ford Falcon (or is it a Fairlane?). I have difficulty identifying the make, especially since I’m ninety-nine percent certain that the automobile in my last post, the one on the beach, was a Falcon, and this car, although similar, is not the same. Back then, our dad purchased a new American made automobile every two or three years. With less choices in styles and models, you would think that I’d be able to recall the specifics. I do know this: the picture was taken in 1968.

Or was it 1969?

GETTING PULLED OVER

A prisoner detail, otherwise known as an itinerary, otherwise known as a daily schedule, is the equivalent of a driver’s license. Each inmate is supposed to carry it on their person in case they get pulled over; it lists where they should be, where they need to go. Once in awhile I’ll hear an older prisoner, someone who has been to more places than the few blocks in his neighborhood, refer to it as a passport.

Today is just another day in the dime store, collecting identification cards for pencils, calculators, dictionaries, thesauruses, World Book Encyclopedias, staplers, headphones, toilet paper (yes, it's a precious commodity), anything not nailed down that can be concealed under clothing. Ironically, the prisoners will be the first to tell you, “I’m not a thief.” Funny thing is: objects disappear all the time; they grow legs, run away.

Me, accusation: “Where’s my pencils and paper?”

Inmate at my desk: “How would I know?”

Me: “Because you’re an opportunist.”

Inmate: “You better pump your brakes.”

Me: “No, you better pump YOUR brakes.”

So I change my approach. Get friendly. Chitchat with him after class. The normal small talk—the latest episode of “Prison Break” or “House.” Make him feel comfortable. Get him to let his guard down. Soon we’re near the officer’s podium. I step back and point. “This prisoner needs to be shaken down.”

The school officer: “What for?”

I list a half-dozen classroom items. Out they come from his jacket, his shirt, his pants, his sock. A routine traffic stop.

This is too easy. I write a theft ticket and drop him from enrollment. He can no longer travel to school.

WHAT'S MISSING?

I can’t seem to clear my mind of dismemberment—yes, human body parts—ever since reading Harry Hunsicker’s short story “Vivian and Bobby Ray” in the second issue of Murdaland. Bobby Ray’s a rogue cop who entrusts local business owners to show him their latest security measures. Little do they know, Bobby Ray’s casing their joint, desperately seeking funds for his girlfriend’s sick desire to have a perfectly normal leg amputated. She seems to think losing part of herself will make herself whole.

So I started thinking: What is it I hate about myself that I could stand to lose?

Later in the week I hear about a 2-year-old girl from Bangalore, India, with a surplus of limbs. Four arms and four legs to be exact. Surgeons removed the extras. They claimed to have given her a chance at a normal life. I wonder: Just how normal can she be?

Last night, compliments of Detroit’s Channel 4 news, I learned about some teenagers who severed the head of a 26-year-old man just for the thrill of it. I discovered that the victim was once a registered sex offender. Why wasn’t he hanging out with people his own age? Then I realize: losing something means gaining something—or vice versa—even if it’s ill-begotten recognition, dead or alive.

IT'S WORTH THE EFFORT

When the fishing’s rotten, after spending a fraction of my day casting and recasting my line, I reach into my five-gallon bucket of oxygen-depleted water and pick out a floater. By floater I mean that single fish, that pathetic looking mercury-laden perch dumb enough to swallow the hook on my initial cast some four or five hours ago. I’m thinking about throwing him back, about grabbing a late dinner.

A buggy eye stares back at me, and before I tighten my grip, in a desperate attempt to free itself from further torture, that faking-I’m-dead perch flaps itself out of my bare hand and onto the dock. I catch it under my boot, lean into it a little. The buggy eye bulges.

I see seagulls hovering above. I call them garbage birds, rat birds. I reattach the perch to the end of my line and cast it into the lake as far as it’ll go. I slacken my line. Somewhere out there, in the mesmerizing waves, my catch drifts away. It doesn’t take long: the seagulls glide above in diminishing circles. It doesn’t take long: my pathetic perch flies into the sunset.

I tighten my line. The startled seagull lets go. I cast my line again, not because I’m interested in catching birds, but because the fish aren’t biting. I have to do something.

***

I’d like to thank the editors of GlassFire Magazine for having faith in me. If you haven’t checked out their Fall issue, now may be as good a time as any (click here).

I’ve read their nonfiction pieces and can proudly claim that I’m in good company. In Mary Whitsell’s “On The Wrong Side of The Tracks,” she tells us about her sleepless nights in Tokyo with Keiko and Hatsue, two lesbians, friends of a friend, who agree to let her stay at their pet-filled apartment near a mass transit system. In “Love in the Time of Salmonella,” Stephanie Johnson reenacts her anger over a piece of raw chicken caught between the dish basin and the garbage disposal. Her live-in beau, Ben, a former professional chef, is sure to blame. Fortunately, her grandmother offers her some timely advice about finding the right man.

Enjoy the read and don’t forget to celebrate Veteran’s Day.

I'M NO SUPERMAN

With two new teachers aboard and endless routine questions lobbed my way, I’ve come to the realization that I’m one of those seasoned correctional employees oozing negativity. Don’t misunderstand me, my intent is to assist my peers in every way imaginable, it’s just that I’ve been involved in so many scenarios that my advice, perhaps the delivery of it, becomes somewhat simple and somewhat dull.

“How do I kick an inmate out of class?” one teacher asks me. He has a stack of student files in his arms, a sure sign of those he’d like to ditch.

“Show them the door,” I answer.

He points to the post-it-note on the top file. “I was told to see you as far as what procedures I need to take.”

First, I explain what “I” would do. Then I give him the flowchart, step-by-step version of drop kicking someone from the school roster. This includes CSJ-126 “Waiver of Rights” forms, which a majority of prisoners refuse to sign anyway. This leads to more questions, and once again, I explain what “I” would do.

A day earlier, the school corrections officer making rounds asks me to step into the hallway so I can look into another classroom. “Remember when you were that eager to teach?” he remarks.

I notice motivational posters on the walls and classroom rules on the bulletin board. We both laugh. He knows I’m unfazed by his observation. In prison it’s not so much about teaching inmates; it’s about their desire to learn. I see myself as a facilitator, a referee, giving them options, and if they make the right choices, they’re rewarded with a useless high school equivalency diploma, which I’m sure those who were victimized could care less about anyway.

A CAN OPENER

Dean Bakopoulos, author of “Please Don’t Come Back From the Moon,” recalling his Detroit prep school days in Mr. Bean’s Honors English Class:



When we finished reading “The Nick Adams Stories,” Mr. Bean gave us the task of finding the “perfect Hemingway sentence,” the one that summed up worldview of this writer that so many of us suddenly wanted to become. If we found it, we’d get an automatic A for the semester.

The next morning, our searches proved fruitless. We went around the room, making our best guesses, all of us wrong. Then Mr. Bean stood up in the center of his room and, in his booming voice, he turned to “Big Two-Hearted River” and read the perfect Hemingway sentence: “He liked to open cans.”

We were baffled. We groaned and complained and said that we’d been had. Seriously? That?

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

So here’s Jimmy O, the one-eyed hunter, propped against a tree sound asleep. Like Roy Ferris before him, Jimmy O never wandered far from camp, whereas, those of us who pilfered cans of peaches, beef jerkey and toilet paper eagerly headed for the woods. We dressed in layers, and when nature came a calling, we begrudgingly propped our rifles against trees, peeled off enough clothing, and did our business.

I haven’t hunted in years, but if I decided to join my dad and brother, I’d be sure to pack my own can opener in my Pabst Blue Ribbon hunting box. With each ticking second ... minute ... hour spent in the woods, you never knew when that eight-point buck would come your way. We all wanted that one chance, that one shot, to be successful, to come back and retell our stories of how it all happened. Plus, it would be inexcusable to confiscate that designated can opener from hunting camp—that is, unless you dragged a trophy buck into the clearing.

My brother emailed the following picture below. Seems a buck is walking around with a tin bucket caught on his antlers.

I'LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET

When you videotape a fawn peacefully walking across your front yard, dub in some heavy artillery followed by a crowd cheering for its successful escape, then post it on YouTube under the title “Ted Nugent Visits My House,” you’re bound to get a few NRA / Hunting Enthusiasts cussing you out. They assume you’re anti-hunting, anti-gun. I sometimes wonder: If I dubbed in a crappy new song by the Motor City Madman would they have given me the benefit of the doubt, that I’m poking fun of the Nuge?

I remember my first year of hunting, my uncle and I slung the hindquarters of a deer on our shoulders and headed back to camp. We explained that it was too difficult to drag the carcass out of the swamp. “We took what we could get,” I said.

My answer seemed plausible, dusk came quickly. However, my brother, not buying it—he never gave up on a potential kill, and a few days later, with ammo flying, made hamburger out of a spiked buck wheezing on the river bank—questioned our story.

We fessed up. It was a doe, like we had mentioned (the story wouldn’t have been plausible if we had imagined an eight-point buck), and we discovered it bloated and dead. My uncle suggested I practice gutting my first deer. When I stuck the knife in I punctured the sack, releasing a rotten egglike stench. We gagged. Then cut.

That night we cooked venison and ate it, hoping the next day would bring better luck.

THE ONE-EYED HUNTERS

The rusted-out husk of broken down Buicks and Farmalls sunk into Roy Ferris’s front lawn; His bygone possessions amongst the jimsonweed, dodder, and dandelion. His clapboard house never felt the bristles of a loaded paintbrush. The quack grass grew undisturbed, swallowing two mower decks—obstacles for feral cats chasing field mice across his postage-stamp lot. My late grandfather, forever the good neighbor (their socio-economic disparity as wide as the cornfield separating their homes) invited Roy to our Kalkaska hunting camp.

Roy Ferris had nothing in common with the well-paid Detroit autoworkers arriving in their new F-150s. Still, he became one of us, the camaraderie natural and unforced. The deer need not worry about Roy’s marksmanship either; he tended the campfire, never wandering too far from the heat in his thin layer of clothing, his glass eye rolling inward, his good eye darting back and forth from smoke and flame to the surrounding forest, waiting for us to reappear from the swamps, waiting for someone to drag a freshly gutted buck into the clearing.

I’m not exactly sure how many times Roy stayed at our camp before his death, but my grandfather soon found someone else to converse with on the ride to and from camp. Enter Jimmy O, another poor chap, a younger version of Roy, collecting disability and working odd jobs whenever the opportunity arose. He had a lisp, his tongue smacking against the back of his upper incisors with more frequency after each swig of Jack Daniels. If my memory serves me well, we only had one one-eyed man per hunting season and not two.

The above photograph shows Jimmy O taking a much-needed rest. The prisoner drawing, aptly titled “The Eye in the Sky,” is a belated tribute to Roy Ferris.

ONE LAST GOOD MEAL

“Isn’t that always the way?” the old pathologist had said, yanking the tray out with Elena’s body on it. “It’s love sickness. A man kills his wife then kills himself. A woman kills her man then does her nails.”

—“Blood Sport” fiction by Thomas Lynch

Thomas J. Kuzmak, wanted for the fatal stabbing of his ex-wife, poured maple syrup on his dollar-size pancakes, chewed and swallowed each forkful slowly, and said, “Yes please,” to the passing waitress when she asked if he’d like a refill on his coffee. At least that’s the way I envision it. He didn’t kill himself like so many others; his weapon of choice had been a knife. Having done time in an Ohio penitentiary, the only trigger he considered pulling was whether he should turn himself in or continue to flee. But not before having one last decent meal. County jails, he must have known, have lousy food, and the prison’s meals aren’t much better.

After that last bite, after that last bit of coffee, Kuzmak stepped up to the cash register to pay his bill and, as a matter of fact, confessed his sin. He was apprehended shortly afterward and is awaiting extradition to Michigan.

The waitress working the register, a woman by the name of Sandy, told the Detroit Free Press that he had the Kings Country Breakfast—pancakes, eggs, home fries, ham and wheat toast—a $10 special at the Kings Family Restaurant in Claysville, Pennsylvania.

There’s always a slight possibility that I’ll see Kuzmak at my facility. I say, “slight,” because there are so many more just like him, living, breathing, taking up bed space. They only view the world as it revolves around themselves, and I, along with my coworkers, am considered their newest enemy. Its unfortunate Kuzmak’s ex-wife never had the opportunity to paint her nails, even if for one last time.

THE ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT MAN

Prisoner Minnifield refers to himself as “The One-Hundred Percent Man,” a nineteen year old kid who will accept nothing less than perfect. He broadcasts his achievements to the others after each checked assignment. “I’m the Hunerd-Percent Man,” he says, regardless of all those cheating accusations hurled his way. When confronted about having answer keys hidden under his folder, he says, “The Hunerd-Percent Man don’t cheat.”

He has completed all his class work on fractions, decimals, and percents. Fifth grade material. There are absolutely no mistakes on his paper; he doesn’t have time to show all the steps.

I ask him, “One half is what percent?”

He answers, “Fiddy-percent.”

“One,” I continue, “is what percent?”

After a slight pause and scratch of his head, he smiles, then says, “One percent.”

The inmate tutors start referring to him as “The One-Percent Man.”

He corrects them.

My shipment of new FX-260 Solar Calculators arrives. I carry the rather small box across the room to my locked storage area.

One-Hundred Percent Man, a.k.a., One-Percent Man, asks me, “What’s in the box?”

“I know what I’d like to put in the box.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

“I’d like to put your brain in it and ship it off for research.”

“You got jokes,” he says.

A tutor adds, “Boss, I’m not sure we have enough packing material.”

I can’t help but agree.

TRAINING OTHERS

When you’ve been dead for far too long, your eyes turn to stone and the new archaeologists studying the lines on your face determine that you’ve become another common fossil, compressed and hardened, as far as you can go.

—Do you ever look up your students’ criminal records?

—I’m not here to judge them. Our judicial system has already done that.

—Have any fights broke out in your classroom?

—Nope.

sigh

I try to be more entertaining. I tell them about the gay convict in my last class, how he giggled and told another student that he was acting like a little schoolgirl.

—What happened? What did the other guy do?

—He said he’d beat his muthaf*^%*ng ass, and I told him to do it on his own time.

silence

—How many years have you been working for the department?

—Too many.

—Do you let them take books back to their cells?

—It depends. If they work in class, I don’t have a problem with it.

I walk around the room, as if I’m truly interested in making my students smarter, as if they’ll some day become productive citizens. I’m trying to show the new teachers what to do.

—Have you ever heard about one of your students paroling and turning his life around?

—No. I only hear about the ones who return.

I’ve piqued their interest. They want to know more about the failures, as if my story, my longevity, doesn’t count. I give them what they want.

OLD NAVY WITH ATTITUDE

In my early college days I’d catch and heave cases of durable items racing down a Spartan semi-truck’s metal rollers to the next stock boy in line. It didn’t matter if I tossed cream corn, green beans, or applesauce in jars—I instinctively plucked them off those rollers and put some air beneath them. At three-thirty every Thursday morning the nature of my game had been to bury the corner of the box into an unsuspecting chest. The faster I could choreograph inconsistent hang times, the more likelihood I’d achieve my goal.

“C’mon tough guy,” I’d say to the sleepy stock boy massaging his sternum (high tosses) or solar plexus (low tosses). I had suffered from little man’s complex and my coworkers bore the brunt of my mental anguish. “What’s a matter, box to light for ya?”

Same modis operandi with the Pepsi. I knew when to man the handcart. I never claimed forearms like Popeye. If we were unloading case loads of bottles, I’d call “dibs” on one of the dollies and wheel Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew into our warehouse, positioning the six cases against my right shoulder. Once I established where to park my load, I’d lean the other way, and slide the dolly out with my right foot. The not-so-bright dweebs in the warehouse would stack them twelve high, even if their arms looked like spindles. As for me, I kept wheeling more their way.

After days of searching for a mean, scary Halloween costume, I settled on today’s picture. Please, no YMCA jokes.

Have a Happy Halloween everyone.

FOG JUICE & BAD DECISIONS

There are times in our lives where we forget the boundaries of common decency, where we push the envelope beyond reason, and when we do that, when the fog clears, we realize the error of our ways. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life time, but what I overheard in the employee lunchroom regarding a prisoner’s mail almost made me choke on my chicken sandwich.

“Excuse me,” I said. “A teacher did what?”

Nothing really shocks me anymore. Or so I had thought. I remember a young, married, female corrections teacher with two toddlers leaving her husband for an inmate doing “all day.” I saw her sitting in the prison visiting room with her new man. I wondered whether it was worth it—to sacrifice her marriage, her family, and her job to listen to a prisoner making empty promises of how their life together would be some day. I’m sure the conversation ended with “can you put some more money in my account?” This is the same old story, a real yawner if you ask me.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom, if the media got a hold of it, would shock an entire community. This isn’t anything like the gay prisoner I once knew who corresponded with a male elementary school teacher on a regular basis. “Oh look,” he said to me, “Richard sent his latest picture. Isn’t he sweet?” I thought to myself, what would the parents of Richard’s students do if they discovered his love correspondence? You could argue that Richard is entitled to his private life, and I’d respect your opinion, no need to argue. Again, a real snooze fest as far as I’m concerned.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom is very much different. The correctional facility’s mailroom opens all incoming envelopes and packages. Legal mail is opened in front of the prisoner. Personal mail, on the other hand, is unsealed and examined prior to delivery. So when the large manila envelope addressed to an inmate arrived, the mailroom worker followed protocol. What she found was a bunch of letters from a teacher’s fifth grade class. It had been an assignment. Some of the students claimed they were being forced to write the letter, that they really didn’t want to do it. A few fifth graders included their personal addresses. Luckily, none of the letters made it inside.

I’m not sure what the relationship is between the fifth grade teacher and this particular prisoner, but I’m willing to bet the school district will be notified. Do you think they’ll pass this information on to the parents? Or will they keep a lid on it? Time will tell. At least the Michigan Department of Corrections intercepted it. Please feel free to share your outrage.

PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

In my endless pursuit of that one scary childhood Halloween costume, I found the above silly photograph. I immediately felt sorry for the “Teddy Bear” Masked Man with his humongous, orange plastic, pumpkin pail. And why shouldn’t I? “Gritty” must have traveled down my mom’s ear canals as “glitzy” before the brain processed it into the word “grizzly” thus resulting in my being dressed out as a cute and cuddly Downy-type bear. (Snuggles? I’m guessing.) But this can’t be the case. It isn’t me. Who it is I don’t know.

My brother and I, although one year apart in age, were often mistaken for twins due to wearing matching clothes. If he wore plaid pants and a striped shirt, I wore plaid plants and a striped shirt. Our parents theorized that being fair meant giving us the same things. However, at Halloween we were able to pick and choose our costumes within reason.

If my brother said, “I want to be an Indian,” then I’d think of something within the same theme and say, “I want to be a cowboy.” But as we grew older, both of us took a more convenient route and became standard hobos, mixing and matching whatever we saw fit.

So which kid am I? Both hobo-like characters have matching Little Caesers Trick-or-Treat bags. It wouldn’t be fair if one of us had a larger sized bag that held more candy. Am I the tall, lanky, down-and-out red-nosed pharmacists advertising Hall’s cough drops, or the big-eared, big-nosed, white-collared pilgrim hobo? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had once participated in Disco Elementary’s “Thanksgiving Day” extravaganza. My mom had stitched together the black robe with white collar just for me. It must've been a positive experience, why else would I wear it again? I’m grateful that I didn’t have to wear a hunter’s orange reflecting vest that night, or if I did, that my dad never snapped the picture.

ONCE AGAIN, TRAUMA BEFORE HALLOWEEN

Why is it, after sifting through endless family photos in search of yours truly sporting at least one bad ass Halloween costume, I end up reliving the trauma of my youth? The amateur photographer—and I do mean “amateur” because of the wayward digit in front of the camera lense, which, by the way, would’ve been more convenient on the left hand side—did not have a clue as to commanding the shot. Hypothetically speaking, if the photographer calls for a gritty cowboy, and the inattentive wardrobe assistant mistakenly hears “glitzy,” he should correct her regarding anything resembling Gene Autry. If the photographer requests a great warrior chief, and the wardrobe assistant, in her infinite wisdom, thinks a squaw would be a much better choice, then the photographer needs to redirect and communicate his vision. This photo should be no different.

After taking a much closer look, I wonder if this is some type of cruel hoax, the literary equivalent of the poem “Leonainie.” Had someone suggested replacing Raggedy Andy with Raggedy Ann would make the photo more identifiable? A piece of Americana? And at whose expense? I’m almost certain that this isn’t my toy. As you can clearly see, my brother is standing there, wringing his hands as if he were an accomplice to this crime (and at such an early age). If we had just banded together, then maybe Raggedy Andy would’ve joined his sister in the Toy Museum Hall of Fame.

Unfortunately, when the wardrobe assistant does the cooking, house cleaning, and laundry, the photographer contentedly snaps the damn picture without thinking of its damaging effect.

"I'm gonna get you, Bom-baaard!"

This morning I read the extra sports section of the Detroit Free Press and reminisced about my cross-country coach, who, in an effort to foster team spirit and unity during practice, calculated staggered starting times for his runners. If you were the slowest on the team, you got a head start based on some crazy formula he had worked on the night before. If you were the best runner on the team, you had to wait … and wait … and wait for your turn to go.

Coach said, “In theory, the whole team should finish this six-mile run simultaneously.” Then he encouraged us to encourage one another as our turn came to run. The varsity squad grew tired of cheering, “See you at the finish.” It was evident we had our work cut out for us.

A teammate by the name of Keith Bombard became my victim that day. I set my sights on him instead of Matt Dorflinger, a tall lanky geek who thought running meant shuffling your size twelve’s in the dirt, because—how do I explain it?—if Keith were playing poker, everyone at the table would know his hand. His form was all wrong, he lacked fluidity, with each uneven stride, with each pump of his arms, he’d wobble his head as if water seeped inside and needed draining … and then he’d do the unimaginable … he’d look back to see if anyone was catching him.

When it was his turn to start, I shouted, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” Those of us standing around couldn’t help but laugh. Coach wasn’t too pleased, but it gave me something to do on my journey. By the time he called my name, Keith Bombard was a speck on the horizon.

It wasn’t until the third mile that he finally heard me again. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” From that point forward, as I controlled my breathing and lengthened my stride, he’d glance back and I’d yell, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

By the fourth and fifth mile, I maintained a distance of one hundred feet behind him and started breaking his spirit. At increased intervals I’d say, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” He waited for me to pass him, but I wouldn’t. If he slowed down, I slowed down. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” If he went faster, I went faster. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

It wasn’t until that last mile, when I blew by him going up a hill, that he finally caved in and started walking. We didn’t say anything to each other in passing. Our roles had reversed. I became the speck on the horizon.

As I sat there having breakfast, I wondered whether he was doing the same, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the fine print of all those runners who participated in the Detroit Marathon. It doesn’t seem fair to run twenty-six miles and have your name reduced to such tiny font. I misplaced my reading glasses, so I had to squint real hard, and if somehow by chance I stumbled across the name “Keith Bombard,” I’d turn my head … and smile.

Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share

Since the Metro Detroit area public schools are sanitizing their buildings in an effort to protect their students and staff from MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), I’ve become increasingly aware of the inmate-porter in our school building. At first, I thought he was obsessing over keeping everything clean, but the more I watched him the more I wondered whether he was trying to gain access to locked areas where a cache of supplies could be bartered away in general population. I noticed an even layer of dust on my classroom computers and bookshelves; it's been that way for years.

Then I started wondering if he might be a vindictive s.o.b., smearing God knows what on every doorknob in sight. This isn’t paranoia, I’ve heard about those random shakedowns of prison kitchen workers, where corrections officers find hidden Baggies of special sauce.

Prisoners are opportunists. They have very little to lose. One crazy porter gravitated toward the GED testing material. Whenever the GED Examiner walked the corridor with his locked brief case full of exam booklets, a dust mop surely followed. Telling the porter to “push-off” meant rethinking the next move—that is, until the GED Examiner requested his transfer to another facility.

Then there’s the Level I inmate-porters who, on occasion, clean the employee lunchroom from 1100 hours to 1300 hours. They will conveniently stay out of your way, hoping you will forget they’re in the vicinity, hoping you will unknowingly reveal something personal, something they can share with the rest of the inmate population. Although their ears are burning, I say, “Trick No Good.”

LET ME CHANGE THE TITLE

Not too long ago I was encouraged to apply for a teaching position with Montcalm Community College. They had acquired grant money for a Youthful Offender Program (YOP) and were attempting to infiltrate the Michigan Prison System. The warden at my current facility pooh-poohed the idea. Not that it mattered; other facilities were interested.

In an effort to discourage over familiarity with inmates, Montcalm, under MDOC advisement, was allowed to hire prison educators for YOP night classes, if, and only if, the facility differed from the teacher’s regular gig. In other words, after eight hours of teaching GED classes at one prison, I could pull up stakes, drive to another prison (Ryan Correctional Facility), and put on my college hat.

No thanks. Even though thirty-three smackaroos an hour is very enticing.

On a similar note, in Wednesday’s Detroit Free Press I saw a picture of my old classroom (Ryan Correctional Facility, 1992 – 1997) jam packed with college students and prisoners. According to the article, they were discussing race, class, and gender in the criminal justice system. The University of Michigan-Dearborn, through Comerica and private donors, paid for the inmate’s course materials, including textbooks, while the free-birds paid for the whole enchilada.

Hmmm … now the wheels are turning. In order to renew my teaching certificate, which expires in 2011, I need 6 credit hours. Perhaps I could enroll in this class. Do you think I could handle the course work? Do you think the Michigan Department of Education will allow it? And what about the Michigan Department of Corrections? They wouldn’t block me from such an important task as the renewal of a very important credential—or would they? Besides, I think I can beat an inmate out of his books.

Isn’t it interesting how I went from convict teacher to college instructor to college student to classroom bully in no time at all, how I went from making $33 an hour to paying for the privilege to hustle an inmate? Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

THE THREE-LEGGED SPIDER

I’m perusing and rubricating thirty GED essays written by prisoners from the Michigan Department of Corrections. Although I realize each essay is graded on logic and clarity, and points are not deducted for spelling, mechanics, or grammar, I am compelled to make a few—oh, what should I call it?—a few minor adjustments here and there, with a spackling of suggestions for good luck. My comments, for the most part, are as welcome as a police officer working undercover. The inmate-writers grow suspicious. “I done just like the book says,” Inmate Coleman defends.

I’m losing steam. “How about a rewrite?” I ask.

He shows me that dreaded "idea map" most writing textbooks promote, but I see a three-legged spider instead. Before the argument heats-up, we itemize the main ingredients: #1 introductory paragraph with topic sentence, #2 the body, including three supporting statements, and #3 a conclusion. It’s all there; he killed it; he hit all the major arteries. Give the man a gold star!

After his refusal to listen to my advice, he kicks rocks while I mutter to his back, “needs a rewrite.” I grab the next piece of drivel from the pile and think about Coleman. The whole scenario is actually quite funny considering his insistence on structure, form, and other things I’d consider mundane. He follows the same recipe; he clings to the same cookie cutter pattern; he likes that systematic process for writing essays. I, of all people, should know when to stay out of his kitchen.

If he were graded on the honesty of his words—how he changed his opinion regarding anarchy—then I’d have to give him two gold stars for not deviating from the text and for practicing what he preaches. Maybe his three-legged spider will rejuvenate its limbs afterall, or mutate into something entirely different. One can only hope.

IT'S NOT ALWAYS AS IT APPEARS

I know what you’re thinking, and if you had one of those web cams perched atop your computer monitor, I’d trace the movement of your eyes and discredit your observations. First, it's not an errant tooth you’re staring at; it’s a salted shell I cracked between my molars and rolled around my tongue in search of its buried treasure. I always bring a large supply of sunflower seeds to share with my fellow anglers at our annual Bayport, Michigan, Catfish Tournament. It’s the thought that counts, even if they refuse my offer. “Too much sodium” and “I have to watch my blood pressure”—from men swigging Jim Beam or Jack Daniels from shared bottles circulating the campfire. They chase it with the beer of their choice and flick twist-off caps into the flames for entertainment.

I know where you stand on this sharing thing. I most certainly agree. Alcohol, no matter how wicked the proof, doesn’t kill every germ and bacteria on contact. So why are your disapproving eyes gravitating toward my midsection, toward the t-shirt my wife shrunk in the wash? You think I gave up on exercise, that I let myself go? Rest assured, my lifestyle hasn’t changed all that much. It’s true, I let my health club membership expire; I haven’t been running outside; I’m drinking at the higher end of the moderate level. Hey, we all have our vices.

Let me explain my Buddha-like posture.

Why are you shaking your head? I see you’re laughing too. Did I say something funny? Can we be serious for a moment? Appearances are deceiving. You, of all people should know that. Stop it! Click HERE for a perfectly logical explanation regarding my physique.

IMMERSION

In order to avoid learning a second language in college—a dreaded prerequisite—a counselor advised me to take Linguistics 101, The Study of Language, followed by a communications course of my choosing. I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to get out of my Intro to French class where everyone had two or three years of French in high school.

There isn’t too much I remember about that Linguistics course besides the professor’s homosexuality, the older divorcee’s willingness to share her notes, and the TA’s controversial lecture on Black English, or Ebonics, or whatever the hell you want to call it. As for my other elective, Speech 101, or 251, or some other insignificant triple digit number, I learned an invaluable lesson: When writing a piece, consider your audience. Proper English doesn’t matter as much as being able to communicate your thoughts.

Which brings me to my next point. The lovely Spanish lady pictured above came to the United States to learn how to speak and understand English. I’m not sure how her family felt about her living in the Metro Detroit area, but her immersion into our dialect must have been somewhat of a culture shock. "I don’t understand," she repeated often.

My dad, a toolmaker by trade, thought that if he spoke a little louder and a heck of a lot slower, then maybe her comprehension would improve. "Haaaaave sooooome coooorn," he said at the dinner table, thrusting a plate of cobs her way.

I remember her waking up one morning and saying, "I dreamt in English!" and from that point forward her ability to speak and comprehend the language improved immensely. You see, the poor girl had been appalled watching us eating corn on the cob at the dinner table, and after learning a few select words and sentences, she explained, "In Spain we feed it to the pigs."

Immersion is the best way to learn. I say this, knowing that one-week from now, I’ll be training two new teachers the "do’s" and "don’ts" of prison culture. They’ll become my shadows, my understudies, and every thing I say will finally have some validity (or not). As long as they don’t have nightmares, I’m sure they’ll do fine.

SOMEONE GETS AN OSCAR

My classroom, with its elongated rectangular ironclad windows, has a panoramic view of the prison yard, where, at this time of year, if you peer beyond the convicts kibitzing and beyond the razor-wired double fences and the gun-towers, you will see a few innocent deer high-tailing it through an open field. Whether bow-hunters have inadvertently pushed the deer out of the nearby woods, I’ll never know; The hunters, I’m guessing, would want to stay a reasonable distance from our compound. But this isn’t about venison or the two-legged beasts standing at a wooden octagon-shaped picnic table, high-fiving one another over dominoes.

Hunters at deer camp? You ask.

Nope. Convicts.

Nor is it about the flag football game taking place near the 220-track. Tackling isn’t allowed, yet everyone gets bruised and muddied. I was going for the flag, the guilty party always explains.

Yesterday, I heard about bomb sniffing dogs frantically zigzagging the corridors and classrooms of my alma mater. Someone had called in a threat the day of their homecoming game. Although inexcusable, perhaps that someone was from the opposing team.

Whatever happened to those harmless pranks, like opening the high school exit doors so a few students wearing dark-visored helmets could navigate their dirt bikes through the busy hallways? At least afterward, when tongues were loosened, the culprits were nabbed and did their penitence. No prison time. Just a good old fashioned three-day suspension and an increase in popularity.

In the above picture, I, my date, and Grouchy (he certainly has been around) enjoyed our 1980 High School Homecoming Dance.

WAITING IS BETTER THAN TRYING

That revolving door of students, those 360 degrees of perpetual motion, will spin a teacher silly with keeping score. As soon as I get rid of one … two … or three via discipline/behavioral problems, transfers, paroles, and sometimes untimely death, there are more potential walking disasters lined up three and four deep desperately claiming to be ready for testing, not because they’re remotely close, not because they actually want to learn, but because they’re up for parole, they can taste their freedom. Take a number, stand in line, and play the waiting game. It has more validity, more significance, than enrollment status.

And why shouldn’t it?

The policy directive (based on The Rubber Band Theory, where you stretch and twist the rules and procedures to fit your needs) clearly allows school exemptions based on the following: Through no fault of his own, Prisoner So-and-so was unable to obtain his GED; therefore, he should be waived from the requirement for parole purposes.

It’s not easy getting your GED when you’re on a waiting list for enrollment. It’s much harder showing up for class.

Ask Inmate Simpson, he will tell you just how effective the system works. After missing the first three weeks of my class, I wrote him a major misconduct ticket—“036 Out of Place.” His failure to set foot in classroom #82 (it’s on his itinerary)—aka classroom #70 (it’s above my door)—instead of studying in another classroom (how dare he!), has put him on the hot seat.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. He was holding the goldenrod copy of the ticket I’d written on him. “You’ve been terminated from my class. Go away.”

“But …”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was in the wrong classroom.”

Hmmm … why the mix-up? Is it my room number?

Upon Teacher A’s verification, the most reasonable thing to do would be to “pull the ticket” and keep Prisoner Simpson enrolled in school. No need for him to appear in Kangaroo Court.

But not so fast! The authorities have determined that on the day in question, Teacher A was conducting classes elsewhere, in a different building! Therefore, Prisoner Simpson, in theory, could have attended my class. The ticket and termination would stand.

What could I say? “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

But the plot thickens.

A day later, after speaking to Prisoner Simpson, the “powers that be” decided I needed to “pull the ticket.”

“The ticket has been reviewed,” the Hearings Investigator told me. “He’s going to trial. That is, unless you’re willing to write a memo to the Warden, explaining your stance.”

I’ve spent too much time and energy on nonsense. I’m sure it will be sorted out. The way I look at it—guilty or not guilty—he’s still in prison, he’s still waiting for a parole, but after the ticket, he may be waiting a little longer.

STRICTLY BUSINESS

Date: July 22, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

First, I’d like to thank you for your timely rejection of my short story. Your comments were greatly appreciated. Secondly, I am submitting a creative nonfiction piece as an attachment. Please let me know whether this is a better fit for your magazine. As always, I look forward to hearing from you. JR Thumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 7, 2007

Hi JR, Congratulations! We would like to publish this second piece in our fall issue of GlassFire. Attached are our proposed edits to the story. Please look over them and let us know if they are acceptable. If so, we will email you the official contract to sign. Please let us know if you have any questions. We look forward to working with you. Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire


Date: October 8, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Thank you for the good news. Your edits are perfectly acceptable. As for the prison terminology, how about some footnotes at the end? If so, here they are—1) mall area – a centralized location of intertwined sidewalks connecting the housing units to the chow hall, 2) toplock – specific cell doors that will not electronically open for mass movement of prisoners, 3) “032 Out of Place” – numerical code for prisoner rule violation when an inmate isn’t in his assigned area. Please let me know if this is acceptable. I look forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, JRThumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 9, 2007

Hi JR, Footnotes are an excellent idea! You’re right—that will keep the flow intact. I’ve attached the official contract for you to sign. If you have access to a scanner, feel free to scan a signed copy and email it back. If not, please mail it to: PegLeg Publishing. Once we have it, we can release your payment. Would you like a check, a paypal transfer, or an Amazon.com gift card? Thanks, Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire Magazine.


The Contract:

This letter of agreement shall formally confirm and define the terms of our agreement regarding publication of your work in GlassFire Magazine.

1. You grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing one time Internet rights to publish The Work online in the English language available for viewing in all countries throughout the world. The Work may also be archived. However, the Author has the right to resell the Work at any time after publication.

2. All rights not specifically granted herein are reserved by Author for Author’s sole use and disposition.

3. You hereby warrant to us that The Work has been created by you, that you are the sole and exclusive owner of the rights to your work for The Work conveyed to us under this agreement, and that you have the full power to grant the rights herein conveyed to us.

4. You hereby grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing the right and authority to use your name on The Work and in all promotion and publicity.

5. In consideration of the rights granted to us to produce The Work, you shall receive $5.00.

6. The provisions herein shall bind and inure to the benefit of the parties.

7. Regardless of its place of execution, this letter of agreement shall be interpreted under the laws of the State of Oklahoma.

8. The foregoing supersedes any and all previous understandings, constitutes our sole and complete agreement, and may not be altered except by mutual consent in writing.


Date: October 10, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Where do I sign? Also, does this mean I give up all merchandising rights? I know JK Rowling didn’t. Sincerely, JR Thumbprints.

"NEXXXXT!"

Although my popularity is waning due to a recent uptick in “guilty” verdicts on the MDOC docket (Michigan Department of Corrections) and due to a list of potential witnesses regarding allegations of how I targeted a few select inmates, it stands to reason that I am not a corrupt, power hungry, authoritative figure. When you’re a “no show” for a testing date and I write you an “Out of Place” ticket, when you fail to attend your Kangaroo Court investigative hearing because your yard activities are more important, then what makes you think sniping at me from the back of the classroom will change anything? Besides, your list of witnesses collaborating your claim that I said, “Class will be cancelled tomorrow”—as unreliable as they are (murders, rapists, drug dealers, you name it)—these witnesses of yours, they showed up on the day in question.

Furthermore, no one’s paying me to be “popular.” I have a job to do—I teach—and if you don’t like it, if you can’t respect that, if you can’t have the common decency to keep your mouth shut and your ears open, then perhaps I should use sign language. (Stage Directions: Narrator points to the door and says, “Get the &#*@! out of my classroom!”)

So there you have it—my typical workday in the joint. And I still think it’s much better than the public schools. At least in here I have the best classroom management a teacher could ask for. Kick one out. Bring one in.

NOTHING LEFT TO GAIN

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not true that you feel most alive when you’re closest to death, when you’re taking chances, when you’re risking life and limb, when you’re letting yourself go, hands in the air, screaming skyward. My wife calls it fun. I’m not sure what she means: Riding the roller coasters? Or watching me white-knuckling the downward drops, tucking my head between my shoulders and arms, and gritting my teeth?

“Relax,” she says. “Quit fighting it.”

Easier said then done. I’m worried about decapitation, about smacking my head on a crossbeam, about having a massive heart attack. I’ve heard about roller coasters malfunctioning, about people hanging upside down for hours on end, praying for the fire department to come to their rescue, about some poor soul having an aneurysm from all that blood rushing to his brain. On the television I believe I’ve seen and heard about seatbelt buckles, or whatever so-called safety restraint they’ve designed, breaking and people plummeting to the ground. And once again, I’ve witnessed the Cedar Point paddy wagon hauling someone away on a stretcher. My wife says, “They probably have a heart condition and shouldn’t be on the rides in the first place.”

I want to tell her, “I have a heart condition,” but she knows this to be untrue because I only visit the doctor when she schedules the appointment.

I’d rather watch everyone else on the rides; unfortunately, my wife reminds me of the time she roller-coastered solo; about the drunk man on the Mean Streak sitting next to her, how he almost puked on her. And I wouldn't? I’m not very sympathetic. Other than my wife, the majority of the people I’ve observed, who enjoy this kind of thrill, have tattoos, body piercings, mullets, and whatever chosen abnormality they think will make them stand out from everyone else.

Let me make myself clear: “I hate roller coasters. They scare me. I hate Cedar Point. I hate dealing with the crowds. I hate standing in line. I hate it I hate I hate it.”

One last thing: When my wife worked for the Stroh’s family in Detroit, someone stole her debit card from her purse, which she stored under her desk at her office cubicle. Whoever it was treated their friends to Cedar Point and rang up about $1200. I know it shouldn’t matter, that it’s been years since this incident, but in my mind, that lowlife scumbag and his or her posse were walking around that amusement park, smoking cigarettes and sneering at me.

THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

WHEN HILLS HAVE EYES

When you become part of a system, no matter how screwed up it is, you assimilate into its structure. You become one of the many pillars dodging the wrecking ball. And when the dust settles, you realize there are others—not many—just a few who are left standing—they brush the dust off and rebuild.


So it goes. I’m continuously fighting an uphill battle. My educational structure changing with each passing year, with every demolition. Public School. Private School. Youth Home. Correctional Facility. Teaching is teaching. It doesn’t matter. I say, “bullshit.”

I remember escorting my Troy High School freshmen class to an assembly. As soon as the lights dimmed and the wine-colored velvet curtains slid open, a video montage flashed hip scenes and glitzy photos across a large screen accompanied by Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” The kids cheered wildly. In my day, students in AV Club were geeks, nerds, squares. But not at this presentation. The company, Yearbook Video, promised to provide video equipment to the school. Let the kids, those not so cool AV dorks, shoot footage of all the major events. Whether football games, homecoming, prom, or band recitals, Yearbook Video would edit this material into a slick video, splicing in world news along with current music.

As my students filed out, they were given a brochure to preorder their very own Yearbook Video. I recognized the salesperson, name of Mark Lemke (if my memory serves me correct). Through him, I discovered it was Neal’s latest start-up company. I never did find out whether he turned a profit. I do know this, he went from school to school, charming the socks off of administration; How else could he have convinced them to reduce the number of instructional hours in the classroom? And for what? To make a buck.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether those kids were happy with the final product. The following year I was teaching in a Catholic School. While there, the principal chastised me for turning off the classroom television during attendance. A program called Channel One piped in the latest news from around the world, along with Pepsi commercials and other crap.

“I’ve heard you’ve been unplugging Channel One. Leave it on.”

“Yes sir,” I assured him. I don’t know whether he trusted me, afterall, whenever he clicked on the intercom system to eavesdrop on my class, I’d count to three and on cue, my students would say, “Good Morning Mr. Miller.”

Nowadays, the only televised footage I hear about comes from the security cameras. I’ve probably been taped and recorded more times than I’d care to think about.

Recommended short story: “Videotape” by Don DeLillo

AN EMAIL CORRESPONDENCE

The prisoners will tell you: Making an apology in the joint is an admittance of guilt. You’ll be perceived as soft. Therefore, never apologize, and never ever take the rap for anything or for anyone. It’s part of the prison culture. It’s a given. Better not to talk, not to say anything.

Last Friday, through a memorandum, I was labeled “non-essential” and told not to report to work next week. After a fun-filled weekend of uncertainty, of not knowing whether I’d be earning a paycheck—“earning” being too strong a word considering my “non-essentiality”—I discovered that the following Monday morning, via the 6 o’clock news, that I had to report back to work. It was business as usual. Hallelujah! No apologies necessary; just keep making those direct deposits into my bank account so I can pay my bills.

The same day as my “non-essential” status I received a response to a year-old email I had sent to an acquaintance, a friend from the past. I hadn’t seen nor heard from him in a very long long time. Here’s our correspondence:

September 08, 2006:

Hey Neal,
I received one of Terry’s yearly emails (yeah, about one a year), and I started scrolling through the list of names and saw yours. I thought, since it’s been … oh … what? … 20 years, maybe more, or less … I thought I’d give you a ring (email anyway). How have you been? Give me an update. In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been in prison for the past 15 years (working that is).

September 28, 2007:

Hey JR,
I was just going through old emails and realized that I had never responded to you. I tried to visit your blogspot just now but it looks quite different from what I remember a year ago, so I assume it is no longer a correct address. I think you are right that it has been about 20 years. A lot happens in that period of time. Here is my sequence of events:

Moved to AZ in 1991. Bought a t-shirt business. Did a lot of product for the Disney theme parks and Silicon Valley companies. Spun off a subsidiary called Burlesco that provided merchandise to 200 touring strippers. I mean exotic dancers.

During the Internet boom/bust, I started an online celebrity website. I made the official websites for John Travolta, Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson, and about 100 others. Got wiped out in the end.

My claim to fame, I snubbed advances from actress Diane Lane and one of my business partners is the person that the character of Ari on the HBO show Entourage is based on. Other claim to fame: Had a daughter in 1997. Turning 10 in December. I am going to the Hannah Montana concert in a couple of months and I know all the songs from High School Musical.

Went into gaming in 2000 by purchasing some intellectual property with my former net partners. We license casino games to the online gaming industry. Business is based out of the UK. It’s a small business with just 5 employees but it pays the bills and gets me to Europe a few times a year. Building a couple of web based businesses here in Phoenix. Tom Waring lives about an hour from me, so I see him from time to time. I am still rooting for the Detroit Lions. I talk to Terry about twice a year I guess. My mother passed away about 10 years ago and my father followed a year and a day later.

I suppose that is it. Nothing too crazy, just living life. By the way, thanks for writing. It was nice hearing from you.

My reaction:

I guess there’s a price one must pay for stability, for being “non-essential.”

WHEN YOU’RE AT THE WAX MUSEUM

Dad will paint you a picture of potential
in one fluid brushstroke, years later
Mom will still crack you an egg
burn you some toast.

But don’t even think about that magazine rack,
it’s unrealistic and downright rude.
This isn’t a fertility clinic, you know,
and don’t ask about the son
who went to prison.

If you do:

Mom will say,
But it’s not like that,
someone boxed him in
at an early age.

If the son in question could join in,
he’d blame those damn Rose Art crayons & coloring books,
so unimaginative, when you stay within the lines.

Mom will pour some coffee and butter your toast.
Dad will talk about the massive layoffs in the auto industry.

One son will survive yet another round of cuts,
while the other son, smelling of wax,
will wait.

NON-ESSENTIAL EMPLOYEES

"I am really quite fatigued as my first working day draws to a close. I do not wish to suggest, however, that I am disheartened or depressed or defeated. For the first time in my life I have met the system face to face, fully determined to function within its context as an observer and critic in disguise, so to speak." Ignatius J. Reilly (A Confederacy of Dunces)

After fifteen years of service with the Michigan Department of Corrections, I have been told that I am a non-essential employee: Due to an unanticipated loss of funding as a result of the state’s current budget crisis, I (Patricia L. Caruso, Director) am notifying you that you are being placed on a temporary layoff consistent with the provisions of your applicable Collective Bargaining Agreement and/or Civil Service Rules… Do not report to work beginning on Monday, October 1, 2007, unless otherwise notified.

After all those years, I’ve been led to believe educating prisoners mattered. I’ll be the first to admit it—I had my doubts—but when you earn a paycheck you do what you're paid to do. You teach those who are willing to listen, and you write "Out of Place" tickets on those refusing to attend school. Basically, you try to convince them, through positive and negative measures, that their education is important. More times than not, they will tell you about someone with a bachelors or masters degree standing in the unemployment line. "What’s that got to do with your studies?" I’ve always responded.

Earlier this week I received a survey in the mail from Michigan Senator Alan Sanborn. He had three basic questions:

Do you support the early release of certain nonviolent felons to save the state money?

Should Michigan join 22 other states in allowing public and private-sector employees to choose whether or not they will belong to a union, thus making Michigan a "Right to Work" state?

What is the best way to fix Michigan’s current fiscal problems?

Implementing significant government reforms that include scaling back or ending nonessential programs.

Implementing or increasing user fees and taxes including potential taxes on telephones, event tickets and gasoline, as well as increases to the income and sales taxes.

A mix of minor government reforms coupled with new taxes and fees. These reforms could help reduce the total amount of new revenue needed, but taxes would still have to be raised, potentially significantly, to continue to fund the programs that have not been reformed.

What a joke! Let me guess, Senator Sanborn is waiting to tally the results before compromising on a budget? In the mean time, I, along with my peers, will be stuck without a paycheck, or two, or three. As far as I’m concerned, the word "incumbent" on a ballot, along with name recognition, is the kiss of death. The true non-essential employees are the buffoons in Lansing deciding on the future of our state.