BIG CAT CAUGHT

BEYOND THE SEA ... LAKE HURON

THE FAREWELL TOUR

MY OWN PERSONAL SPINAL TAP

The marathon is almost over. I’m literally crawling to the finish line. Twelve extra pounds will do that to you—so will sitting at my computer three hundred fifty-four times over the past year. Three hundred fifty-four times that I’ve struggled to convey my thoughts and tell a few interesting stories. I’m not sure any of it has helped my writing, but I’ve given my memory one hell of a workout. I guess that’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

Tomorrow, for my one-year Blog commitment, I’ll show some 80’s vintage rock video of yours truly. No written words—just some awkwardly funny footage of a bunch of guys pretending to be jukebox heroes. I’ve lost touch with a majority of them—two former fencers from Wayne State University, a mid-manager for a marketing firm, an engineer (what up, bro?), an Arizona businessman, and of course, me, the convict teacher.

I was the initial cameraman back then, working my way up to roadie, before taking a stab at guitar, keyboards, and vocals. I soon learned that I had no musical talent whatsoever. Not that it mattered; Captain Shaklee, our manager and sponsor (Shaklee Products) ran off with what little money we had. Soon, there were no more touring dates. We disbanded, and I, like the rest, became the disappearing "Eddie" from “Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I’ve enjoyed everyone’s company, and I’ll be sure to visit your blogs in the future. Good luck!

CHANNELING OUR ANGER

Howard and I had our differences, our moments of anger, followed by a certain degree of calmness. He, spewing expletives, and I, calmly telling him, "Joe, it's no big deal. Really." I had learned that with him you're better off being candid during a confrontation. How else were we able to work together and get along?

"What's this I'm hearing about you commissioning an inmate to steal my pencils?"

"I ran out," I explained. "And someone's got to do my dirty work."

"You little f**ker!"

I quickly pointed out that we needn't fight over an issue created by our boss's penny pinching ways.

Another time, as we embarked on a journey toward the Muskegon Correctional Facility in a blinding snow storm, Howard lit one of what would be his many cigarettes.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

I pointed to the sticker on the dashboard. "There's no smoking in a state car."

"Don't worry Jimmy, I'll roll down the window."

I knew this would happen. In fact, when our boss informed me I'd be filling in for Sandra Gomez, the little old lady who would eventually be escorted from our worksite in handcuffs, I brought up the smoking issue. "Tell him not to," my boss suggested--his way of saying "man-up."

That night in the hotel room, Howard searched for an ashtray.

"This is a nonsmoking room," I said.

"Not anymore."

We both agreed that in an effort to save the school a few bucks, our boss should not have coerced us into sharing lodging. And we both gave him an earful when we got back.

CIGARETTES & LIABILITY

In the retelling of my workplace stories, I would never ever think of using a coworker's real name, unless, of course, he were Joe Howard. It does not matter to me that one minute Joe railed against our boss, got right in his face, you son of a bitch, I ought to slap you with a defamation of character lawsuit, and a day later, with tears welling up in his eyes, showed a genuine concern for our boss's declining health. That was Howard, doing everything in life with passion.

I had first met Howard at a MDOC training session. We were working at different prisons--he, at the Adrian Correctional Facility; I, at a prison in Detroit. We were sent to the Carson City Correctional Facility for a presentation on "how to best improve the academic skills of our prisoners." Carson City hosted the event because they demonstrated the largest increases on the TABE scores (Test of Adult Basic Education). I sat amongst my peers, prison educators from all over Michigan, waiting for someone to say what I had been thinking.

Howard stood up. "You're so full of shit," he said to the presenter. "The reason the men at your facility do better on the TABE has more to do with less ride-outs." An argument ensued, and Howard, satisfied for having made his point, agreed to sit back down. Before our lunch break, I introduced myself, and soon we were discussing teaching theories at a local pub over beer and burgers.

We wouldn't meet again until three years later, when I transferred to a new facility; something he had done a few years prior.

After settling into my new classroom, I'd listen to Howard and his students actively arguing and learning simultaneously. During our short breaks, we'd stand on the prison yard, Howard freely dispensing his knowledge on every topic under the sun while searching for a cigarette. On some occasions, faced with a major dilemma, he'd order an inmate to give him a square.

"You know," I said to him once, right before he inhaled, "that's a rolled cigarette."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"The inmate had to lick the paper."

"I need my nicotine, Jimmy."

Of all the teachers I've met and worked with in the prison system, Howard was the most energetic. He didn't just go through the motions; he actually felt he was contributing to the well-being of the inmates. He ended up transferring to the Maxey Training School for Boys in an effort to keep his special education certification. I haven't heard from him in years. I learned this week that he retired in January.

FRAME OF MIND

In fifteen years with the Michigan Department of Corrections, I can honestly say that I don't know my coworkers any better than the day I had first met them. There's this underlying code not to reveal too much information about yourself for fear of the inmates finding out. You are, afterall, their main source of entertainment, followed by the soaps and Jackie Collin's novels (or is it Judy?) Inmates eavesdrop on staff conversations and compare notes back at their cellblocks. I've always felt there's no sense in giving them any leverage.

Sandra Gomez, an elderly hispanic woman with twenty-eight years of teaching experience as a state employee knew all too well about the dangers of her past. She was one door away from my classroom, and from what I had observed, very knowledgable and effective in helping the lower functioning inmates with their reading skills. Yet, I knew nothing about her personal life. If I may add a stereotype--she was a sweet little old lady.

So I was puzzled the day the Michigan State Police hauled her away in handcuffs. I think most of the school staff were shocked. How could this happen? How could someone convince a judge to sign a court order for her arrest? How could they find marked money in her Cadillac Seville? How come no one knew about the threats to her family?

Her crucial mistake in all of this, if you place your trust in your employer, was not asking for help. Sandra Gomez had endangered the lives of her fellow coworkers. I, along with my peers, were downright angry.

You see, Sandra Gomez became a prison mule, bringing drugs into our facility on a regular basis. The inmate, or undercover cop in her classroom, in turn delivered the goods to the control center where custody staff logged it in as evidence. Twenty-eight years of state service thrown away. Or so I thought.

Here's what I didn't know about Sandra Gomez: her exhusband was also an exfelon, and somehow this information in the wrong hands led to her making one bad decision after another. I'll never understand her frame of mind, or why she continued to smile and say hello whenever we passed in the hallway. I'll never know how much leverage the inmates had over her. But I do know this--she had her day in court and the verdict was: not guilty. I never saw her again.

DIGGING POST HOLES

The first sign of trouble, at least for me anyway, were the pictures of Angie's daughter displayed on her desk. Everyone should be proud of his or her children, and it wasn't like her cubicle had been in a high traffic area; I just didn't think it was appropriate, especially in a prison setting. I'd never do such a thing. If I had a nickel for every time an inmate said, "Let me see a picture of your wife," I'd have one of those big pickle ring-bologna jars filled to the rim.

I wondered whether Angie had been aware of the part-time inmate-clerk whittling away his time poking his nose around every corner and acting like the programs staff couldn't do without his superb filing skills. He was definitely a runner, one of those inmates that tells everyone in his cellblock about the latest office gossip. It got to the point where custody made the inmate-clerks sort files and do their typing in a different area, away from the office staff. Angie didn't seem to mind this arrangement. Whenever I talked to her, we shared a common theme--lazy ass inmates getting paid for doing nothing. Angie sounded real convincing when it came to bashing a prisoner's work ethic. You could tell she despised them. We got along just fine.

About the only thing I knew about Angie, besides that she had a daughter, was that she was divorced. It wasn't until after she had been fired that I learned about the married boyfriend. She probably thought he would eventually leave his wife, and be with her. It never happened.

From what I had observed, Angie started wearing really bagging clothing, and her hair became unkempt. But she always smiled when greeting me, and went about her business. I thought she was leaving her office cubicle to check in on her inmate-clerk’s filing and typing. I look back now and think about the music room a few doors away. No one noticed what was going on until it was too late.

I guess you could say Angie was making music with a lifer. He requested the baggy clothing so they could have a quick and easy romantic interlude. I'm not sure why she would risk facing felony charges to be with someone who, as a teenager, killed his mother for not lending him the car. A year or so later, someone showed me a picture of her and the new hubby. They got hitched at another correctional facility.

A POOR MAN'S RETIREMENT SYSTEM

Statistically speaking, I'm willing to bet that the inmates I teach have sired more babies then your typical law abiding male. After small talk amongst themselves about my-baby-mama-this and my-baby-mama-that, I've been known to ask, "What's a poor man's retirement system?"

I get the usual answers: rob a bank, sell some dope, run a scam. No sense in becoming a working stiff. No sense in having a 9 to 5 job —That’s for suckers. No sense in building up your 401K. Takes too long. Besides, honesty doesn't put you in the real money. You've got to have game. You've got to know how to be on the take. You've got to be a player.

I usually single someone out. "You're probably already banking your future on the poor man's retirement system."

"No I'm not," is the defensive response, followed by, "what're you talking about anyway?"

"Lots of kids, my man. Lots of kids. Maybe one of them will take care of you in your old age."

My social commentary never elicits pleasant remarks. I usually get cussed at, or someone tries to drag my personal life into the mix. Whatever they learn about me is mostly fictionalized for entertainment purposes. A little verbal sparring never hurt anyone.

Last week one of my tutors seemed a little punchy. I thought he was going to throttle a student. "What's going on?" I asked him.

He reached inside his shirt pocket and handed me a glossy black and white ultrasound picture. A current date and the name Valerie Michael were printed on it. "You want to read the letter that came with it?" he said, as if he was ready to fight me if I started teasing him. From what I’d gathered, this woman, someone he swears he's never heard of before, wrote him. He showed me the most damaging part--"Congratulations! It's yours."

I didn't know how to react, so I did the same. "Congratulations!"

"How the hell can it be mine when I've been locked up for three years!" he snapped back.

I shrugged my shoulders and told him that all kinds of things can happen in the visiting room. Then I asked if he was going to pass out cigars. He calmed down some and laughed with me.

Since he was in a chipper mood today, I asked for an update. Turns out Valerie Michael used to be Valerie Webster, his daughter. Without his knowledge, she divorced her first husband and married some other guy. Shortly after that she became pregnant. She sent him a follow up letter explaining the events of her life. He, on the other hand, did not like the way the message, the news, was initially presented, and explained to me that if she ever came to visit him, he was prepared to give her a piece of his mind. I advised him to be careful; "she just might be the one that’ll take care of you when you're old and feeble."

THE DOCTRINE OF RELATIVE FILTH

On the news today I heard of a 60-some-year-old laid off autoworker robbing a bank so he could get caught and go to prison. His motive: fear of becoming homeless. He used a handgun (unloaded I presume) and demanded money from a teller. After making it out the front door with approximately one grand, he pretended to faint. No car chases, no gunfire exchanges, just a simple plan to get three hots and a cot. In the courtroom, the county prosecutor recommended they be lenient on the guy and help him find a job. The judge seemed to agree.

I'm not so sure this is the right thing to do. What kind of message are we sending to the rest of society?

In my annual training session today on "Leadership: Ethics & Attitudes," we covered the Doctrine of Relative Filth. In case you haven't heard of it before, it's a way of rationalizing something even though you know it's wrong. To what degree do we accept a person's rationality? To what degree do we accept the laid off autoworker's motives? To what degree do we accept the prosecutor and judge's decisions?

Other people have done worse things, true, but what has that got to do with the criminal act itself? Do you know how many times I've heard an inmate tell me, I might be a murderer, but I'm not a thief? You see, in prison the inmates who steal are despised above all the rest. At least among their own. Us law abiding citizens know that stealing covers a multitude of sins. We call rape: stealing sex. We call murder: stealing a life. And now I call robbing a bank in order to have a place to live and eat: stealing the taxpayer’s money. How dare he! Let's at least make it worth his while! It beats living in a van down by the river. He’s paid his fare amount of taxes, now it’s time he enjoy the fruits of his labor. Or am I over rationalizing this whole thing?