DUCK ASS

According to the Michigan Department of Corrections Education Policies, prisoners impacted by Public Act 320, "No GED, No Parole," will be granted exemptions prior to their parole dates under the "no fault of their own" clause if they meet the following criteria:

1. Regular school attendance at every opportunity within the prior two years.

2. Satisfactory school progress evaluations.

3. Submission of GED Exemption form with administrative approval.

Since I'm no longer giving students "needs improvement" and "unsatisfactory" ratings on their quarterly evaluations, they should have an easier time circumventing PA320. Most of them, anyway.

I’m not sure where my new student, Inmate Murphy, will fit into the greater scheme of things. Mr. Ben Williams from the GED Testing Service sent a letter to DLEG (Department of Labor & Economic Growth) saying, "because of Mr. Murphy’s fraudulent action, he is prohibited from GED Testing."

However, the MDOC has come to the inmate’s defense by clarifying the matter. They feel he should be able to test; after all, he wasn’t caught attempting to cheat on a scheduled GED Test; he was caught "presenting" an obviously forged GED to support an alleged program completion.

I’ll bet he ducks my question the first day he starts attending class. "Are you in prison for uttering and publishing?" I’ll ask.

LOST ON THE OREGON TRAIL

Are your students in the Michigan Department of Corrections really failures of the public school system? Or are they failures of another kind - victims of abuse, criminals, budding sociopaths, individuals who, in general, have stepped off the curb and entered a different lane of traffic? Are they mentally ill?

Your essay doesn't really address what I believe the reader - me - would find interesting: who you teach now. Who are they, why are you working with them - default or empathy or both, how are they different from students in mainstream society. What have you experienced that is compelling in your line of work? Just showing up isn't enough.

I worked as a mental health nurse in maximum security for ten months to get material for a book. I worked with famous criminals and garden variety psychotics and everything in between. The stories are fascinating. Be brave - don't be morose - it's just not interesting enough. Then submit work to me.

Evelyn Sharenov, Nonfiction Editor
Oregon Literary Review

DON'T SAY A WORD

My dog has mange and all I keep thinking about is how an inmate gave me scabies. Four years into my teaching career, moving from desk to desk, offering each prisoner help on their class assignments, and what?--I get scabies. If I had known the possibility was there, I would've stayed behind my desk like I do now.

In the lunchroom, before I could take a bite from my sandwich, I started scratching my forearm. The institutional maintenance teacher asked me what was wrong.

"I don't know," I said. I broke out in a rash, little white flecks dotting the surface.

He suggested I scrub my arm with some special medicated soap he kept in his storage area. His suggestion turned out invaluable.

On the way home from work I went for a check-up. The doctor told me a parasitic tick burrowed under my skin and laid eggs. He gave me a prescription for a delousing shampoo. "Just in case," he said. My wife washed everything in site: clothes, bedding, pillows, you name it.

The next day I announced to my first class that someone gave me scabies. I described the symptoms and told them about the medicated soap. Instead of thanking me for the free advice, a few convicts complained to the assistant deputy warden. "You must leave immediately," she said. "We'll give you administrative leave. Make sure you get a doctor's note saying you're okay to work." She kept talking like I had a flesh eating bacteria, treating me like a leopard.

I did as I was told. Came back the very next day, note in hand. Personnel said they would not let me have administrative leave unless the prison health care staff reported a case of scabies. No cases were ever reported. I had to use my own personal time.

My dog has mange, but it's not the contagious type. Eye drops twice a day. We go for long walks. She meets other dogs. I don't say a word. Why should I?

THE GREAT MARCHENKO'S CATCH-22

“You shouldn’t’ve violated the conditions of your parole,” I told an inmate sulking in my classroom. His first bit involved a B&E, where his partying friends encouraged him to steal an expensive scale from a specialty store. The idea was to use it for weighing their dope. Never mind that they lost sight of their goal when one of the inmate’s friends thought it would be funny if they called the cops on him.

“What?” the inmate asked incredulously, “The Great Marchenko,”—he often referred to himself in the third person, as if observing himself from a distance would ease his pain—“can’t drink a beer in his own home?”

“Was it a condition of your parole?” I pressed.

“The Great Marchenko can’t have a beer in his own home?” he repeated.

Knowing the circumstances of his first felony conviction, I was somewhat embarrassed for him; I asked anyway, “What? Did Operation Night Hawk come pounding down your door?”

“Worse,” he said, “my wife called the cops!” He explained that he was sitting in his favorite La-Z-Boy watching a football game when the Five-O arrived.

I could tell he was looking for sympathy. I’m no dummy. “Marchenko,” I asked, “were you smacking the old lady around prior to the opening kick-off?”

He wouldn’t answer me.

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

Please exam the bottom half of the displayed Prisoner Assaultive Risk Screening Sheet. Take a closer look at the series of questions. Notice how tying the knot, at least once in your lifetime, can make you less assaultive. The irony.

I THINK I UNDERSTAND

Where do you draw the line between sanity and insanity?

Our newest quarterly prisoner evaluation form has the following rating system:

4 – Excellent
3 – Satisfactory
2 – Needs Improvement
1 – Unsatisfactory

It has been brought to my attention that giving an inmate the last two rating numbers for attendance is highly frowned upon.

Therefore, I asked, "Why are those ratings there?"

I was told to use the last two ratings for intermittent discipline. In other words, use the same quarterly evaluation form during a non-quarterly evaluation time to warn or terminate the offender or offenders due to lack of attendance.

So I said, "Isn’t that more paperwork?"

I was told that it’s a deterrent, that thumping one or two inmates over the head this way will send a clear message to the others.

Therefore, I pointed out that I had been writing the necessary "036 Out of Place" tickets on the offenders and then evaluating them each quarter on their attendance.

"You’re not kicking them out?" I was asked.

"No," I answered.

"You should kick them out, and then do the evaluation form to terminate them from your class roster."

I thought about it for a moment, before agreeing with my boss.

Here’s what I’ll do: Give all my students "Excellent" or "Satisfactory" attendance ratings on their quarterly evaluations. A few days later, the offending parties will get "Unsatisfactory" ratings on non-quarterly evaluations once they’re found guilty on tickets I’ve written on them.

Does this make sense? All of my students will have "Excellent" or "Satisfactory" attendance, yet some will be thrown out for poor attendance.

Here’s why it will work: I’ve been told to backdate all my quarterly evaluations.

HMO FOR PRISONERS

"Our costs can come down," said Patricia Caruso, director of the Michigan Department of Corrections.

In the words of Michael Moore: "Sicko!"

Visit Red Tape Blog for the latest news on the Michigan prison system.

MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?

I can only imagine that to the outsider looking in they probably think I'm making up all these prison stories. And although the common perception is that I have an interesting job when in fact it's quite monotonous and dull, I can assure you that I'm not hyping up anything. I will admit to this: At this very moment I'm bored, or as Iggy Pop would say, "Chairman of the Bored," but I'm not fabricating anything.

It's a late Sunday evening, and after scarfing a gyros sandwich at a Greek diner and having a slight indigestion problem, I'm reminiscing about an educational conference at the Carson City Correctional Facility. I can't for the life of me remember what the training was all about, or whether the free lunch was any better than the lamb I'd just eaten. All I remember is a simple question asked by Jolly Turner, a fellow correctional educator. He asked the waiter, "So, what brings you here?"

His question wouldn't be the least bit funny if I were sitting in that Greek diner four blocks from my house. However, it's always nice to know who is handling your grub. You see, our food had been prepared and served by a bunch of convicts enrolled in a food technology class.

As I sat there, anticipating the waiter's answer, he ignored the question and started pouring coffee into our cups. But Jolly wouldn't leave it alone, he asked again, "So, what brings you here?"

By now the waiter was prepared. He said, "I'd rather not divulge that information at this particular time."

Today's picture shows two inmates in a prison Food Technology Class. I'm not sure why the knife isn't cabled.

NO ESCAPING HERE

I’m willing to bet that “He-who-has-no-name” is responsible for the sharp decline in blogging activity. Need I say more?

Immobilizations, for the most part, take place near the end of each month and not at the beginning. So when the siren literally catches staff and prisoners off guard, you know it’s serious. We had such an incident a month and a half ago. It wasn’t until the following day that I heard the inmates criticize custody for locking them down.

“You’d think they’d know how to count by now, especially with such a low number,” one of my students said, initiating shits and giggles amongst his peers. Most of them knew that the policies and operating procedures dictated how the situation was to be handled.

When the siren first blew and my fellow coworkers and I went to our designated areas, I’ll admit that I was a bit confused. “Why do they need to take count if the escape didn’t happen at our facility?” I asked. Then, before anyone in our group could answer, I said, “Don’t they know how many prisoners they had on public works detail?”

The information had already spread from staff person to staff person. Two low security level convicts working at a Port Huron cemetery decided to escape. The corrections officers contacted the appropriate authorities, loaded up the State of Michigan van, and headed back to our facility. The routine was set into motion: Lock down our prison; Start counting bodies; Send noncustody staff into the prisoner visiting area to wait for further instruction. And so we waited. And so I stayed awake.

It wasn't long and all the inmates at our facility were accounted for, except for the two short-timers from the public works crew. Within a few hours, they were captured. That'll be five years for attempted escape tacked onto their original sentences. Now who has no name?

A FULL BLOWN RIOT

Inmate Jackson, a Control Center Porter at Ryan Correctional Facility, was “in the know.” He’d tell me the exact hour when the prison siren would make its ear-piercing sound. We knew the drill—they (the prisoners) would return to their cells for a head count, their regular scheduled activities cancelled for the day, and us (custody and noncustody staff) would practice various scenarios: hide the state employee (hostage situation), catch the state employee (escape in progress), or aid the state employee (escort healthcare to the scene). Practice, as they say, makes perfect.

One time, the day-shift sergeant slipped me a note with instructions to hide in a storage closet. When the time arrived, I exited my room full of convicts and hid in the designated spot. Sitting in total darkness, I could hear the slow, steady whir of the siren, as it got louder and louder and louder. I could hear people moving about, going to their assigned areas of control. It wasn’t long and silence fell upon me. It wasn’t long and I had fallen asleep.

They never did find me on that day. After what seemed like forever, I heard a distant voice penetrate my tranquility. I checked my wristwatch—shift change had passed.

I revealed myself.

“What are you doing in that closet?” the officer making rounds said.

“Is the immobilization over?” I asked.

“It’s been over.”

I confronted the afternoon-shift sergeant.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, “They had many scenarios.”

IN THE KNOW (KNOWINGLY OF COURSE)

I start work at 0700 hours; my first Adult Basic Education Class begins at 0725. The prisoners attending classes cannot enter the school building until that time. The only prisoners roaming the hallways—and I say, “roaming” because they aren’t always supervised—work for the quartermaster. One such convict passes me in the unlit corridor every morning. We keep our distance, and it’s just as well.

Last year, he wrote a grievance on me for abuse of power and requested my immediate termination. After a full-blown investigation, including videotaped evidence and union representation that I did not request, I was found … I was found … hell, I don’t know what I was found … but I’m obviously still here. And so is he. As far as I’m concerned, the issue was never resolved—that is, unless reassigning him to another teacher and giving him a job was the solution. I’m sure the assistant deputy warden responded to the inmate’s grievance in a polite and timely manner. Perhaps it slipped his mind to inform me of the outcome.

I’m reminded of the time when a different assistant deputy warden assured me that a particular inmate would be transferred out of our facility to ensure my safety. Prisoner Dobbins-Bey had been seething over an “Out of Place” ticket I had written, so he told another teacher, “I’m gonna stick that little mutha!” As he was escorted to a segregation cell, he claimed he’d pay somebody else to do his dirty work.

Two months later, after custody sprung him from the hole, he stood in my classroom doorway. “That’s far enough,” I warned.

“I don’t want no trouble,” he kept repeating.

I approached the ADW at the end of my shift. “Whatever happened to Dobbins-Bey?” I asked.

“We transferred him,” he claimed.

“Then how did he get into my classroom today?” I retorted.

Once again, he assured me that the problem would be resolved.

“Never mind,” I said.

At least my former ADW had an excuse for his lack of follow through: He was too busy campaigning to be the next Mayor of Pontiac. As for the other ADW—I haven’t a clue. Maybe he’s selling Amway.

HOMEWARD BOUND

Over the past several months, I’ve noticed new civilian staff pushing mounds of paper and guiding needy short-timers through the Michigan Prisoner Reentry Initiative Program. Out of curiosity, I asked a friendly tobacco-chewing chap (we were outside on break), “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m a job specialist,” he answered. “I help inmates make the transition from prison to society. Through MPRI we help them with their resumes and guide them to various employment opportunities.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my experience bringing tray-liner, Taco Bell application forms into my classroom for an assignment. The students felt it was beneath them. “Besides,” one student said, “it’s a waste of time.”

I countered by saying, “Yeah, you’re right. Without a GED or high school diploma, your chances of working for Taco Bell are slim.” There’s nothing wrong with riling the troops. A good dose of reality never hurt anyone. As long as you know how to de-escalate.

I’m not sure what type of employment this job specialist had in mind for those paroling, and I’m not trying to be a downer, but who wants to hire an ex-con? Not the Michigan Department of Corrections; we stopped doing that years ago.

MPRI has a monumental task ahead of them. My facility spent $11,000 clothing recent parolees—hey, you can’t send them into the world naked! Our warden decided it’s not the Michigan Department of Correction’s responsibility to clothe them when they leave. Without a support system, indigent prisoners will have to remain locked-up—that is, unless MPRI can lend a hand.

Can you imagine starting over with nothing? I certainly can’t.

NOT ONE OF THEM

Dear JR,

Thanks for sending your piece, but I decided not to use it. I'm sorry, I can be pretty dense sometimes. I don't really understand what's happening.

Although I can't use this particular story, please feel free to send another.

John Benson, Editor
Not One Of Us

My knee-jerk reaction: I'm getting very very perturbed. Perhaps I'll put on some brass knuckles and try ThugLit. I'd like to wear one of their t-shirts to work and kick some major ass.

A BIG MOUTH BASS

Now that our salaries have been posted on an internet website, animosity has reared its ugly head. Earlier this week, a corrections officer yelled down the convict-filled hallway, "You're the highest paid teacher here," and for emphasis, "I'm going to print out your salary for everyone to see."

For the record, none of this was directed toward yours truly. I'm not number one; I'm a distant third.

How soon some folks forget. I, along with my fellow teachers, participated in an informational picket with our union brothers and sisters from custody staff. This was our way of reminding the public of our Michigan legislators' clever way of obtaining thirty-four percent pay increases while we defered four hours of pay every two weeks.

So what's next?

"Can you check on Inmate Franklin's whereabouts for me?"

"You make the big bucks, find him yourself."

This isn't good for everyone involved. Someone could get hurt ... or killed. Why can't we go undercover? Not every state employee's salary is listed by name. Here's the explanation: To protect law enforcement officers whose jobs require them to work undercover, the officers' names are not included in cases where identifying the employee as a law enforcement officer could put them in harm's way. I guess working in a prison doesn't count for being in "harms way."

FISHING WASN'T ALWAYS THIS EASY

Back in the day, our prison school hired substitute teachers to fill-in during the summer months. Vacations meant returning to complete chaos, to stolen supplies, and destroyed books. One sub in particular, God rest his soul, knew how to go through the motions; he’d sit at the teacher’s desk for eight hours, let the class assignments pile up, and take shoddy attendance records on scrap sheets of paper. When confronted about it—“I showed you how to do the attendance and log scores on the computer”—he’d act as if he needed more training on the intricacies of running a prison classroom.

The man had taught high school history and government classes for thirty-some years (only updating his classroom lesson plans after major elections) and he collected his paychecks from the Michigan Department of Corrections for thirteen summers straight. He seemed skittish around the inmates, yet risked life and limb to rustle up some grub from the prison chow hall. My guess: he was too lazy to pack his own lunch or he actually liked the food. Also, he never married, his public school salary was larger than my prison salary, and he had his supplemental incomes (prison job and rental properties). Shortly after retiring from the public school system and declining a permanent job in the prison system, his name appeared in the obituary section of the local paper. His day in the sun was over.

The MDOC no longer hires substitute teachers, and from my observations, it’s probably just as well. I’ve always thought we should get a student teacher from Wayne State or Oakland University. Something to break-up the monotony. We need a guppy or two, so we can watch them swim in the fish bowl, so we can be entertained.

TRUMP CARDS

I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not much to look at—a younger version of Ivan Prokopchuck. Not that it bothers me; Inmates often make fun of my appearance.

“Hey Mr. T, is that a zit on your forehead?”

“Damn right. And it’s going home with me tonight.”

Or they’ll make fun of my clothing. “Your Dockers are kind of tight aren’t they?”

My response, “I guess it’s not as nice as your outfit. Where do you shop?”

The Michigan Department of Corrections provides them clothing with a unique six-digit number stenciled on the outside of every item. Call it personalized clothing. The longer the sentence, the more faded the numbers become.

They shouldn’t force me to play my hand, especially those with a fresh set of blues.

I trump them with: “freedom” and “choices.” They typically fold.

PLAYING WITH FIRE

The main objective of the Michigan Department of Corrections is to protect the public. The easiest way to do this is quite simple: LOCK'EM UP. However, this is usually a temporary solution. I've seen fly-by-night programs such as RSAT, Resident Substance Abuse Treatment (yeah--not convict, not prisoner, not inmate--but resident, like we're servicing tenants) offer their services. In my opinion, it didn't work.

Now we have MPRI, the Michigan Prisoner Release Initiative. Anything to help in the transition from prison to freedom. Anything to help Michigan's sluggish economy. So what happened with my former classroom tutor, David Allen Rider? He's still on OTIS (The Offender Tracking Information System); mugshot and offenses are listed . He's obviously a sex offender. Why didn't the Michigan Public Sex Offender Registry include his photograph ? They listed his bogus address as Community Programs Inc., 1435 N. Oakland Blvd., Waterford, MI 48327.

Unfortunately, we now know that his real living quarters was his car, and that he was allegedly looking for his next ride. See the Oakland Press for more details.

I'm totally disgusted. I can only hope that the victim and the victim's family are able to recover from such a traumatic event.

SUPER SHOCKED

Last week I went for my annual skin cancer check-up to see if I had a reoccurrence of melanoma. Since then, I have been troubling over what the woman reading my health chart said to me. As I sat on the examining table, eager to see the doctor, this attractive woman, this Heather Locklear type sipping from the fountain of youth, commented on my place of employment. She was curious, yet had it all wrong. I informed her that I did not work at the county jail (a common misperception) and that my students had already been tried and convicted of their crimes.

This piqued her interest. She asked more questions. I thought that maybe she was interested in applying for a prison healthcare job. I misunderstood.

Soon she was telling me about her teenage son and his friend and how they were caught selling heroin. The friend’s mom was a crack head and her boyfriend a minor drug supplier. I’ll try not to drag this out too long, but believe me, I sat on that examining table for at least fifteen minutes listening and commenting.

Here’s where it gets weird, or sad, or a little bit of both: Her son ended up in a juvenile detention facility and is serving time in an out-of-state boot camp. His friend robbed a dollar store at gunpoint and is serving an eight-year minimum at The Thumb Correctional Facility in Lapeer, Michigan. Our conversation went from her son and how well he’s adjusting, to her, this woman, this Heather Locklear type, telling me about her plans on visiting her son’s friend. She wanted to know how much money she could send him and whether he’d have the opportunity to take college courses once he completed his GED. In addition, she said he was a sweet boy and that his sentence was too harsh.

I reminded her that this kid would have some serious growing up to do in prison. She went on and on and on about his redeeming qualities. Then she said it, one word, or made-up word, or hell, I don’t know, something I hadn’t understood until I did an internet search on Wikipedia. She proudly told me that this kid, this friend of her son’s, had often referred to her as a “MILF.” She laughed. She actually laughed.

I laughed too. Why wouldn’t I? —I didn’t know any better. What more can I say? I don’t have cancer. There’s nothing to cut out. At least not on me.

SQUID JIGGIN' (HOW TO CATCH THE BIG ONE)

THE DIRT MAN

I didn’t know what to think the day I came home from work and the neighbor woman across the street told me that a man was lurking in my wife’s flowerbeds.

Not sure what I was hearing, I asked, “A man in the flowerbeds?”

“Yes,” she replied, and added for emphasis, “A man with a flashlight.” She explained that as soon as she went to get her cordless phone to call the police, the man had mysteriously disappeared. “It was real early in the morning,” she said, as if to justify why she hadn’t at least called us.

At that moment, it dawned on me who she saw.

The next day, when a coworker got into my van, I asked him, “What were you doing in my wife’s flowerbeds?”

He had been riding his ten-speed to my house every weekday morning. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“I wasn’t in the flowerbeds, I was looking at the different plants with my bike light.”

“Sure you were,” I responded. His answer seemed reasonable, considering he teaches Horticulture Classes at the prison … oh, and catches a few small fish once in a blue moon.