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.

DISPOSABLE

TO: School Principals

FROM: Julie DeRose, Education Manager, Correctional Facilities Administration

SUBJECT: Partial State Government Shutdown

This is to confirm that in the event of a (partial) state government shutdown, it has been determined that education staff are not to report to work.

If my office receives further information or direction regarding this situation, it will be forwarded.

If a shutdown occurs, even for a brief period, scheduling for all October training, meetings, etc. will be adjusted. My office will provide notice of any necessary changes as soon as we are able to do so.

Please ensure that you share this memo with your staff.

Thank you.

Michigan Works vs. Focus: HOPE

Many many moons ago, back when John Engler was Governor of Michigan, I, along with my peers, attended the Midwestern Regional Correctional Education Association Conference (CEA). Our Educational Guru in Lansing secured the necessary funds and gave us her blessing; however, our facility administrators pooh-poohed the idea, attempting to block half of us from going. Heaven forbid we shut down our classrooms for the week, which meant an extra burden on programs staff. Hell, all they needed to do was run a Latchkey program (minus the keys of course)—throw some board games on a table and let the prisoners have at it.

Needless to say, no one fell on the sword and hung back.

Two speakers stood out in my mind during that conference, and for very different reasons. The first speaker, a Texas transplant and appointed official under Gov. Engler, speaking on behalf of Michigan Works, lectured us on how we needed to do a better job preparing our students for the working world. Her slick Power Point presentation illustrated various areas of concern. This woman, dressed in her fancy suit jacket and pants, didn’t have a clue about our daily battles on the job. I’d even go as far as to say she never set foot inside a prison. If it weren’t for our sense of decorum, or if there had been tomatoes on our lunch tables, I’m sure a few would’ve been launched her way.

The next speaker, Eleanor M. Josaitis, the Co-Founder of Focus: HOPE, simply thanked us. She didn’t have any fancy charts. There were no statistics to toss our way. Not even a slideshow. Just her, Eleanor Josaitis, telling us how she appreciates our effort.

She shared a personal story about trying to have milk donated to struggling mothers. There were literally thousands of gallons of milk going bad every week. Without naming names, she told us about a certain politician that looked her in the eye and said, “I’d rather see that milk dumped into the sewers than give it to the poor.” You could hear the passion in her voice. She threatened to take his statement to the media, just to show the public what a mean-spirited bastard he was.

I’m not even sure she finished her speech. Everyone (well, almost everyone—except for the political hacks) gave her a standing ovation. I’m not kidding when I say I had tears in my eyes. I, along with my peers, had this sense of renewed energy. We talked about improving humanity.

On October 15, 2007, Focus: HOPE will be co-hosting a 21st Century Detroit Career Forum with State Representative Andy Dillon. He may not have been able to deliver the necessary votes in the House to raise Michigan’s income tax, but hopefully his involvement with this organization will help some of our unemployed citizens find work.

TRUE LEADERS GET IT DONE

“The afternoon wore on, hazy and dreadful with damp heat; the sow staggered her way ahead of them, bleeding and mad, and the hunters followed, wedded to her in lust, excited by the long chase and the dropped blood.” William Golding, Lord of the Flies

I don’t exactly know what it is, or why I even watched the first episode of “Kid Nation,” but for some reason I haven’t been able to kick the reality television habit. With close up shots of the children looking at one another as they stood on dry, desolate land, trying to figure out who will take charge, a helicopter flew overhead. Then a voice-over explained to the viewers that four kids on that helicopter were their designated leaders.

Uh—oh, I thought, put a few kids in power and it’s bound to be a recipe for disaster. As the children headed down a dirty, dusty trail in search of a ghost town, the host swore the four leaders to secrecy. He gave them a $20,000 gold star and told them not to tell anyone. Also, it was explained that at their first townhall meeting they’d have to award it to the most deserving kid. After picking four teams, they had a Survivor-like challenge to determine the pay structure for each team—the cooks and the general laborers made the least.

I won’t bore you with how it all played out, except to say, when faced with a difficult decision, the leaders acted swiftly and judiciously, and they did it as a collective whole. The leader of the general laborers didn’t complain, “We have one outhouse for forty kids. If the television is chosen instead of an additional seven outhouses, then we’re not cleaning it any more.” After a quick huddle, the four leaders announced, “We’ll take the outhouses.”

If only it were that simple for our politicians in Lansing. Will today be the day for them to solve Michigan’s budget mess? Will they agree on raising taxes? I’m not holding my breath. Heck, I’m willing to bet those kids on “Kid Nation” decide to kill a chicken long before our state politicians do anything. Now, just when is that next episode?

ISIAH THOMAS & THE TRICKLE DOWN THEORY

In our lunchroom at work, I overheard the tail end of a conversation between our designated sexual harassment counselor/grievance coordinator and my boss. For some reason, even though I knew the conversation was inappropriate, I joined in.

“Reminds me of the kid eating yogurt on the back of the bus,” I said.

The school secretary looked my way. “What?”

“Don’t you remember the yogurt trick kids used to play in the cafeteria?” I asked.

Now I had everyone’s attention. I retold the story of this kid eating yogurt on the back of the bus. With a large spoon full of yogurt in his mouth, he’d asked the girls, “Guess what I am?” They, of course, had no idea, so the youngster would start massaging his neck and making weird facial expressions. Not long after that he’d start spitting yogurt at everyone.

“You’re gross!” was a popular phrase back then. But this trick elicited the following angry response: “You’re a dick!”

And his reaction: “You’re absolutely one hundred percent correct.”

After lunch, I resumed TABE testing (Test of Adult Basic Education). My boss had reminded me that anyone who refused to take the test or simply skipped out should receive an “036 Out of Place” ticket and automatically be put on “unemployable status.” No problem there.

At the end of the workday, my boss asked me how testing went.

“Two inmates missed their testing session,” I said, holding up two tickets, “…and they’re bunkies.”

“I wonder why they didn’t show,” she responded, knowing that on some rare occasions prisoners have legitimate excuses.

“I don’t know. Maybe they were tossing yogurt.”

RAT CAGE MAINTENANCE

If there were a suggestion box at my place of employment, or if I thought someone from Michigan’s state capital would actually listen to a state employee instead of flexing their political muscle, then I’d offer a simple solution for cutting costs in our bloated prison system. I’d suggest the following:

Let the prisoners wear their personal clothing.

At one time, each inmate had his own wardrobe. I recall a former GED graduate lifting his graduation gown just far enough past his ankle to show off his snakeskin shoes. Obviously, his days as a drug dealer proved quite lucrative. I’m not implying that prisoners have better threads than you do or I do, nor am I suggesting they put on a fashion show; those snakeskin shoes were a direct violation of MDOC policy. Undoubtedly, he pulled a switcharoo with a family member or friend during visiting hours. All I’m saying is “Why should the Michigan taxpayers be burdened with the added expense of providing shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes to inmates?”

I’ve heard arguments regarding safety; however, try identifying one of these wise guys out on the yard from a sea of blue shirts; it’s not easy. In addition, I do realize the importance of distinguishing civilian staff from convicts, especially in three crucial areas: 1) the sally port - where food, medication, and store items pass through, 2) the front gate - where staff, volunteers, and visitors enter and exit daily, and 3) the perimeter fence - where corrections officers can shoot center mass to prevent an escape.

I also realize the chance of human error (especially involving the first two choices), but in regards to the third, I can’t imagine civilian staff strolling along the deadlines of the fence. There is one exception. We have a maintenance man who searches for nests in the rolls of concertina wire. We can’t have birds tripping the alarm system. I’m sure the officers in the gun towers know what that’s all about. Lastly, I do recall, prior to the standard prisoner attire, our former Governor John Engler waddling his way around the perimeter—but that was a long long time ago, after the escape of ten inmates and the construction of gun towers—and no one shot his ass. In fact, he went on to get re-elected.

State Issued Prisoner Clothing Within a Facility:
Trousers – 3 pr.
Belt – 1
Shoes – 1 pr work Oxfords
T-Shirts – 3
Headgear – 1 winter, 1 summer
Athletic Shorts – 3
Duffle Bag – 1
Shirts – 3
Socks – 5 pr.
Shorts – 9
Gloves – 1
Jacket - 1

THROWING TOMATOES

One year ago I wrote: This is serious. Something needs to be done about all the tomato pushers out there, aggressively forcing large quantities of their mutated fruit onto unsuspecting citizens such as myself.





Today I write: There will be no continuation of tomato pushers in my neighborhood because of an invasion of tomato hornworms, and even though I preserved a half dozen of the fat little buggers in Isopropyl Alcohol, I’m afraid the damage is done. I must admit, they'll make for neat specimens in the 2008 Science Olympiad competition.

Last night I met with one, yes—one, not two or three or four—but one Science Olympiad committee member. The meeting went pretty much as expected. Start by praising the volunteers (my wife and I) for doing a phenomenal job, then ease into the concerns, aka complaints. According to the guidelines: The competitors will identify various body parts, characteristics, habitats, ecological significance, and life cycles of twelve orders of Insecta. However, even though our questions do not deviate from the two reference books listed on the rule sheet, some coaches thought it unfair to ask the kids to actually identify specific bugs by their common name.

“I’ve been making my own insect collections for the competition,” I defended, “and every bug that I ask for identification of is pictured in these books. Plus, they’re allowed to bring a homemade bug chart into the event.” Then I asked for specific schools that complained regarding this issue. He offered up one school in particular.

After much discussion, I agreed to add one line to the rules: They will also identify insects from within these orders.

When my wife and I returned home, I commented on how unprepared some coaches were. “Let’s see, it’s okay to ask a garden variety of questions on a bug, its life cycle, its ecological significance, its habitat. But you cross the line when you ask for its name.”

My wife cut me short. “Well, you know,” she said, “his child competed in our event last year …”

I was dumbfounded.

“…and that’s the school that complained.”

I should’ve known. I’m glad I didn’t cave-in to all his suggestions.

Here’s a bonus question for everyone: What type of wasps will emerge from the cocoons on the back of this tomato hornworm? (Keep in mind that at the elementary level this question would be multiple choice.)

UNEMPLOYMENT LINE, HERE I COME

Last week I infiltrated the ranks in preparation of a government shutdown in Michigan. My most logical choice: a middle school science classroom. Why? Because I started an insect identification program for our county’s Science Olympiad Program, which, I might add, is the largest elementary school program in the United States. Not that it should matter, most public schools are begging for subs on the cheap. School administrators will work them for eighty-nine days, then forget about them. Something about a union contract stating that after ninety days, the school district must hire the sub as a regular—that wouldn’t be financially responsible, now would it?

What really amazes me is how easy it is to walk into a public school building and not be questioned. An open house is truly an open house. Not one teacher questioned me. Not one teacher said, “I don’t recognize you. Are you new to this district? Which student on my roster is yours?”

Instead, I heard one teacher say she doesn’t assign homework on Fridays because the weekends are for her and her family. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, even though I wanted to say, Yeah but you have the whole summer, whereas I teach all year round. Then I thought, Not anymore, now that our dear politicians in the puzzle palace, otherwise known as the state capital building in Lansing, refuse to work together and settle Michigan’s budget crisis. Our two party system is alive and well. (See the "Blogging for Michigan" link on the right for more details.)

When the first bell rang, signifying the parents to switch classrooms just like their children would, I decided to visit a Social Studies class. I realize that the easiest teaching certificate to obtain is in this subject, but still, the instructor should have made sure that “September” had been spelled correctly on the board. Again, not that it mattered. No one said anything. Perhaps out of politeness. Still, “Sepmember” looked a little funny.

The only time a parent raised a concern in a classroom had been when another teacher’s presentation consisted of all the advanced degrees she had and how many committees she participated on. She implied that she was so busy fighting for the education of her students with meetings and her own personal schooling, that there were times when a sub would be necessary; it was inevitable. A father spoke out, “Just how many days do you plan on missing?”

I shouldn’t bash my fellow teachers. It’s not an easy job. I’m just hoping the state settles this budget mess by October 1st or I’ll be in the unemployment line or subbing. I don’t know which is the bigger ass kicking. Speaking of such matters, Monday evening I’m scheduled to meet with the Science Olympiad board members. They want to review my event and share some of the complaints and concerns lodged against me. Should be interesting, considering it’s a voluntary position.

I'M GOING TO DISNEYLAND

In 1992, the year I started teaching for the Michigan Department of Corrections, a Los Angeles rock group known as dada arrived on the scene. Their debut album “Puzzle” had considerable airplay. I remember singing one particular song on many occasions while navigating the streets of Detroit. It seemed appropriate, since I was usually traveling to work.

“I just ran away from home…” I’d mouth along.

Although clear and straightforward, some lyrics take time to sink in; even for a prison educator such as myself. Back then, when a professional sports team won a championship, it wasn’t uncommon for the millionaire athletes celebrating their victory to claim (next verse of the song):

“I’m going to Disneyland…”

However, once you’ve been on both sides of the concertina-wired fence, you become less optimistic and more cynical. You realize that these words mean absolutely nothing—they’re just another slick marketing campaign by then Disney CEO Michael Eisner and his underlings. Disney has an ugly side; they probably pay these athletes to endorse them. It sickens me.

At one correctional institution the white inmates in horticulture class planted an assortment of flowers on the prison grounds. Their instructor let them choose whatever design and flowers they preferred. It wasn’t long after they were finished that someone, perhaps a maintenance worker checking for a leaky roof, noticed the evil formation of marigolds hidden in an assortment of other plants. Shortly afterward, an inspector snapped a picture of a rather large swastika before having everything ripped out.

It’s not always easy staying positive when you work in an environment that is continuously manipulated. Below are the rest of dada’s lyrics to “Dizz Knee Land,” followed by a cheerful, current picture taken outside my school building.

I just crashed my car again / Now I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just robbed a grocery store / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just flicked off President George / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just tossed a fifth of gin / Now I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just got cuffed again / I’m going to dizz knee land yeah

Shot my gun into the night / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just saw a good man die / I’m going to dizz knee land.
Come on … I’m going to dizz knee land.

Kicked my ass out of school
Rolled me out into the streets
Hitched a ride on a monkey’s back
Headed west into the black
I’m going to dizz knee land.

I'LL DRINK TO BIG HAIRY LEGS!

If I could celebrate my life using vivid present-tense scenes in small, seemingly, interesting increments spliced together for effect, then others could rejoice and scream Hallelujah JR, you’re the man! Oh wouldn’t that be spectacular! And I’m not talking about using a narrative summary either. Why dramatize my actions when I can just live it in digestible bits and pieces? At least this is how I feel about some of the other folks I’ve met and dealt with in the past. One person in particular is forever etched in my mind:

He’s a prison maintenance worker, a rather large, fat man who usually wears bib overall shorts throughout the winter season. I will always identify him by that one challenging act he did in the not too distant past. In celebration of his life and culture, he decided to show a little extra leg (and underwear) inside the joint. Our warden at the time, an African-American man, disagreed with his actions, or should I say, attire.

“You can’t go to work dressed like that,” he commented.

Our dear prison maintenance man quickly pointed out that it certainly wasn’t a problem for the chaplain, who wore her African robes and African hats throughout the year. “Why can’t I honor my heritage too?” he asked. “Why can’t I share it with others?”

The warden shook his head in disbelief. I’m not sure what he actually said, but I’m sure it went something like this: “Sir, you cannot—let me repeat—you cannot wear a skirt inside a men’s prison.”

The warden’s lack of understanding probably elicited the following rebuttal: “Sir, with all due respect, it’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt.”

NOTES FROM AN INMATE

My teach lost what little cool was left in him. Put three of my road dogs on ice. And all we was doin’ was chillin’ man. Doin’ our time the ways we likes it. Waitin’ for the tooters to get off their asses and check our works. It don’t matter no how. We was turnin’ in our papers. That’s our game—shove piles of shit on them—no names, no page numbers, not even fingerprints or DNA. We starts the flux. Let the tooters sort it out, that’s what they get paid for. It ain’t like theys gonna dry snitch on us. Specially when the Teach starts actin’ like the Po-Po. Dress this man in blue, I say. Make him a Black Tag. We start spittin’ for fun.

Never fails man. The Teach, Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh himself, gets in the mix, starts pressin’ our bits. Says we gots to sit down. Stay seated, he yells. Then all kayahs (I think I spelt it write)—all kayahs breaks out. He flexes on my man McAllister first. Tells him in so many words to get ta steppin’. Next, it’s Brewster, tells him to kick rocks. The third guy, Parker, he’s okay, still learnin’ how to jail, he gets his work back. But Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh won’t back off. He says, Lemme see your stuff. Nothing to show, I knows, just numbers and letters on paper. Instead of giving in, Parker throws his shit on the floor, and Teach makes him into another Jimmy Hoffa.

Now it sounds like death in here. Nothin’ worse than doin’ your bit in a vacuum. I can’t breathe. I needs to shake the stink off. I’m gonna hook up with my dogs later. We gots us a portable hot tub near the greenhouse and a Shop Vac full of spud juice. Teach says we cants take our hands off each other. He’s probably right. I’m hopin’ Parker shows and gets drunk. I’m gonna turn him out.

UNTITLED POEM #44

I thought I saw myself
Before I was born,
My minds-eye playing tricks on me.

Where’s the ultrasound?
Where’s the smoky-white fetus?
The sucking of a transparent thumb?

Insecurity develops much later,
The ghost saturates the image.
I scan it anyway.

But I know better.
The date’s all wrong.
1962, a year too early.
October, the month afterward.

So I’m turned around. Breech born.
Looking inward, instead of outward.
Rolling back time.

Call it a “do-over.”

President Kennedy completes his term.

The celebration of my arrival postponed by a day.

Still, I watch and wait.

The matching floor lamps serve as incubators
I refuse to race toward the gate.
Then I discover my flight’s been changed.

Call it “9-10.”

There’s a slight tug on my ankle,
And a calculated slap, with momentary blackouts,
Before Father smokes his Cuban cigar.

HERE'S WHAT BUGS ME

I had run the gamut of teaching jobs. Public, Private, Social Services, and Corrections. But I never made it to that lily-white school district—you know what I’m speaking of—the district with the best of everything: textbooks, equipment, healthcare, pension, and salary schedule (excluding Chippewa Valley Schools of course, where they wanted to charge their teachers for using extra electricity for plugging in their personal fans). They could kiss my proverbial white … I know, how unprofessional of me.

I interviewed for numerous teaching jobs, only nepotism, or the lack thereof, ruled me out. You see, I’m the direct lineage of a UAW toolmaker, and not the nephew of a school superintendent. I did interview though for a position with Ford Motor Company. However, teaching laid off autoworkers, those guys and gals who made more than I, would’ve been as equally difficult as my prison gig. “Let’s improve your education,” would be my mantra, “so you can get a new job and make less.” Sounds unmotivating enough, don’t you think?

So what does one do to improve his marketability in the education profession? Simple. Obtain a teaching certificate in an area of demand. How about Math or Science? Much better than English or History. And at the secondary level to boot. My past history as a college engineering student wasn’t such a waste after all. I updated my resume and started searching for greener pastures.

I got the scoop on two teaching positions at Fraser Public Schools. Help Wanted: High School Journalism Teacher and High School Mathematics Teacher. Hot damn. Two birds with one stone. I’d be out of prison in no time. In order to increase my chances of an interview, I played up my role as an Inmate Newspaper Supervisor. Get your foot in the door, they advise.

As always, a panel interview. I showed them my portfolio, including past issues of “The Ryan Review .” The principal, assistant principal, and department heads ooohhhed and aaahhhed. Hypothetical questions regarding student discipline never came up. The personnel director thanked me for coming and explained that they had many more applicants before making a decision on a Journalism Teacher.

I found the appropriate time. I asked, “How many applicants do you have for the Math position?”

He answered, “Not many.”

“Would you consider me for that position as well? I’m certified in the appropriate discipline.”

Then it happened. I was dead in the water. He said, “You don’t have a degree in Mathematics.”

And my rebuttal: “No I don’t. But I’ve taken the necessary course work, passed the competency test, and met all the requirements by the State of Michigan to teach Mathematics.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re looking for someone with a Mathematics degree.”

So he and I debated the whole Michigan certification process. Everyone on the panel listened. Turns out, I knew more about it than he. Not good. Not good at all. Within a week I had my “We’re sorry to inform you” letter, which crossed paths with my “Thank you for the interview” letter. My foot might as well have been physically in the door as it slammed shut. Or at least where I’d feel better. No one, and I mean no one, likes an ass kicking.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

In 1992, during my first year as a convict teacher, Raphael B. Johnson, then 17, shot and killed a man in Detroit. In 1993, he received an 8- to 25-year sentence for second degree murder. Fifteen years later and guess what?—I am still teaching convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections while Raphael served his time, published a book, “To Pose A Threat: My Rite of Passage,” earned a four-year bachelor’s degree, and started his own business, Total Package Lifestyle. Oh, and let’s not forget, he has his very own website: http://www.raphaelbjohnson.com/. And what do I have? A crummy little blog.

If you were to compare a timeline of my life with his, I’d be first to admit that he has accomplished more. Why is that? Am I being too harsh on myself? Maybe I need a pep talk, if so, I can attend one of his motivational workshops at Total Package Lifestyle. Or maybe my abs are turning to flab (pure speculation on my part), if so, I can seek advice on fitness training at Total Package Lifestyle. Oh, but wait just one minute here, I’m not allowed to associate with ex-felons due to my line of work. Nor is Raphael allowed to arrange speaking engagements in our prisons. I guess our paths will never cross. Not that I’m disappointed. Not in the way Johnny Havard’s family is disappointed.

I realize that my main duty as a convict teacher is too help prisoners improve their academic skills; I have no problem with that. I also have absolutely no problem with hearing about former students becoming honest, taxpaying, working stiffs like myself. I guess my difficulty is with Raphael’s business model. Everything he has done since his heinous act is predicated upon where he’s been and what he’s done, and yet, not once has he mentioned Johnny Havard on his website; If I’m wrong, please correct me. Instead of admitting to killing a man, he should put a face and name with it. How about “I killed Johnny Havard” and all profits from my speaking engagements will go to his immediate family? Seems fair enough. But what do I know. I never killed a man.

KEEP FISHING

I shall remain hopefully optimistic with the submission process of a certain small literary journal that has rejected me thrice. What more can I do?—besides the obvious: Write better, keep submitting, and establish an ongoing writer/editor relationship.



I've been reading this specific journal faithfully, and know their submission format by heart. They assign your work to one of three teams of editors. Each team consists of two editors. If one of the assigned editors likes your piece, or if both editors say “maybe,” it advances to the other four editors for further consideration, or scrutiny, or whatever you want to call it. Either way, it usually spells “rejection.”

Here are some favorable comments I received regarding my last nonfiction piece:

Editor 5: No. The writing is good but the environment is alien enough to require more backstory than is given. Too many gaps in information, as it is presented.

Editor 6: No. Interesting subject matter but this lacked emotional sequel to me. I needed to see an arc in understanding from one of the characters; otherwise this is just the telling of an event without the punch a story gives. If it was wrong for the coworker to promise the inmate a tutoring gig, why was it ok for the narrator to do the same thing?

Although I do not agree with everything in their critique, I will say this: The entire submission process is subjective. Who knows, maybe they’re killing me with kindness, maybe they don’t like prison stories, maybe they’re hoping I’ll go away, maybe with my most recent submission, they’ll come right out and say, "You suck." All I can do is keep writing, keep submitting, and keep fishing.

LABOR DAY

Never mind the dapper young fellow with the most baseball patches on his jacket. Never mind his older brother with five, count them, five such patches--Do the math if you feel the need, I won't stop you. Never mind the detachable, unique, uno-level, luxury-model, camper with master bedroom and a panoramic view. Never mind that the view included a stopover in Missouri. Never mind the mangy, homeless mutt that got between the two boys. None of these things matter. It's just an old family photo of two youngsters enjoying a camping trip with their parents. I'm sure, as this Labor Day weekend comes to a close, there will be new family photos of camping trips all across the United States (and Canada too).

Fast-forwarded approximately thirty-five years, and that toe-headed youngster with the photo-scratched eye will tell you that he no longer goes camping. "I mistakenly took my wife camping once. I pitched a tent over some pine needles and her allergies kicked in. Her misery became my misery," he says. And so the story goes.

Here's the latest:

I didn't do much of anything this weekend. I stayed home and walked my dog around the subdivision each evening. On Saturday, with my dog on leash, I encountered a fawn. It followed us for two and half blocks. I ignored it, yet it kept pace and kept bleating.

"Hey Dad," I heard a kid yell, "there's a deer following that guy walking his dog."

His dad looked up and yelled, "There's a deer behind you."

I ignored the dad, the son, and the fawn. I concentrated on walking my dog. A few minutes later, the fawn trotted in the direction of a house where I smelled hamburgers on a grill. I had finally lost it.

What else did I do this holiday weekend? Ivan's going to love this; call it the tie-in no matter how contrived it seems. I read a negative comment regarding my YouTube video about a deer on my front lawn. The title of the piece, which I posted here on June 23, 2007, is "Ted Nugent Visits My House." Here's the comment:

Now go and eat your hamburgers PETA. PETA is an extremist organization. Dogs hate PETA; they do because they know PETA members refuse to feed dogs meat. And anyone knows every dog will tell you they need at least one can of horsemeat per week. PETA treats dogs the same way Hitler treated the Jews. They round'em up against their will and exterminate them. PETA kills more dogs then most hunters will ever kill deer in their lifetimes. Join NRA- hunters.

Other than that, I didn't do too much this holiday weekend.