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.