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.