LET'S HOPE FOR A BETTER YEAR

I’m closing out 2008 with two unedited comments from The Copenhaver Risk Factor. Keep in mind that I have no real way of knowing the true identity of each person, but I suspect they are who they say they are. Also, due to their emotional involvement, my sarcasm may have went undetected. Let’s hope 2009 is a much better year for all of us and that I can continue writing without reprimand.

Ryan's Sister said...
Hello Mr."Know's not a damn thing that he is talking about"....I am Ryan's Older sister, and you don't know what you are talking about...First of all this is the first time Ryan has been in trouble, Ryan was never a bad kid or a bad adult, he made a mistake. And unfortunetly it had caused someone to die, and another passenger to get his leg broken, and Ryan also got hurt too. Ryan did his time, and he got out on parole, and yes he was in his friend's parent's house, with a toy gun that he knew nothing about. Ryan worked 2 jobs, he never had anytime for anyone, he worked his butt off to pay his fines, and he had them paid 6 months out on parole..The state of Michigan gave Ryan his License back while he was on parole and he called his parole officer to ask if he was allowed to drive, she had told him "No, not until he was off of parole." What everyone fails to bring up in the entire matter, is that there was no reason for them to search his residence. The only reason they did, was because at the time of the Super bowl and the Michigan department of corrections was doing surprise visits to every person who is on parole....So this is why Ryan got searched, they found 2 toy guns that were not even in his place of living, they were stored in a closet that was not even occupied by Ryan....Ryan would never hold up a liquor store, or rob a store, making that assumption is ridiculous seeing that you don't know Ryan and that you are just assuming this about every prisoner. How would you like it if someone started saying things that you would never do? I just think that maybe you should know who you are talking about. Ryan never did anything wrong on Parole. This was just something that they found and they shoved this too him, and they should've let him go, Ryan has a lawyer and he is doing everything that he is supposed to do. Ryan is a statistic, and I think that this is unfortunate that there are so many people in prison, for things that aren't even horrible and violent offenses, and these are the one's that the state should release early and focus on the one's who are violent offenders...I will be more than happy to defend my brother, and I am open for discussion on this...Erica


Jennifer Gifford said...
I too know Ryan, and the Copenhavers. Ryan was a good kid, never got into trouble. The fact is, he made a mistake and he paid for it. He is still paying for it, and he will pay for it with the rest of his life. He doesn't need some whinny holier than though individual with a skewed glimpse of the case to remind him, he has a conscience for that.

You missed the HUGE article in the Oakland Press about him, and how the system-from paroles, FIA, social services-are antiquated and in desperate need of a rehaul.

You are one of the sad individuals who like to pass judge and jury on everything that anyone does. Tell him, when did you become God? Isn't the point of going to prison to rehabilitate? I wonder what you'd say about Nathaniel Abhraham who blantantly gunned down an unarmed man, wore a pimp suit to his hearing, got out and violated his parole?

You have a limited grasp of how the system works other than what you read in the paper. Question the sources before you form an opinion.

I am by no means saying that what Ryan did, or anyone in his shoes did, is wrong. But he admitted his guilt, and is his doing his time. He's asked for forgiveness to the family of the man who was killed, and it was granted.

Tragedies happen in life. Ryan himself has even said, (and im paraphrasing), 'I will live with that for the rest of my life. It's on my conscience, no one else's.'

Perhaps your a friend of the victim or his family, and if you are, I am sorry. Loss of life, ANY LIFE, is regrettable. But to punish someone over and over again, what does that say about you? Society?

Perhaps instead of pointing out the problem, maybe try being a part of the solution. Volunteer to be a safe driver on New Year's for MADD.

THE LOW SPARK OF HIGH-HEELED BOYS

I guess to an outsider just getting “in”—the prison environment is a peculiar beast. There’s that recognized potential for danger, that heightened sense of awareness much like crossing a busy four-lane highway during rush hour; There can never be enough caution, enough looking both ways, and after years of dealing with convicted felons, that caution becomes in varying degrees part of a repertoire, a skill set, and some times a way to stave off boredom.

I don’t exactly see the logic in hiring someone right before the holidays except maybe to beat a state hiring freeze or to make someone’s Christmas extra special. I’ve observed a certain anxiousness, a certain “I’m ready to start my classes, I’m ready to make a career out of this,” and my advice (because I’ve seen it over and over again) never wavers: Take it one day at a time. There’s no hurry. These guys aren’t going anywhere.

I’m not sure sitting in a classroom observing your peers—especially when they have a combined two years of Correctional experience—is much help; I know there’s no irreparable harm in it, these guys have something to offer. They're definitely doing much better than I did as a rookie. Also, what better way to get answers to your questions than from someone who just survived their first year? No one wants a long-winded answer from an old-timer. I’ll be brief. I promise. When I started with the department, the mindset was different; it was sink or swim, Here’s your keys. Don’t lose them.

Now we have a mentoring program (something I believe has been started statewide). I’m not convinced that this new fangled idea is the cure-all either. Maybe my opinion is somewhat skewed. And why shouldn’t it be? I wasn’t asked to participate. It’s probably for the best. Our new employee already thinks I’m a bit touched, a bit crazy, as if I’ve been playing in traffic for far too long. I’m afraid he’s probably right.

THREE DOWN, TWO TO GO

I suspect that if I had been a bit more cooperative, I might’ve become more than I am, I might’ve really gone places instead of painting myself into that proverbial corner called “prison employment.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to be working, I’ve heard the same first line of a Tom Petty song each weekday morning for the past two years, She’s an American Girrrrl, and have never hit the snooze button. I kill the alarm and get up immediately. I've got bills to pay. I’ve even done my part to stimulate the economy with that dreaded activity called: Christmas Shopping.

This year, for reasons I’ll try not to delve into, I’m forced to celebrate Christmas FIVE times.

A week ago, we exchanged gifts at my parents’ house, this past weekend we celebrated SA’s homecoming. In case you may have forgotten, SA (I Am Batman) is my wife’s cousin from Chicago. She’s also the one who discovered a common, yet subtle theme throughout my blog—The Voice of Reason. Now I’m more deliberate regarding whom that voice is. But I digress.

Christmas #2 was spent in the Grosse Pointes so SA could reunite with family. As we traveled west on I-94, I gave her my camcorder and some brief instructions on how to use it; thus the following short video footage. I’ll warn you now: I had my braces tightened the evening prior; The orthodontist stuffed my mouth full of gauze due to an abscess that wouldn’t stop bleeding. There’s no arguing that my teeth and upper gum line contributed to my weekend-long, crabby disposition and perhaps played a part in the edited selection of photographs and Christmas music. But I’m much better now.

I included very little footage of Christmas #3—just me clanking my Miller bottle against some holiday knick-knacks.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and hope to visit everyone’s blogs soon.

AN ANNUAL LEAVE SNOW DAY

When you’re a correctional educator swishing corn flakes out of your braces with a shot of coffee while perusing all those school closings on the television, you know for a fact you’re wasting your time.

During the last big blizzard I drove through a foot of snow, punched in for work, and received the following greeting from a deputy warden: “You don’t have to stay. We’re not opening the school building.” Well golly-gee, a phone call would’ve been nice; unfortunately, that would mean giving me administrative leave and that ain’t gonna happen.

Most prisons are built near a county line; no one wants felons in their back yard or vegetable garden (unless perhaps you're interested in doing a character study). On that particular day, the next county over declared a snow emergency; All state employees working in that county (approximately a half-mile down the road) were told to stay home. But not us. Only two educators showed up that day and as luck would have it the other one was the Food Tech Teacher. He fixed me an omelet, hash browns, toast, and coffee. Afterwards, I went to my classroom and organized my files, sharpened my pencils, etc. etc. etc. Easy money. I did my eight and hit the gate.

As for today, I intended to drive to work, but the Voice of Reason told me not to. It didn’t take her long to convince me that it just wasn’t worth the risk. So I loosened my tie and I called the prison control center declaring today a SNOW DAY. I sympathize with all those hard working corrections officers mandated to work overtime. Some of them will work 16 hours straight dealing with Michigan’s finest. I wish them well.

Today’s picture: A childhood photo of my brother and I celebrating a snow day with the neighbor kids.

HOW TO GIVE A TEST IN PRISON

When a student Christmas Trees his answer sheet on a timed test and announces, “I’m finished. Can I leave now?”—You spread your holiday cheer, “Mr. Akers, I’m going to provide you with the full allotment of time so that you can do your very very best.”

He thinks you’re uninspiring and gets confrontational. He lifts up his evidence, wields it like a courtroom exhibit; he’s the defense attorney discrediting your statement. “It don’t take no rocket scientist to see that I’m finished.”

You provide him a viable option. “Then sit quietly until everyone’s done.”

He stews for what seems like eternity. He focuses his every evil desire onto you; if he could will it, he’d laser your forehead with his stare; if the truth were to be told … he’s killed an entire family for less than this. “C’mon y’all! I ain’t waitin’ forever!”

You press your index finger to your lips. “Sssshhh.”

“Don’t you ssshhh me.”

Five minutes pass and he hasn’t blinked once. He says, “This is a waste of time. Yours and mine.”

You don’t smile, unless you call that grin a smile. You tell him that he could have a flash of genius which could lead to his changing an answer … maybe here or maybe there, you indicate … and you tell him you will see to it that he’s not cheated out of not one minute, not one second of his precious test-taking time. Some students snicker, others laugh. They’re the brave ones. They’ve been through it before. They’re accustomed to your stock answers, Better to be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.

Twenty more ticks of the clock, one-third of an hour gone by. You call it out of necessity: “Times up. Pencils down. Booklets closed.” You deliberately collect his test material last before dismissing everyone, before saying, “Have a nice day.”

TRAVELIN' ON

I should’ve agreed years ago with the voice of reason: “There’s no need for you to keep all those cassette tapes. Get rid of them.”

Where was my rebuttal? I could no longer say, “I listen to them on the way to work.” Damn auto companies—shame, shame, shame—Why’d they quit installing tape decks in their vehicles? And what of those foreign automakers? As for my Sony Walkman, I had no problem tossing it; Every time the batteries weakened it made pasta.

Approximately ten years ago a friend donated all his cassette tapes to me—a sizeable collection, considering he at one time owned a record store near 9 Mile and Ryan Road.

I was running out of options. I was running out of room. The voice of reason had sold all our store-bought videotapes just before the DVD tsunami. “You haven’t listened to those tapes in years.”

I strategically placed a cheap GPX dual cassette tape player in my office and made the claim that I enjoyed the occasional song while writing. Truth of the matter: Too much racket, music or otherwise, and my so-called thoughts never made it to paper. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not plotting.

Those big wheels keep on turning . . .

Now the possibilities are endless. I’ve figured out how to plug that cheap GPX player into my computer. It’s all about my “I” toons. Bob H.’s guitar sings once again. Enjoy the music while watching the slide show of my family (circa 1920’s - 1960’s).

Trivia Question: What famous country singer helped Clinton River Road choose their name?

CLINTON RIVER ROAD

With Christmas fast approaching, I’ve decided to de-clutter my life. Recession be damned—there will be incoming gifts needing space in my three-bedroom brick ranch.





For all the tough macho talk, all the inner dialogue, “Do I commit or do I not commit?” I’m having problems letting go; it’s like erasing part of a tape, knowing you’ll never be able to retrieve what was once there.

Yeah, I have regrets, and yeah, right before the holidays.

My wife convinced me to sell my music albums, at least the ones I hadn’t framed and hung on our basement walls. I’ve mourned the loss of one record in particular: my Clinton River Road country album. What was I thinking?

Clinton River Road, a local band that never made it big, not even as a one-hit-wonder. Their manager, a long-lost friend, purchased a tour bus so they could perform at all those Farm Aid Concerts in the 1980’s. I rode in that bus to Harpo’s in Detroit—not a good venue for a country music shindig, not like the annual Detroit Hoedown at Hart Plaza.

I remember working in a manufacturing facility, demonstrating the art of silk-screening to CRR’s lead guitarist, Bob H., being told to “keep an eye on him” because he had a craving for coke. They figured if they kept him busy, kept his mind occupied, he’d stay clean. I don’t know if it worked, I have my doubts, but man, could that dude play!

I’m in my basement office. I’ve got a plastic garbage bag folded over a rusted metal frame, the kind used to snap a TV tray onto. I’m sifting through cassette tapes. That’s when I find it: A demo tape from Elephant Recording Studios of none other than Clinton River Road. Instead of tossing it into the abyss, I give it a listen. Instead of de-cluttering my life, I try to salvage a memory. I’ll wait for that one tera-byte external hard drive to appear under my Christmas tree. I’ll digitize as much as I can. Still, I’m wondering what happened to Tim, the lead vocalist; Vinnie, the drummer; and, of course, Bob. H, their talented lead guitarist. The last time I saw him, he was playing a small gig at the Romeo Peach Pit; I had finished bowling and stepped into the smoke-filled lounge. I can’t remember if my steady girlfriend was with me that night. I’ll ask her. I’m hoping she was. I’m sure a shared experience is worth saving. Isn’t it? I’m sure she’ll say, “Yes. Yes it is.”

OUR LOYAL MINI

Mini bore Tiny. They were Siamese. The similarities ended there. Tiny hated humans. She’d scratch and bite without provocation. Mini, on the other hand, wouldn’t hurt a flea—not an easy task for a feline with nine lives.

When the neighborhood kids came over to play, my father gave his routine. “Would you like to pet the cat?” he’d ask. Before anyone could answer, he’d pick her up by the tail and extend his offering. She’d hang there, like an offensive dishtowel, and before anyone could object, before anyone could accuse my father of cruelty to animals, she’d close her eyes and purrrr. Mini loved the attention. When he’d lower her to the kitchen linoleum, she’d rub against his leg and meow for more.

Another oddity—one that frightened the bejeebies out of our first-time visitors and served as a bathroom deterrent—occurred in our darkened hallway. A slow moving mini-Cyclops, its glow-in-the-dark eye, greeted those souls brave enough to walk the plastic carpet runner. “That’s our cat,” we’d say reassuringly.

Mini didn’t have a genetic defect. Tiny, though, must’ve had something wrong with her, perhaps a brain tumor—to be that mean, to be that unhappy—what else could explain it? It wasn’t the lineage. Mini was perfect in every way. She’d brush up against anything and everything to show her affection; her affection is what blindsided her.

Doors get slammed. It doesn’t matter by whom. It doesn’t matter whether the unsuspecting culprit is in a hurry or just plain angry. Accidents happen. A rubber-tipped spring, commonly known as a doorstopper, poked her eye out, left it dangling, and, with much pleading from two teary-faced boys, our father dug deep into his savings and paid a vet to work his magic.

Mini outlived Tiny. Twenty-one human years; that’s a long time for a cat. But not long enough for a cat like her.

Q & A Session with Bonnie Jo Campbell

Dear Mrs. Bonnie Jo Campbell,

Seems kind of formal for an email, but I don't know how else to start. First, let me introduce myself. I'm a mathematics teacher working in our lovely Michigan prison system (have been for approximately 17 years). I'm also a writer with a few publish stories under my belt ... Pebble Lake Review, Glass Fire Magazine, Foliate Oak, and Nano Fiction ... small lit mags, but I'm proud nonetheless.

As a struggling writer, I've come to appreciate the work ethic involved in the whole writing process; It's a tortuous affair (for me anyway), and I can only imagine the time and energy you spent mastering your craft.

I purchased your first short-story collection Women and Other Animals shortly after reading "The Smallest Man in the World" in a Pushcart Anthology. Awesome book! I'm now awaiting the release of your new book American Salvage from Wayne State University Press. I'm wondering whether you included my personal favorite "Candy" which I first read in the now defunct ...sob... Ontario Review --seems like a good fit (if the book title is any indication), or "My Dog Roscoe" from Witness. Both stories had great openers, really strong voices; more so than "Storm Warning" which builds momentum as it goes (read that one too in Orchid); I see you've included that one.

Anyway, I thought I'd congratulate you on your new book. Have a wonderful holiday!

Sincerely,

James R. Tomlinson

P.S. If you do respond, I hope you don't mind our correspondence being used as a blog post (doesn't everyone have a blog these days?). Of course, if you say no, I'll respect your wishes. Thanks again.



Hi James:

Thank you for writing to me. It sounds as though you have amazing experiences to relate in your writing. I'll confess I peeked in on you (via google) and found your story "This One's For the Birds," which is a situation nicely put.

Writing really is hard work, hours and hours, sometimes hundreds of hours of hard work for one story. When I learned that about writing, it came as a great relief. Originally I had thought that writing required brilliance and gigantic talent; when I learned writing was just more hard work (not unlike loading hay in a barn, digging a ditch) I was thrilled. I can do that, I told myself. Thank you for suggesting I've mastered the craft, but you know it's not true, because each new story presents a new torture... I mean, new challenge. Each new story makes me feel as though I'm starting all over again.

Thank you for asking about my new collection. I worked hard on writing the stories, and on shaping it into a collection, and Wayne State was generous in providing me editorial help. In some ways this collection is the male response to Women & Other Animals, and most (though not all) of the stories are dealing with male themes and male protagonists. And so neither of the stories you mention ("Candy" and "My Dog Roscoe") are included in the collection; those will appear in my next collection, Blood Work, which I've just put together in order to send out to contests and publishers.

I too am heartbroken over Ontario Review's disappearance. What a sad business it all is, for Joyce Carol Oates and for all of us, losing Raymond Smith.

Sure you can use my response in your blog. I just hope I didn't make any spelling or grammatical errors! I too become bloggish, with a personal one bone-eye and one in which I'm trying to include stuff about the publishing process screenporchlit.

Thanks again for taking an interest. I will be having a big book release party in Kalamazoo (at a brewery of course), and one in Detroit, through Wayne State Univ. Press. Let me know if you want to come and I can keep you posted as to the dates and times.

Cheers!

Bonnie

p.s. I'm a former math teacher myself, and I've done some volunteer work in my local prison (minimum security) teaching writing, so we have a little bit in common.

AT THE END OF NARDONE STREET

I’m no Richard Attenburrough, or Leonard Nemoy, or James Earl Jones, but it only seems fitting that I try my hand—I mean “voice”—at narration. I’ve been organizing my childhood photos for a Christmas DVD that I intend to give to my grandmothers.

Please feel free to comment. Your suggestions are greatly appreciated. I already know that a better microphone is needed; Reading from under a heavy comforter, sheltering my voice from the steady hum of the computer, seems downright silly.

Also, I plan on sharing an email correspondence I had with Bonnie Jo Campbell, author of Women and Other Animals, and Q Road, regarding her soon to be released short story collection American Salvage.

Peace.

TURKEY DAY

Barb F., my very first prison boss (1992-96), was roasted in the most unusual way. It started in the employee lunchroom the week prior to Thanksgiving amongst the overtaxed microwaves.





The Athletic Director had been conversing with the Librarian, and although they spoke quietly, other employees couldn’t help but join in. Truthfully, I can’t even remember the gist of their conversation. Perhaps it had something to do with a critical decision our boss made, a decision that had negatively impacted us. It’s a widely known fact that in corrections everyone tries to protect their turf by searching for easy non-confrontational ways to handle specific duties; maybe, on this particular occasion, we couldn’t find one.

I guess the most memorable part of the conversation, the part that triggered a series of <<<gulp>>> unfortunate events, happened at approximately the same time as the School Psychologist’s arrival for lunch.

“Barb’s a real turkey,” the A.D. complained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if her birthday’s on Thanksgiving.”

“Someone should get her a birthday card,” the Librarian added.

“Whose birthday is it?” Irene, the aforementioned School Psychologist, asked. She headed straight for the vending machines in search of a low-cal meal.

“Barb F’s,” someone must’ve answered.

I thought nothing of it. People need to blow off steam. It wasn’t until the last work day before Thanksgiving that I discovered what had happened. My boss called me into her office. “I’m a bit puzzled,” she said. She slid a Hallmark card across her desk. “For some reason, Irene thinks it’s my birthday.”

I knew not to laugh. I tried to act just as puzzled as her. “That’s bizarre,” I said.

Next came the steeple—that gesture with the hands used to show superiority. “Why would she think that?”

I did what a majority of us would do in this type of situation—I played stupid and waited for the perfect time to excuse myself, and then I booked.

At the close of my workday, Irene visited my classroom. “You’re not gonna believe what I did,” she said. Her face was all hot, as if she’d been exercising; which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You gave Barb a birthday card and it's not her birthday.” I told her about my private meeting.

“Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Hey, if you would’ve passed the card around, then maybe I would’ve put a kibosh to it.”

“You mean it never got to you?”

I guess my boss had tried playing the odds by interrogating someone who hadn’t actually signed the card. I knew how the rest of it went: each explanation centering on Irene’s request of their signatures.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving everyone, and if it happens to be your birthday, don’t get offended, it’s time to cook a turkey!

POLISHING APPLES

When an automobile is shrink-wrapped and you’re not
in on the joke (no time with a half-hour lunch),
it’s okay, because the owner supports the UAW.

It’s in the purchase;
It comes from word of mouth:
Tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so
that they can attend their local union meeting
as long as they ask for permission first.

You’re not immune; you’re not a straw boss;
you’re not a snoopervisor; they don’t need to beg
they’re hand fed and led by the navigator

of the sealed-tight vehicle, the one with
the passengers who’ve rolled down their windows
& finger-punched holes through cellophane
gasping and peering down a desolate highway.

So you highjack the steering wheel and crash
through a white picket fence, into an orchard,
your hands deflecting flying bark and York Imperial fastballs.

It’s called a U-Pick, which U-Do, placing the forbidden
fruit on the jokester’s desk to help fight his addiction
& keep him busy, polishing apples, polishing apples …
until they shine blood red, until the blue ink dries,
before the Chief Union Steward mouths his pre-ordained speech.

Austin Combs

I’m not too sure how this goes, whether my wife volunteered my services or whether Angie, our neighbor and good friend, mentioned it. It doesn’t matter; the details that night aren’t as important as the tribute to a talented musician. What I do know is Angie brought over a VHS tape of her father, who had passed away unexpectedly, and she needed it digitized for his funeral.

I’d done this type of work before, scanned photos of my father-in-law at various stages of his life, spliced in some family video footage, and added piano music. It helped with those awkward moments at the funeral home where everyone tries to engage in conversation without coming off as—how do I put it?—unsympathetic. The project before me that night was relatively easy: download several songs by A.C. and the Kentucky Fox Band; create a menu with chapters, and render and burn a DVD.

I didn’t attend Austin Combs’s funeral. Yet, I’ve come to know him as a free-spirit who lives on in the memories of his family, especially his grandchildren. From what I’ve heard, they’ve become particularly fond of his song, “Damn, the TV’s GONE,” an autobiographical account about a man’s propensity to smash television sets when he comes home, however, on this particular night, as the grandchildren might say, Grandma hid it from him.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you have time, check out the other songs.

SIMON SAYS

I’m not singing George Michael. I don’t have faith, faith, faith. There’s no glitch in my circuitry. It was a simple request. I knew fairly well how it would work. “Mr. White,” I said, “I’m giving you a direct order to sit down.” He’d been digging trenches in my carpet for ten minutes now—a true poster child for ADHD.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he replied. He stopped pacing. Yet he stood there, fidgeting in place. He raised his voice, wanting everyone to hear what he had to say, which, in my opinion was a whole lot of nothing. “You can’t treat me like I’m some little kid.”

I upped the ante. “Mr. White, I’m giving you a direct order to stay seated until class ends.” I knew this task would be impossible; if he would’ve done what I’d told him in the first place, then I would’ve cut him some slack.

He stood his ground, ready to test me. “What’re you getting mad for?”

I held firm. “I want you seated, Mr. White.”

“You can forget it. Ain’t gonna happen.”

After seventeen years of these types of scenarios, of developing my “playbook,” it still amazes me how each young inmate thinks he’s going to make a name for himself, and at my expense nonetheless. “Okay Mr. White,” I continued. “Now I’m giving you a direct order to leave my classroom.”

“Look everybody, he’s getting upset ‘cause he can’t get his waaaay.”

I repeated myself.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

It was time for my last maneuver. “Everyone,” I announced, “in the hallway.” My students dropped whatever they were doing and filed out of the classroom. As for Mr. White, anyone with little kids could figure out his next plan of attack—He. Sat. Down. What to do? What to do? Doesn’t really matter to me. I get paid by the hour.

It wasn’t long and Mr. White joined his peers. I guess he thought he could blend in, make himself invisible. Not much of a plan. I locked my classroom door and summoned an officer.

Mr. White, I’m sorry to report, is no longer a student of mine. Like so many others before him, he’s been replaced. I’m just wondering how long until the next youngster makes his move.

CLASS REUNION

The invitations are snowballing—“20-Year College Reunion.” The reply-to-all email addresses are growing exponentially. Without naming names, the list is quite impressive: Former Oakland University Student President turned successful surgeon; Social Worker/Musician who once had a gig on the Conan O’Brien Show; two former college soccer players – a successful engineer married into the Briggs family, the other (last I heard) putting his business degree to good use as a goat farmer in Mexico.

Who else? Another former O.U. Student President turned minister. More engineers (Delphi, Ford …) some jobless, ready for networking. A former pharmaceutical sales representative turned lawyer and perhaps lobbyist. Teachers, yeah, lots of them—those who “can’t” – teach. A marketing manager, his son, a participant in the Joey Travolta annual children’s movie making project. Trivial, I know, yet, I keep in touch.

More emails. More addresses. The excitement, the eagerness. Everyone wants to get together. The emails are growing out of control.

“How many reunion emails can we expect?” my wife asks before walking away from the computer, before leaving the house.

I type my response: “My parole officer said I could attend. See you there.” I click reply-to-all.

Just like that—no more emails cluttering up the inbox. Problem solved.

Wife comes home. I tell her what I did. She thinks I’m crazy. “People will talk. You’ll be the topic of discussion.”

“Yeah, I suppose I will. I hope it makes for interesting conversation.”

“Are we going?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And I mean it.

WHAT KIND OF FISH IS THIS?

Forget the fish for a minute; it’s not a Perch.


I am begging that our government bail out our colleges and universities—at least the Michigan institutions of higher learning. THEY DON’T WANT MY BUSINESS.



I tried to register for a Media & Communication on Arts class at a local community college—I figured since my state is handing out huge tax breaks to the movie industry, I’d start learning digital photography, rendering, advertising, and digital video layout—but once again I was told that I needed to re-register. This community college has my high school diploma and college degree on file, yet, because I haven’t taken a class in over two years, they want me to “re-file” or “re-apply” due to my “un-declared” status.

Give me a break.

Isn’t Michigan hurting? If they had my transcripts on file, why would they deny me access to registering for classes? Last time this happened I had to speak to some pimply faced college kid at the registrar; she advised me that I needed to get a certain college professor’s permission to take a creative writing class (Hello Michelle!)—It did not matter that my Bachelor of Arts Degree in English had been on file. What the ... ??? … Bureaucratic horse manure crap is this?

So here I go again. Every five years I need six credit hours worth of coursework to renew my teaching certificate, however, no one—and I mean absolutely no one—understands this. Teachers, they think, have this torturous desire to spend every Goddamn minute of their fricking lives in a classroom.

Sorry. Not me.

Can anyone tell me what type of fish this is? I’d greatly appreciate it.

NO MORE SQUARES

My employer is weaning the inmates from their tobacco addictions in preparation of the 2009 smoking-ban. The prison commissary continues to stock less and less Bugler, rolling papers, and matches. Come January 1st, the shelves will have more space for healthier items. Tofu perhaps. Or carrot sticks. Come February 1st, all tobacco products will be considered contraband. Not even prison employees will be able to light-up.

My employer has issued eight memorandums so far to cover a multitude of hypothetical situations. The latest: staff and visitors arriving on prison grounds via public transportation, motorcycle, bicycle, or moped … will be given the opportunity to secure their cancer sticks in the visitors or staff lockers. This, of course, is the only exception. Those who drive trucks or cars must secure their squares in their vehicles. Also, no smoking will be allowed on state grounds, this includes cigarette breaks inside parked cars. Can’t do it; they have cameras monitoring the parking lot.

It’ll be interesting to see what transpires from a complete smoking ban. Even the Native American prisoners will no longer be able to keep tobacco in their medicine bags. Instead, they will be given the opportunity to use medicinal herbs. Matches and lighters are included on the banned list as well.

Of course, none of this will keep the inmates from smoking God-knows-what. I’m sure there’ll be a few torched electrical outlets. But hey, it’s for the greater good of everyone.

I’ll need to review all the self-defense pressure points and nerve motor points of the human body. You never know when an irritable inmate will try you. I’m already getting sick of all the sticky chewed sucker sticks tossed on my classroom carpet.

SMALL TALK INSIDE THE PEN

(Mutual greeting between two prisoners)
— What up Dog?
— What up?

(In Unison)
— What up Teach?

(A white female corrections officer walks by the classroom window.)
— Checkout that flat screen.
— Ooooh yeah, I’d like to book that. Get up close and personal.
— (Laughing) You ain’t got no HD. You analog.
— (Agitated) Quit false flaggin’ you pump-fakin’ mutha.
— (Speaking to the empty corridor) I’m high def, Baby. Check-out my digital.

(A few minutes later a black female employee walks by.)
— Ooooh wee, she got two midgets on her back.
— (More Laughter) You couldn’t handle a round ticket.
— (More Agitated) Man, I’ll roll any dice table come my way. Black or white.
— No you won’t.
— (Puffs out chest) Yes I would.
— (Puffs out his chest too) Quit stuntin’ on me.
— (Clenches his fists) I got a two piece combo for yah.
— (Waves him off) Okay Little Caesar. Okay Little Man.
— I got five for five.
— Don’t make me put a tilt in your halo.

(They stand up, ready to lock horns. Their teacher approaches.)
— Do your schoolwork.
— I don’t want no smoke.
— Yeah, me neither.

(They sit back down.)
— You see Obama’s oldest daughter on TV the other night?
— Don’t even go there, my niece her age.
— She gonna live in the White House.
(They high-five one another.)
— Got that right.

ONE SQUARE AT A TIME

I threatened the Food Tech Teacher. “One square at a time,” I said. “One square at a time.” He knew what I meant based on previous conversations regarding the new carpeting in his classroom. He also knew that in order to resolve my computer problem I had cabbaged a CPU from an office area. What he didn’t know is whether or not I was serious.

Two months ago during a staff meeting, we were informed about the innovative explanation used for getting carpet approved in the Food Tech dining area. In order to simulate a pleasurable dining experience, the argument went, carpet needed to be installed. It didn’t matter what type—sculpted Berber, shag, plush, indoor, outdoor, industrial strength—as long as we were eternally grateful for management’s ingenuity. On behalf of the teaching staff, I say, Thank-You, from the bottom of our hearts.

Maintenance had no qualms laying the carpet either. Once they received the work order, their inmate-workforce opened the boxes and tackled the project as if it were a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. They were done within an hour.

I stood in the dining area, admiring its appearance. Nothing beats the smell of new carpet. And I’m sure the smell would’ve been even stronger had they used glue. Maybe management couldn't justify purchasing it.

“I’m thinking about re-carpeting my classroom,” I said to the Food Tech Teacher.

“Oh yeah?” he said, his suspicions warranted.

I kicked at the floor, toed an edge. “One square at a time.”

ANGELS' NIGHT IN DETROIT

I’m all tapped out.
Hollow on the inside.
But face still intact.

In order to fight the evil spirits of the night,
I am requesting that all comments be left at:

"I am Batman"

Everyone should be a superhero.

Have a Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA

Mothers should not, I repeat SHOULD NOT, make their children's Halloween costumes. Nor should they be able to accessorize. Let the kids come up with their own attire.

Many moons ago (not long enough to forget) I had wanted to be a brave warrior, one with war paint, a tomahawk, and a feather. Do you see a feather? Do you see war paint? Do I look fierce? Does the ring on my right hand scare you? Does it make me more Native Americanish?

My brother (the old white man/traditional hobo) and I may have scored plenty of candy that year, but at what cost? At what damage to my psyche?

"Trick or Treat!" We'd yell. "Trick or Treat!"

It didn't matter who was behind the door; The reactions were pretty much the same. "Here's a Bit O'Honey for you little man, and here's one for your little sister."

The rabbit's foot around my neck did not bring me one ounce of good luck. Everyone thought I was a squaw! A SQUAW! The make-up on my face didn't help either.

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 2)

Here’s why mother’s shouldn’t let their sons grow up to be cowboys, or should I say dress them to be cowboys? Look! Just look at my outfit! Oh sure, at the time I was smiling. Wouldn’t you?—I’d just opened a present, the camera was pointed at me. But I think my smile was forced. Or at least I’m now wishing it were forced. I’m pretty sure I wanted to be a cowboy. A Clint Eastwood type of cowboy, not a Gene Autry type of cowboy! Not to be disrespectful, Mr. Autry did serve in World War II, but I’m not a musical type of guy. What happened to A Fistful of Dollars (1964), For a Few Dollars More (1965), The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (1966), Hang’em High (1968), and The Outlaw of Josie Wales (1976)? I know, the last one was seven years after this photo, but so what—these were spaghetti westerns filmed in Italy and no one complained.

Now the complaints. Where’s my gun holster? Where’s my six-shooter? I’ll tell you where—there isn’t any! I had a guitar instead. I’m posing with it in another picture. My brother’s by my side. Guess what he is? A damned Indian Chief with complete headdress. Tons of feathers too. What was I to do? Shoot him with my six-stringer? Sing him to death?

So there you have it—another Halloween trauma. Like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Hell, I’d rather be in West World, a Malfunctioning Robot Cowboy, not a Village People “YMCA” Cowboy. I think you understand—a Macho Macho Man type of Cowboy! Or do you think I’m confused?

HALLOWEEN TRAUMA (Part 3)

I’ve been damaged beyond repair. I’ve searched every closet and every photo album of my childhood for that scary evil costume and came up empty. Let’s face it—there aren’t any. I’ve come to the conclusion that my mommy—yeah, might as well say it (even at this age)—my mommy selected my costumes.

Here I am, not as a ferocious animal of the Wild Kingdom; I’m no King Kong (If I were, I would’ve been dressed like Curious George); I’m no King of the Jungle (If so, I would’ve been Kimba the White Lion); I’m not even a Hippopotamus, which is by far the most dangerous creature on the planet (If so, I would’ve been a Ballerina Hippo from Disney’s Fantasia). No, I’m none of these. Yet, I’m traumatized.

Perhaps at an early age I knew my mother’s influences, her motives, her maternal instincts, how she’d soften my costumes, how she’d transform them from evil to good, from that killer instinct to something of beauty and grace.

“What do you want to be for Halloween this year?” she always asked.

The answer’s obvious, just look at the picture: A giraffe! How’s that for sticking my neck out? —A store-bought costume. Only problem, did I truly choose this animal? Or was I trying to play it safe? And even more puzzling—I’m standing next to (not Smokey-the-Bear) but a nasty growling bear! Grrrrr!!!

INSPIRE (HALLOWEEN FLASH)

The basketball’s leather exterior, porous as it may be, did not dampen the free throw line. Leonard made sure of that; it’s surface coat smooth as a pumpkin’s rind.

Leonard hid in the trees, waiting for an unsuspecting baller (that’s what he called the little boys, sometimes stressing the first syllable in a mock-anxiety-tone: “BAAAWLER”), and to pass the time he polished his Church retreat rock, given to him by Father Joe, their mutual do-not-tell-a-soul relationship long expired once Leonard figured out there had been others.

As the wind sighed, Leonard noticed a frazzled tendril of leather dancing atop his basketball and this annoyed him to no end. “I should cut it off,” he kept thinking, but to do so meant climbing down the large Maple tree. He decided against it. He’d wait, alternating his time between polishing his rock and whittling a small snapped branch.

Eleven-year-old Jamaal, on his way home from school, decided to cut through Welter Park, and when he reached the basketball court, Leonard’s heart spoke through his ears, the same reassuring message pounding into his head: Inspire, inspire, inspire... He preferred someone a bit older, someone around the same age he had been when Father Joe touched him with a speech about “Inspiration.” However, this younger boy would have to do. “I will lead the way,” Leonard whispered. “I will lead the way through the valley of darkness.”

Once Jamaal reached the top of the key, Leonard shouted down to him, “Hey there, you. Yeah, you.”

Puzzled as to where the voice came from, the gentle breeze manipulating its origins, Jamaal did a clumsy pirouette.

“Up here,” Leonard shouted. “Toss me the ball.”

Jamaal proceeded with caution.

“Come ‘on, I don’t have all day.”

Jamaal dropped his backpack and quickly picked up the ball. With both hands, he tossed it with all his might.

“You gotta do better than that,” Leonard shouted.

No matter how hard the boy tried, he could not throw the ball high enough. “I’m sorry Mister,” he said. “I’ve got to go home.”

Leonard had hoped to deliver his own version of the “Inspiration” speech, and as luck would have it, Jamaal wiped the salty sweat from his eyes.

A SECOND CHANCE

I had asked my father what he had asked his surgeon, “Prakash. Why does that name sound familiar?” The young phlebotomist (half my age) ignored us, content on searching for a good vein.

“His niece,” my father answered, “is a news reporter for a TV station. I can’t remember which one.”

“That’s right. Anu Prakash,” I replied. The name stuck with me—don’t ask me how?—but I couldn’t recall her face. A week ago my father was changing the plugs on his four-wheel drive truck, preparing for his annual Wyoming hunting trip when he doubled-over in pain. In forty-some-odd-years he’s never missed that trip. My mother rushed him to the hospital where he underwent a major operation. Now he’s home, still bed-ridden, but healing.

“I asked the Doc, ‘Where did the name Anu come from?’” My father never did have a problem striking up a conversation. “The Doc told me when his niece was born the hospital requested a name from his brother. His brother held the baby high in the air for everyone to see and said, ‘A new Prakash.’ So the name stuck—with a variation in the spelling of course.”

I never met my father’s surgeon; I’m sure he fabricated the story, reconstructed it to perfection. My father had one set back on his road to recovery: His surgeon redid his navel, re-cored and tied it; however, due to a lack of blood flow, the skin died back. As for the origin of my father’s name—I refuse to make something up.

TICKLE ME ELMO

On my desk cradled in a tape dispenser sits a lacquered wooden paddle. It’s a grab-and-go bathroom pass. My way of saying: This is adult education, where you don’t have to ask for permission to tinkle. However, Posted Rule Number 8 clearly states: The school bathrooms will be closed during the last fifteen minutes of each class session. It’s a non-issue because I lock the pass in my desk drawer to limit temptation.

I hear it all the time: “This is bullshit; I should be able to go whenever I want.” Oh sure, prisoners have their rights—don’t we all? —Only problem: using those rights to gain an unfair advantage is a definite no-no; in other words, leaving my bathroom pass in the can and sneaking out of the school building early is grounds for a ticket.

I recall one inmate in particular, (I'll call him Prisoner Elmo) he cussed me out. “I’ll go whenever the f*%k I want!” He did just that. Much to his credit (Am I assuming too much?) he returned with a corrections officer in tow. “Give me your I.D.,” the C.O. ordered. Prisoner Elmo complied.

Later, after class had ended, this corrections officer gave me a lecture. “You need to have better control of your students. You need to keep them in class.” When I mentioned this incident to a peer, he said, “What did he expect you to do—tackle and tickle him?”

“I think so,” I answered.

OUR DYING YOUTH

We go about our business in Detroit as if we are immune to the killing of our children … I believe we need the death penalty for anyone that kills a child in Michigan. Detroit City Council President Monica Conyers, Detroit Free Press

Regardless of how much education I have (or get) I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll spend the rest of my natural working life in prison. It’s all there, spelled out in black and white, clear as today’s headlines. But I had my eureka moment last week when an older, heavily medicated, black gent sitting in the front of my classroom told me he shot a man for raping his daughter. “I got no use for pedophiles,” he said, “or for anyone who harms children. They need to be shot.” Because there were probably a half dozen students directly behind him who fit that description, I deflected his comments the best way I knew how.

They all have unique stories of what went wrong in their lives, what they’d do differently (if anything). The older, heavily medicated, black gent sits in the front row, expressionless, serving his time with honor. I treat him no differently than the others, the baby rapers, the car-jackers, the wanna-be-gangstas.

He approaches my desk. He says, “You know what saggin’ spells backward don’t you?” He’s referring to the low riding pants that most of my students wear. I’m indifferent. I shrug my shoulders. He writes it down on my desk calendar: Niggas. “The only good one is a dead one,” he adds.

“We were all young once.” It's the best I can do.

“Yeah, I know,” he responds.

I've tried to understand, but now it doesn’t seem to matter.

I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!!!

I’ve been traumatized by my wife’s cousin and I can’t let it go. It ain’t even Halloween yet and I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice—(disclaimer: in no way is this a reference to severed vocal cords; I am not that insensitive)—yes, I’m hearing Jennifer Tilly’s voice whispering in my ear, Sorry your 24-hour short story entry didn’t do as well as mine. I’m feeling the spirit of Chucky. I’ve got to fight back. I’ve got to protect what little pride I have left. Did we, or did we not, offer suggestions to each others entry prior to the deadline? Granted, your advice was better than mine, but how dare you remind me of my failure! It's time you walk the plank!

We need to settle this once and for all. I’m calling it a two story contest—yours against mine—a duel to the end. "Promises" vs. "Ruth Mondo's Chance Encounter." Chicago vs. Detroit.

Here’s the deal: If you like her story better than mine, leave a comment on her blog (because I don’t want to hear about it). If you think my story is far more superior, then by all means leave a comment here. Since I’m already kicked and down, negative comments regarding my story are welcome too.

Positive canned statements worth copying and pasting:
1. I liked the conflict in your story better.
2. Your story’s ending surprised me the most.
3. The characters in your story seemed more interesting.

Of course this is all in fun. Winner-take-all (boasting rights I guess). If you don’t feel like participating, check out her blog sjawriter, vote on her TV Show proposals, or watch her friend on You Tube cozying up to Kevin Costner.

JOINING THE SCHOOL OF FISH

Do I? Or do I not return to school? There’s an extension program near my work site (Saginaw Valley State University) where a majority of educators earn their master’s degrees and siphon more money out of the public school systems. You can’t blame them; the certification rules, along with the “No Child Left Behind” policies, have forced them to. Do I fork over my money, or do I invest it elsewhere?

SVSU has a Masters Degree program in Instructional Technology. Seems interesting. I could become a curriculum development specialist for a public school system, or a trainer for a major corporation, or an animator for Pixar. (Okay, maybe not the latter.)

I’m studying the numbers—my age, tuition cost, salary schedules, the break-even point. It’s a personal sacrifice I’m not sure I’m willing to make. If I do do it, I’ll stretch it out over four or five years. If I don’t, then I’ll remain a small fish in a relatively large pond. I’ll remain a convict teacher that has already exceeded his shelf life. Then I’ll retire and continue with my writing.

I’m undecided.

28 YEARS LATER

When my brother handed over a misplaced sealed envelope addressed to me twenty-eight years earlier, instead of questioning how it came into his possession, or asking why I hadn’t received it in the first place, I concentrated on its mysterious content. Holding it to the light—the return address: Bruce Township Parks & Recreation (I had life guarded for them at my high school back when I had six-pack abs)—I noticed what looked like a family crest or coat of arms. We were sitting at the dinner table with our parents, and although they demanded I open it, I felt “no need” in hurrying. “Maybe it’s a royalty check,” I said, knowing otherwise, hoping my hesitancy would go unnoticed, whatever honor I had bestowed upon the family could wait.

My brother had his own twenty-eight year old sealed envelope; this one from Albion College. I suggested he open his first. He tore into it and started reading. It was a recruitment letter, June 1980, inviting him to tryout for their cross-country team. Back then my brother grew despondent regarding Michigan Tech’s rescinded offer for him to attend their engineering program; they withdrew their acceptance based on his poor test results in Physics.

My guess: he grabbed both letters and stuffed them into a filing cabinet; his dreams momentarily dashed, tucked away and forgotten. “Okay,” he said, “it’s your turn.”

Using the butter knife beside my dinner plate, I sliced into my envelope and peered inside. How ironic!—Where his letter offered a viable option, a promising alternative, mine documented a past event with a questionable, yet appropriate, symbol. I had registered for a long distance race, and to show that they received my entry form, Bruce Township Parks & Recreation cut along the dotted line and mailed back the top portion. That important family crest or coat of arms?—Pilsner Lite Beer—an obvious sponsor to a 10,000 meter race I had started and finished in our local high school’s parking lot.

So here we are now: My brother, the overachiever, the laid-off engineer with an MBA, and me, the underachiever, the overworked teacher of convicts, who three decades ago wrecked his vehicle in a drunk driving accident.

I Support Art, but not Always the Message

In seventeen years as a Michigan Department of Corrections employee, I have yet to witness any coworkers placing prisoners—no strike that—inmates—no strike that too—residents—let me start over: I don’t know of any coworkers that’ve hung residents on meat hooks. Oh sure, I’ve been on nuts & butts duty; someone’s got to make sure contraband isn’t passed from one resident to another before the keester checkpoint; hey, why not us teachers?

I do remember a certain resident, Prisoner... oops...Resident W., a fairly decent artist with his own art studio in the school building, throwing a fit when I wouldn’t let him take his last GED Exam. “You’re not ready,” I said. At that point I understood why he came back to prison; he was a rapist who didn’t understand the concept of “no.” He stormed out of my classroom in a tantrum.

Resident W. maxed out a few years back (doesn’t have to report to anyone) and found a nice place to live: an upscale condominium, living with a female art dealer who supports his artistic talent. It wasn’t long after that that the residents (this time I mean real residents) of the condo association distributed flyers regarding Ex-Felon W.: “Do you know a convicted rapist resides here?”

Maybe those meat hooks come from the real world, where we MDOC employees aren’t there to protect ex-convicts, ex-felons, ex-prisoners, ex-whatever-you-want-to-call-them. I say this without being mean spirited. I say this, knowing everyone deserves some kind of chance to do what’s right. And yes, I don’t have a problem with PCAP supporting artwork; I have a problem with the message from a majority of the artists.

Footnote: The male artist depicted here, the man with the walrus mustache who never picked up a paint brush until the age of forty-one, painted strange pink people prior to his release from my facility.

LOADED FOR BEAR

I’ll be damned, literally, with my feet to the fire, for doing my J-O-B. Fan those flames ‘cause I’m loaded for bear and ready to shoot. I’m camping out. I’m aiming for MDIT (The Michigan Department of Information & Technology). I’ll pull the trigger as soon as they’re in the crosshairs. Night vision too!

My work computer crapped out on June 10, 2008, and they’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing, to rectify the problem. I’ve survived a school audit in the process (no thanks to them) by pulling student files from regular rotation. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

But the saga continues. Without MDIT’s blessing (shit, I thought they were hibernating), I’m toast—like a backpacker leaving the food bag hanging too low. Still, I “found” myself a nice office computer and have every intention of keeping it. Through intelligence I learned that this computer (which is operable) was going to be discarded, thrown onto the scrap heap. Luckily, on behalf of myself, I intervened. “I’m taking this computer,” I said. “Sure,” the office worker acknowledged. “As long as it’s out of my area.”

I’m back in the game, taking attendance, tracking student progress, and scheduling and recording test scores. I’m doing it digitally instead of the old fashion stone-age paper and pencil way.

Now my operative has informed me that a MDIT computer technician intends to confiscate my “found” computer. Wow! They certainly can move fast! I thought the sleeping bear was—you know—sleeping. I thought the pot of honey was mine. Hey, you mess with my food; I’ll mess with yours. What’s a man to do? I placed my inoperable computer next to my “found” computer with a memorandum taped to it. Perhaps they’ll take a hint. Perhaps they’ll see the error they’ve made. If not, I’ll shoot, I swear I will … and if I miss … that’s okay … I’ve got dibs on another dormant CPU … one that’s used to pull in federal money ... the timing couldn't be better.

CAGED TOMATOES

From what I gather, Prisoner #1, pushed by Prisoner #2, stole vegetables (and fruit) from the garden, in the words of Kid Rock, all summer long. Prisoner #1 must’ve been quick, really really quick, and brazen. You don’t steal from another prisoner’s garden plot unless you’re prepared to do battle with the farmer, the grower, the nurturer of these food bearing plants. His accomplice—can I call him that?—had nothing to do with it. If you were to say, “You’re his accomplice,” he’d undeniably deny it. “I,” he would respond, “was merely doing my job.” Why else would he have been in there, in the cultivated dirt? I stand corrected, in the cultivated “soil.”

So, when it’s all said and done, when the Horticulture Teacher spots Prisoner #1 sitting there, leaning forward as far as he can, plucking tomatoes he has no business plucking, the short-lived race ensues. Unfortunately, those Wheels of Fortuna are spinning downward. Prisoner #1 is stuck, literally, and in a moment of frustration, he swings his arms into his laps. He’s caught, no doubt about it, and Prisoner #2 is sure to blame.

The Horticulture Teacher asks for Prisoner #1’s identification card, and writes the necessary information, his name and six-digit number, onto a piece of scrap paper before giving it back. “You,” he says, noticing six tomatoes, “have a theft ticket coming.”

After consulting with yours truly, the technical writer, the experienced ticket writer, it is determined that Prisoner #1 and Prisoner #2 earned two major infractions: a) Out of Place – there’s an off limits sign posted, and b) Theft, Possession of Stolen Property.

“How come you didn’t get Prisoner #2’s identification?” I ask.

The Horticulture Teacher explains that he only saw one inmate picking tomatoes; therefore, he didn’t think it was necessary to identify Prisoner #2. I inform him that an “Out of Place” ticket could’ve been written on the accomplice.

During lunch time, a day after the tomato incident, the control center staff phones the Horticulture Teacher, requesting a rewrite on the ticket. “Why did you use his alias?” the sergeant asks. Now, everyone’s confused, wondering whether Prisoner #1, who left the facility on a med run, gave the Horticulture Teacher a fraudulent I.D. card. “Yeah, that’s him,” he says into the receiver, “the guy in a wheelchair.”

The school corrections officer states the obvious: The Horticulture Teacher flipped the picture I.D. card to the backside, which lists a prisoner’s aliases. Later that day, the control center staff requests the tomatoes and gets them. Hopefully they aren’t too ripe since they’ll be stored in the evidence room for God knows how long.

A Wedding, a Knife; A Finger, a Death

I’m married. No secret there. Had my fifteenth wedding anniversary last month. If you were to ask about my, about “our” most memorable moments, there’d be a lack of uniformity in our descriptions. Our memories, for whatever reasons, seem fragmented, seem splintered. Small episodic events, unless photographed and studied, never quite achieving accuracy. Where to begin?

We both agreed about the cake, at least the cutting tradition, how someone from the kitchen grabbed an engraved knife (the names are lost on us, the proofs returned long ago) and helped stage the close-up hand shots for the inebriated photographer. What type of cake? How many tiers? These questions are better answered by my wife, her active role in the planning stage a clear advantage. She could quote the cost too, I’m sure. And what of the wedding date (definitely not ours) engraved on that silver knife with an off-white marble handle? (I do remember that.)

So why, you may ask, have I mentioned the knife? Why focus on what’s not “ours”? (Here’s the rub: what happens to be mine, my wedding ring, has another woman’s name engraved in it. I didn’t make that discovery until some ten years later.) So why reflect on the negative? Why not reflect on something positive? Why, after a month’s delay, have I decided to write about our wedding?

Here’s why: During Monday’s breakfast of Shredded Wheat (yes, my braces can handle it), while sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, I came across the photo of the Reverend Father Pasquale LoGrasso. He performed our wedding ceremony. I asked my wife, “What do you remember about him?” She mentioned her family’s moment of sadness, the grief, the sobbing heard inside the church, how Father Pasquale, against our wishes, dedicated the mass to her 92 year old grandfather who had passed away one day prior to our wedding (her Grandfather’s proclamation: I’m going to see my last grandchild get married). I asked again, “Yeah, I know all that, but what distinguishing characteristic do you remember about Father Pasquale?”

My question had been lost on her. She stated the obvious: He was a man of the cloth. He wore glasses. He spoke with an accent. It wasn’t until my leading question did she remember. “Wasn’t his index finger severed at the first knuckle?” I asked. “You’re right,” she answered, only to inquire as to why I would bring that up. “I’ve always wondered,” I continued, “what happened. Did someone pinch it in a car door? Did he shave it off with a table saw? Did he poke it through a chain link fence harboring a pit bull? What happened?”

Neither of us knew. I cut out his obituary. I read it again. He died at the age of 76. May he rest in peace.

POLAROID

Someone’s fingers are itchin’
to pull the trigger. Call it:
The chemical rub-out before
the sun does its work. Still,
a middle class family
appears (such a rarity
these days). The dull colors
frozen like a Ted Turner classic.
What happened that night is momentarily
forgotten; They are ready
to celebrate with two candles lit,
a four, a five, sunk into Mother’s
cake. The youngest boy emerges
from solitary confinement, his wish
exhaled, gone in a flash.

24-HOUR SHORT STORY CONTEST RESULTS

My last post—now considered “blog-fodder”—was my entry in the Writer’s Weekly Summer 2008 24-hour Short Story Contest. The topic (or prompt) was:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale..." ~~~~~ WORD COUNT Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words. (Your story's title is *not* included in the word count. We use MSWord's word count function to determine the final word count in submission.)

The judging process went something like this: 1) Whittle 500 entries into two categories: the finalists and what I’d like to call “blog-fodder”. 2) Rank the finalists to get the top 23 stories. 3) Reread top 23 and rank 1st ($300), 2nd ($250), 3rd ($200), plus 20 honorable mentions.

The main criteria: weed out stories that are the same, that lack originality; search for good endings. As usual, I got “zilch,” “nada,” “nothing.” I’m as excited as a senior citizen needing hip replacement surgery after Dance Dance Revolution.

Here’s the link to the winners: Top 3 Stories.

Lastly, comments or critiques of my story would be greatly appreciated. Where do you think I erred? What do you think of the top 3 selections? Also, would you enter this contest, and do you think I should enter the next one? Once again, be honest. Remember: I work in a prison, I’m used to negative feedback, and I’ve heard my share of “you suck.” Now if I could only engage in a game of Twister.

DANCIN' BABY EEL

I caught this bass on a Dancin’ Baby Eel and after studying the picture, a revelation hit me: I’ve never truly written much about fishing technique. Where’s the hook, the line, the sinker? Where’s the discussion about bait?

We had our school audit this week (bare with me, there’s a common thread here, trust me, you should, you really really should). Let’s start with a recap:

While Auditor #1 pulled every 10th student file in our school office, Auditor #2 stood in my classroom grilling me: “Why weren’t you at mandatory training last week?”

“Zero-point-nine,” I answered, a reference to the dismal amount of CEUs (Continuing Education Credits) teachers could earn for the two-day conference.

“Maybe you misunderstood me, the training was MANDATORY,” she said, as if I were brain dead, as if 0.9 were my blood alcohol level. “Why weren’t you there?”

I politely told her to discuss this matter with my boss.

She moved on, “I’d like to see how you keep track of each student’s progress?”

I showed her absolutely nothing, instead, I vocalized my dissatisfaction with MDIT (Michigan Department of Information Technology). “My computer crapped out on June 10, 2008,” I explained—as if she’d understand my deficiency in tracking student progress—“DIT never replaced my hard drive.”

“You are submitting the appropriate reports to the school office, aren’t you?” She asked.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my new hard-drive storage system; I answered with a confident “YES.”

After the auditors left, our boss called a staff meeting. “We did excellent,” she said. “We only had two student evaluations missing from all the files that were pulled.”

I couldn’t help myself. Since I was the senior teacher, the undesignated “mentor,” I asked for clarification as to which students had missing paper work. She indicated the students of the less experienced teachers.

“That’s not too bad,” I added as consolation.

A veteran teacher shot me an incredulous look; He knew why the auditors never found the missing information on my students. Whatever work I couldn’t finish prior to the audit, I simply pulled the appropriate files and stuck them in my filing cabinet. Call it my new “hard-drive storage system.”

Now back to that Dancin’ Baby Eel …

CONFIDENCE IS ...

My classroom oozes confidence. All eyes are on Prisoner Fahey. He inflates his chest, spouts off how he’s oh so ready to take the GED Exam, and if it weren’t for HIS TEACHER holding him back, making him do the required class assignments, he’d be done—“d – u – n”—done. He’s that confident; confident with a capital K.


Confidence doesn’t necessarily mean having a plan, sticking to it, and knowing that in the end it’ll work out. No sir. Confidence is making the right play at the right time and triumphantly talking about it in a controlled environment. It’s robbing a gas station and getting away with the loot, or snatching an old lady’s purse for her debit/credit card. Confidence is achieving your goal, even if the gas station attendant whips out his own handgun and aims for your torso; He’s a working stiff, Prisoner Fahey explains, a wannabe-hero but really a zero; he wouldn’t dare squeeze the trigger, and even if he did, he’d most definitely miss, he’d wet his pants. That’s confidence!

As for that old lady with the throaty scream, she can be out run, no problem there. Prisoner Fahey says, Focus on the direction you’re heading, blend in with the crowd. Confidence is knowing that most people will not make a citizen’s arrest. It’s knowing that even if you get caught, even if you’re standing in a criminal line-up, the victim will develop sudden amnesia and select the wrong person. And if for some fluke of a reason the victim does select you, confidence is realizing that you will get out of prison one day. Confidence is, after all, playing the odds to the nth degree.

Prisoner Fahey puts more thunder into his voice. "Just put me on the test,” he demands.

“When you’re in the chow hall,” I ask him, “how do you eat your hot dog?”

This throws him off, rattles him to his very core. He may or may not have a clue where I’m going with this. All eyes are on him. He tenses up. His voice starts to crack. “What’s that got to do with my taking the GED Exam?” he asks.

“Some guys,” I reply with a quick shrug of my shoulders, “will eat their hot dog from the middle.”

I'VE GOT INFORMATION ...

“There is no understanding of evil, only the recognition of what it is.” —Donna Pendergast, Prosecutor

On occasion, after an inmate discovers that I’ve published a few short stories, he’ll tell me bits and pieces of his past history. “You should write about my case,” he’ll offer, as if the general public would be fascinated with his criminal past.

He may be right.

The prisoners know all too well about the public’s morbid curiosity with the seedier side of life. I’d like to think I don’t fit that general mold; I’d like to think that any true-crime books I’ve read are not approached in the same manner as the general public. I sometimes wonder why I haven’t gotten my fill of them. Let me just say this: it heightens my sense of awareness when dealing with convicts. One such book, “Darker than Night” by Tom Henderson, hits close to home, serving up prison snitches throughout, as Detective Bronco Lesneski from the Michigan State Police (trained at the same DeMarse Academy as I) cracks an 18 year-old double homicide of two deer hunters. Although no bodies were found, certain perpetrators knew brothers Raymond and Donald Duvall killed their victims, hacked them up, and fed them to their pigs. In fact, there were probably more people involved in the actual killing, but only two were tried and convicted.

What I find most interesting, however, are the snitch kites, aka letters, used as desperate attempts at time cuts. For instance, in December 1998 (13 years after the murders), Inmate Bolzman from the E.C. Brooks Correctional Facility sent a letter to former Macomb County Prosecutor Carl Marlinga. He writes:

Hopefully, you could tell me if your office held a grand jury investigation hearing into the deaths of missing hunters … I wish to correspond with you on this because I have very important evidence of who was involved …

This information was forwarded to Detective Lesneski, and shortly afterward, Bolzman was transferred to the Thumb Correctional Facility where he could be interviewed regarding these matters.

Throughout his book, Henderson gives us detail after detail of prisoners willing to provide information on the double homicide. This is what peaks my interest. I often wonder how many of my current and former students are preoccupied with wanting to “drop a dime” on someone. I suspect most. It’s in their nature. It’s in their blood. They want their freedom. All I can do is sit back and listen.

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