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.

MORE INFO

Cause-and-Effect (Making Inferences)

When a self-admitted crackhead—let’s call him Prisoner K—reads about a tropical rain forest, his mouth and index finger stumble over the words. He knows he’s set foot, temporarily, in unfamiliar terrain. “Can you pronounce this for me?” he asks.

“Photosynthesis,” I answer.

He’s learning about cause-and-effect relationships, where one “thing” can make another “thing” happen. More specifically, he’s studying the global effects of the rain forests. He repeats after me, “Pho-to-synnn-the-sis,” and continues to drag his finger across the page.

With guided practice and encouragement, Prisoner K is able to answer most questions. However, there’s one open-ended question troubling him to no end: What can you do to help prevent the destruction of tropical rain forests?

He smudges his first answer and starts over. “Quit chopping down trees,” he scrawls.

“Now Mr. K,” I ask, “when’s the last time you swung an axe or used a chainsaw?”

“Never.” He shows me where he found his answer—middle of page 84.

“You’re not a logger,” I point out.

“Nah, I’m just a former crackhead.”

I ignore his statement. “How about not wasting paper, how about recycling?” … “Paper comes from trees,” I add.

“Yeah,” he responds, “but nothing I do is gonna matter.”

... HEARSAY

I overheard two students discussing the cell extraction of a prisoner in their housing unit, and, as usual, one put his own spin on it, while the other agreed.

—They beat the livin’ tar out of a handicap person.

—Yeah, they should’ve let him be. I heard the screams.

—Beat his ass real bad.

—You guys don’t have a clue, I said. There was a slight pause, before they started up again.

—All in our Kool-Aid and don’t know the flavor, the younger student said.

—Yeah. Dippin’ and dappin’ and don’t know what’s happenin’.

I tried to redirect, to get them focused on their school work. It was a losing battle.

—That man wasn’t gonna hurt nobody.

—I heard they dumped him from his wheelchair.

—Guys, knock it off. It has nothing to do with you.

—They made us leave our unit, the older student claimed.

—Yeah. How’d you like to be gassed?

—He was stuck like Chuck.

I didn’t want to engage their conversation, yet I couldn’t help myself. I asked them if they knew about his staff assaults prior to arriving at our facility. I asked them if they knew about his shampooing the cell floor in preparation of a conflict. I asked them if they knew about the razor blade weapons he used on the officers. They were in denial. I gave them a direct order not to speak about it again. —Enough’s enough, I said. The class resumed its normal operations. Silence hung in the air. Such unbearable tension.

—They didn’t gas him. They wanted us out of the unit. They didn’t want witnesses.

—Okay, I said, remembering my days teaching delinquent youths, you better check yourself before you wreck yourself …

—‘Cause I’m bad for your health, they said in unison. Then they laughed.

MDIT WARNING

The Michigan Department of Information Technology (MDIT) is warning all state agencies not to open e-mail related to “CNN” or “The Beijing Olympics.” These e-mails ask for a “flash player” update and once given permission, download a malicious virus that will kill your computer. MDIT claims they’re dispatching technicians across the state to fix infected computers. They suggest calling their 800 number for assistance.

Maybe I should give them a ring. “My computer is infected,” I could lie, “can you send someone over here pronto?” What do I have to lose? I’ve been waiting two months for MDIT to fix my machine. Not that it’s a real emergency. I only use it for class attendance, student plotters, student evaluations, Adult Learning Plans, monthly reports (including the latest and greatest Offender Education Tracking System & boilerplate forms), TABE scores, half-test scores, GED scores, testing schedules, academic payroll, tutor payroll, and the occasional memo. None of this, you see, is top priority.

I’ve been cancelling classes too, wandering around like a nomad in search of a functional computer to keep pace with my job duties. My students are losing out on classroom instruction. Not that that matters either. With the constant “transfers” and “ride-ins,” our facility is a revolving door of human bodies. As long as enrollment stays at 20 per class, as long as my computer is fixed in time for our August 28th school audit, as long as my records are in order, then the Talking Heads will be content. That is—if I don’t say the wrong thing. Last time we had an audit, I informed the auditors that we had an academic teacher who never had a teaching certificate. Ouch!!!

In this photograph I’m sporting a 1996 Summer Olympic neck tie from Atlanta, Georgia. A former prison librarian gave it to me after the death of her ex-husband. As for her—she lost her job for doing some X-Rated activities with an inmate. Now they’re safely married. He’s doing his bit, while she’s working security at the Flint airport.

GONNA GET MY METAL

There are times where I have to remind my students of their current situation, “You’re incarcerated. Your choices are limited,” and to soften the blow, someone usually responds with something like: “I bet you was a real nerd when you was a kid.”

It’s always easier to deflect the pain, to switch the focus, to point the spotlight on someone else, especially an authority figure. I’m a good sport about it. I usually tell them about the neighborhood bully who made me do his school work, how it helped me get to where I am today. They’re not stupid; they see the hidden message in what I’m saying. Call it my ultimate revenge, even though I’m not a vindictive person.

On Monday, when I report back to my fishbowl, these types of comments will increase tenfold. It only takes one prisoner to peep the braces on my teeth. They’re a real pain in the ass. The inmates. The braces.

My sentence: three years. I’m already drinking buckets of coffee, which should yellow the ceramic appliances in no time. At least that’s what the orthodontist’s assistant calls them. And how the hell do you eat anything? In a few months I’ll probably start looking like Christian Bale when he starred in “The Machinist.”

On a slightly similar subject, I have jury duty in September. If I’m selected to participate in a trial, I promise to remain impartial, I promise not to take out all my past (and current) frustrations on some poor unfortunate soul. I’m just hoping for plenty of down time away from our facility, away from the convicted felons, so I can read a good novel or two, and perhaps practice my writing.

Song of the day: “Lunchbox” by Marilyn Manson

THIS OLD HEAD

Lately, due to my so-called uncooperative work spirit, I’ve been labeled an “Old Head,” which, if misconstrued, reeks of ageism. My boss says (as if I’m out of earshot), “The Old Heads won’t do it”—a reference to a modified work schedule.




I am here to say, “I am not an Old Head.” That is, unless you mean someone with work experience, someone who has been around the block, who has seen pit-near everything, who knows what does and does not make sense. For instance: I’ve been approached regarding a 2-day educational conference in Lansing. Since I need 18 CEUs (Continuing Education Units) to renew my teaching certificate, I asked, “How many CEU’s will I earn?”

After my question got kicked up the ladder (Lansing) and back down to the bottom rung (me), I received the following emailed response: We are, at this point based on the hours for both days a teacher can get .9 CEU’s. They will have to fill out a form and submit $10 as the department will not pay the processing fee. They will be able to sign up in the morning when they register. It is all or nothing, we cannot do a one day CEU amount, they must attend both days. (No corrections made to email.)

Hmmm… call it negativity if you will, but I will call it practical. Ten dollars is reasonable. No problem there. However, at this rate I’d have to attend 20 2-day conferences—the equivalent of 40 days of shutting down my classroom—in order to renew my teaching certificate. How absurd is that? What ever happened to 1 CEU meaning 1 hour of training or at least something remotely close?

Once again, this “Old Head” will refuse to do something that doesn’t make sense. Hopefully this will not lead to further name-calling, and if it does, I might have to fight back. I might have to call the powers that be, “Talking Heads.” Yippity-yap-yap-yap.

THE COPENHAVER RISK FACTOR

Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he’d gone too far, so we decided to hang him.

From "Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby"

by Donald Barthelme


With what he had done, Ryan Copenhaver should’ve known his life would never be the same. Normalcy flew out the window the day he flipped his vehicle. But he was the lucky one; Two passengers did not fare so well. So much for—in the words of Prince—partying “like it's 1999.” August 6, 1999, to be exact. Injured: 1 Casualty: 1.

Copenhaver served 3 years and 7 months. Then he paroled. Then he experienced life as a semi-free man. Days rolled into months rolled into years. He worked two menial jobs. He’d been sober for God knows how long. (That was expected.) So why the change in events? Did he think his blatant disregard for the conditions of his parole would go unnoticed? Hadn’t he rules to follow? How careless could he be? Did he not read the fine print? Did he not listen to his parole agent? And only three months from becoming a truly free man! Three months! Shame, on, him!

Here’s his violation: Possession of weapons.

Here’s the punishment: Tack on 5 years. Reinstate his prison number. Retrieve his prison file. Stick a B prefix on the cover. Have the quartermaster fit him for his prison blues. He’s coming back. Second time’s a charm.

The Michigan taxpayers are much safer with Copenhaver off the streets. Face it, he didn’t pay enough in taxes. He’s much more valuable when locked up. He’ll create prison jobs. We’ll feed him, we’ll shelter him, we’ll supervise him. Do we have a choice? There’s no telling what mayhem he may have caused with two toy “air guns” found in the attic of his friend's parent's house. He could’ve robbed a fast-food joint. He could’ve robbed a gas station. Or worse—he could’ve robbed a liquor store and flipped another vehicle and heaven forbid killed another passenger.