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.