RAGS, WIDOWS & ORPHANS

Sounds like Dickens, doesn’t it?—Rags, Widows … Orphans.

My last post was meant to be looked at for its shape, its beauty, its style, and not so much for its content. Sorry Charles. Not Dickens! Gramlich! I never intended for you to read the jpegs. If so, I would’ve posted a PDF (which isn’t exactly the truth because I don’t know how to do that on Blogger). Because Lana's a visual artist—a painter, a photographer—she knew exactly what to do; call it my first public display of a layout design.

I’m still learning the intricacies of Adobe InDesign CS4. I’ve completed three-fourths of my graphic design class with an 89% average, or should I say: B+. Still, after perusing various on-line literary magazines, I think I can compete. Not that I’m planning on it. Too much work. Besides, there are some really dedicated editors out there.

So what’s a rag? A bad rag is that ugly shape created by the white space in your right margin; whereas, a good rag uses small increments of space, making the reader more comfortable with the written content (maybe this is why Charles decided to read). If you examine rags further, when the last line at the bottom of a paragraph or page contains only one word, it leaves way too much white space and distracts the reader. Not good typography at all. This is called a widow. Or is it an orphan? No, no, no … a widow leaves too much white space, and an orphan is a single word that makes a short line. I guess they go together; they leave too much white space.

Thank you for your patients, your tolerance.

IF I WERE A GRAPHIC DESIGNER / EDITOR

PITCH & CATCH

It’s easier using the fist-in-your-face approach instead of calmly explaining your position on a topic. How else do you make someone understand your point of view? How else do you get someone to commit to your beliefs? That’s how my students communicate. They feel getting louder and louder wins the argument; if it doesn’t, then a major ass-whipping is sure to follow.

In anger management, assault-offenders, and other self-help courses, the prisoners are instructed to write their way through various scenarios. By writing, or thinking through a situation, one would hope certain impulses would change. “Think before you react,” becomes the mantra—only one problem: the other guy; he might get a jump on you, he might enforce his own convictions. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try to change a few misguided souls, and hopefully Clockwork Orange will not be revisited.

I gave my students the following writing assignment: In 300 words or less, continue my story “Pitch” from the perspective of an inmate (in essence, put yourself into the situation). They knew this was a creative writing exercise and that I wouldn’t be diagnosing their problems based on what they wrote. Most of the stories I received did indeed have too much physical violence (I won’t divulge the numerous ways a teacher can be tortured); however, one story stood out from the rest. Without further ado:

“Catch” by I-Wish-To-Remain-Anonymous

I wouldn't let go of his wrist. He wouldn't listen to me.

He tells me I won’t get paroled if I keep this behavior up.

I tell him, “It’s too late, I’ll have LIFE once I get what I want.”

He asks, “So what’s your pitch?”

I laugh. “You think you got it all figured out.” I make my observation, “You know what goes on in the classroom, but you don’t know what happens out there on the yard … or in the cellblock.”

He asks me, “What are you getting at?”

“Let’s just say I’ve come face to face with pitches before. Sunglasses were my only option.”

He looks perplexed.

I reach back into the wastepaper basket and grab my butterscotch candy. I tell him, “You’re gonna wish you ate this, you quick-witted bastard.”

He tries to loosen my grip.

“Free is a contradiction,” I say. “Nothing in life is free. There’s always a catch. You have to pay a price for everything you do.”

REAL SCHOOL LEAVE

I took school leave to redefine myself, to reinforce the belief that I’m just as much a part of Michigan’s education system as the thousands of public school teachers armed with lesson plans. Prison teachers, you see, don’t “plan,” as much as “redirect.” We wield quarterly IEP’s (Individualized Education Plans), knowing damn well our students won’t follow a word we say. Still, a start’s a start and we do a lot of that—“starting.”

I have to remind myself that my teaching certificate is just as good, if not better than most certified teachers - even WITHOUT a Masters Degree in Educational Leadership. Too many chefs in the kitchen, too many bloated paychecks, and the diner, the consumer, ain’t consuming. But this isn’t about eating or salaries. This is about volunteering at a public middle school and gathering bags full of money—lunch money.

So I got caught up in the school’s penny wars, something The National Junior Honor Society sponsors to raise money for charity. The class with the most pennies wins an Olive Garden lunch. And it’s not just pennies collected—students chip away at their opponents’ penny total by tossing nickels, dimes, and quarters into their enemy’s coffers.

So I took the loot to a Coin Star, fed the machine, collected the receipts, then reported back to the principal’s office. Regardless of the results, here are a few of my observations: 1) the resource and special education classes didn’t collect much, probably due to class size, 2) their coins were caked in mud or foreign or Windsor Casino / Chuck E.Cheese tokens, and 3) I was not afforded the opportunity to interact with the teachers or students.

Overall, I enjoyed my day.

READING "PITCH"

IT'S WHAT I'VE STEPPED INTO

I suppose I’m like most working stiffs, happy to be employed, doing a job that I never in a million years dreamt about doing. On occasion I’ll hear people say, “I love my work. I love my job.” These are the people I love to hate. Call it envy.

When is the so-called awakening? When does one realize their special calling or talent? Without getting all religious on anyone, I’ve found times where I think I’ve stepped into my element, found my niche; then I have those days when reality sinks in, where self-discovery comes in the form of shit caked onto the waffle-bottom of my shoe.

I’ve often defined myself as a convict teacher, much to the chagrin of The Walking Man and others. In fact, TWM thinks I shouldn’t limit my self-identity; we are, after all, multi-dimensional, not cardboard cut-out characters. I know he’s right. The way I see it: I spend the majority of my waking hours inside a correctional facility supervising prisoners. It’s what I’d like to think I’m good at. It’s also what I write about most of the time. It’s what I’ve stepped into.

Twenty-some years ago, I met a fellow college student in an Early American Literature Course. We became friends, if only for a short time. She went her way. I went mine. She had an undying passion for Victorian literature and continued her studies in Illinois, earning a master degree and PhD. She also wrote a book in her area of expertise. I haven’t spoken to her in decades. I sometimes wonder if she had any missteps along the way; I seriously doubt it; I’d have a hard time believing it. Check out her YouTube video.

As for me, I’ll continue my journey, not knowing whether I’m headed in the right direction but knowing that it’s the people I meet along the way, it’s what keeps me plodding along.

READ THIS

Working in a prison school, in an assembly-line style of educational instruction—make them do the work and send them down the line—you develop a certain callousness, a certain uncaring attitude, after all, the student population is a malleable, unstatic mess; it’s dirt swept under the administrator’s rug. Old students leave; new students arrive. Keep them moving. Keep pushing that broom.

I need a bigger broom.

When I process Prisoner Walker’s enrollment papers, documenting that he has “officially” started my class, I tell him, “I need your John Hancock.”

The inmate standing to his immediate right helps out. He says, “Where my thumb is.”

Mr. Walker scrawls his name across the document.

I continue. “Mr. Walker,” I say, “I’m going to add a statement to this report. Don’t get offended, I’m not a doctor, I can’t make the diagnosis, but I’m going to write: Student appears to be blind. He wears dark sunglasses and is aided by a cane and guide.”

Two days later I pull his school file. I discover a copied email from a Health Care Supervisor stating that Mr. Walker is indeed legally blind and will not be able to participate in school unless accommodations are provided.

Did I miss a staff meeting? Can someone please tell me where we keep our Braille? Or did Mr. Walker have some kind of cornea transplant and is playing me for a fool?

I've truly seen it all.

BUYING FEMININE DOUCHE

When there’s a family emergency the night before my midterm and I’m instructed to buy feminine douche—males are perfectly capable of using the self-checkout I’m told—I immediately cringe. “What if someone I know sees me?” There’s no time for argument. I’m off the hook … kind of … with a compromise. “Let’s go together,” I suggest.

My wife steps out of the half-bath, slides the pocket-door closed. “Hang in there baby,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

We purchase two packets, Country Flower and Vinegar and Water, eight douche bags total. And even though we do use the self-checkout, a female Kroger employee—who happened to see us entering through the exit door—gives us one of those Why-is-this-couple-buying-feminine-douche (AND ONLY FEMININE DOUCHE) at-11:30 PM-on-a-Friday-night look. Why can’t it wait?

I avoid her stare. My wife, on the other hand, feels the need to explain. “Our dog got sprayed by a skunk and our veterinarian said this was the best way to get rid of the smell.”

I’m happy to report that I did okay on my midterm, that our dog is as fresh as a the premature spring breeze, and that our house reeks something awful.

SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

Prisoner F has a metal plate in his head, a once busted orbital bone, a prosthetic eye, and a permanent smile. But don’t let his upturned mouth fool you—Car accident, he explains. You can hear the sadness in his voice.

He hates me, or not so much me, but what I represent. I’m an authority figure. I’m his gateway to a minimal education. I’m Mr. Follow-the-Policy. “Do your school work,” I say, eliciting such canned responses as “school sucks,” followed by traditional chest-thumping rituals and banter. I continue, “Keep it up. I got something for you.” I ball-up my hands.

“You can’t box,” he says. He rises from his chair.

I step to his right side, out of his periscope view and take a few slow short swings at the air. The students are amused.

“You got jokes,” he says.

On one rare occasion when he actually turned in an assignment, I inked it up, made it bleed real bad, and quickly dumped it back on his desk. “You know,” he said, “would it hurt you to praise your students once in awhile?”

“What do you want,” I asked, “a gold star?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I drew a smiley face at the top of his paper. I started with the mouth, enclosed it with a circle, then dotted it once and walked away.

He laughed. His permanent smile must’ve meant something, must’ve had meaning. The other students crowded around his desk to see what I had done. “That’s just plain wrong,” someone said, but all of them were laughing, all of them were giving him the attention he so desperately wanted.

UNPUBLISHING

I tried warning JR and that little wife of his. “Don’t go to the nursing home, the stomach flu’s incubating there, searching for new hosts.” They wouldn’t listen. He’s at Meijer’s right now, waiting for their prescriptions.

He wanted to be here to discuss the merits of on-line publishing. I’ll do that for him; I’ll summarize what’s going on. Two on-line editors (HTML Giant and Thieves Jargon ) had a misunderstanding. One thing led to another, until Blake Butler (HTML Giant) found himself “unpublished” at Thieves Jargon. As a side note, JR’s been “unpublished” himself when a certain on-line magazine severed his link like Lorena Bobbitt.

Anyway, here’s the whole enchilada regarding these two editors and the pro’s and con’s regarding on-line publishing: Now You Read It, Now You Don't: A Cautionary Look at Online Literary Magazines . If you’d like to add your two-cents regarding this incident or the entire online publishing scene, please do.

As for JR, hopefully he’ll be back soon.

Sincerely, Charlie.

P.S. Did everyone enjoy my cameo appearance in Adopted Behaviors?