WHAT BARNEY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

All week long I’ve learned about “Collaborative Case Management” at a Holiday Inn Express—four days to be exact. It’s part of the MPRI program (Michigan Prisoner ReEntry Initiative). The CCM approach is to get everyone on the same page: social workers, probation/parole agents, prison educators, custody staff, prisoners, and last but not least, supervisors of the Michigan Department of Corrections. The trainers did a fantastic job presenting the material. You could see how passionate they were about the program in their message of how the benefits of CCM far outweigh the negatives.

But I’m not so sure.

And it’s not their fault.

We were asked by the trainers whether we would be willing to wear purple jumpsuits if management made it a requirement—it’s one of the training modules. Most of us did not have a problem with being supplied uniforms. The trainers listed our pros and cons regarding this issue. From that discussion, Mark G., a parole agent with over thirty years of experience, shared a story about being dressed as Barney for a children’s benefit at the Macomb Mall. While doing the gig, he recognized a parolee, a habitual booster. He followed the parolee through the mall, and sure enough, caught the man stealing. Since this was a clear parole violation, and Mark G., aka Barney, aka parole agent, witnessed it, an arrest was made.

Some of us didn’t believe his story.

On the last day of training a special guest appeared—Barney! In the spirit of collaboration, he tried to engage us in the “I love you, you love me” song. We had our laughs. Some employees even took pictures of the purple dinosaur. Barney stayed for no more than five minutes, then left. When Mark G. appeared he seemed disappointed to have missed all the fun. You could see the sadness in his eyes.

After lunch, when everyone reported back to the Holiday Inn Express, it was evident that the two trainers were upset. Since I did not leave the Holiday Inn, I witnessed part of the interrogation.

Without the trainers’ prior knowledge, a trainee took a picture of them with Barney and sent it to another state employee. That state employee, who doesn’t care for Mark G., sent it to a superior in Lansing. The superior in Lansing sent it to a district manager. The district manager, along with another superior, drove from their offices thirty minutes away to the Holiday Inn Express to interrogate the trainers.

Hmmm… and I’m supposed to agree with a program that embraces collaboration? Where’s the love? I guess there isn’t any.

As for Mark G., he called his union representative.

I wished him well. Not that he needs it. He’s run nine marathons, drinks Mountain Dew by the buckets full, and firmly believes that a criminal will quit their criminal life when they are tired. In his own words: “I’m here to tire them out.” As for his supervisor, give him hell, Mark!

MULTIPLYING BIRDS

“Okay, show me the birds,” I’ll say whenever someone important is being escorted down the prison school corridor. “Palms out, away from your face, birds touching.”

Most of the inmates know the exercise. From thumbs to pinkies, each digit represents the numbers six through ten, respectively. I write “8 x 8” on the board, just in case someone has forgotten.

“Your birds are eights,” I’ll remind them. “Birds on down count as ten each, so how much do you have?”

By now I’ll have lost most of them. A few might understand. As for you, smart-reader-that-you-are, it’s easier than a game of twister in prison (not something you’d want to partake in). “Sixty,” you should have figured out by now.

“Okay, how many fingers are above the birds?”

Again, if you’re sitting at your computer doing this exercise, or looking at the picture, you’ll notice two fingers above the left bird and two fingers above the right bird.

“What’s 2 x 2?” I’ll ask.

“Four.”

“Put it all together and what do you have?”

“Sixty plus four, umm, ehhh, … sixty-four.”

And who says blogging can’t be educational? Watch the video below for more instruction.

A SPY SNOOZER

I, JR Thumbprints, willfully, and of my own volition, cancelled afternoon GED Classes on July __ , 2009. I did this knowingly and without proper consent. Getting permission would have meant correspondence with Lansing, which in turn would have meant disrupting a committee meeting (or two or three) for approval, which would have meant canceling said classes while waiting for said answer to cancel said classes—instead, I said nothing, to nobody, and cancelled. Besides, I could not see myself disrupting those in Lansing dedicated to renewing their Continuing Education Credits.

Furthermore, I, JR Thumbprints, had prior knowledge that canceling classes would be a direct NO NO, subject to 40 lashes with a wet noodle.

On the date in question, Prison Informant A relayed information to me regarding Prison Informant B’s emailed message to Lansing regarding the above information concerning my improper conduct. I, in turn, provided Prison Informant A information as to why I cancelled class: Student Payroll and Tutor Payroll.

Whether Prison Informant A’s information about Prison Informant B’s actions was reliable remains questionable. I do not know the motives. Nor do I have the time to delve into such matters. For those of you having similar difficulties (and for Informants A & B) click on the following link for assistance: The Bear.

DISAPPEARANCE ...

TV GUIDE:

MSNBC 10:00 PM Tonight: “Disappearance at the Dairy Queen”

CATEGORY: Special, Documentary, Crime

SYNOPSIS: Cindy Zarzycki goes missing while walking to a local Dairy Queen to get a ride to a surprise birthday party for her boyfriend Scott.

STARRING: No one.


I'm sickened by it. How do I explain?

This is not a formal apology, nor is it an angry diatribe. I have no platform, no soapbox, from where to preach. I’m not sure the general public would understand my actions, my position, as much as my thought-out but never-acted-upon reaction.

I believe in saying “Please” and “Thank You,” and opening doors for others. It’s the right thing to do. It’s civilized. I’m sure you would agree.

“Let me get that for you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

That’s how our conversation went. He held the door open. I said, “Thanks.” An exchange of pleasantries.

So why did this small act of kindness become a festering wound? Why did I regret what I had said?

He entered the administration building from the back, while I exited. His destination: The courthouse for sentencing in the brutal rape and murder of a thirteen-year-old girl. My destination: The prison school building beyond the chow hall.

During our passing I didn’t know his identity, although I will admit he looked familiar. Then, after our kind words to one another, it dawned on me: I’d seen his mug shot in the Detroit Free Press.

I wanted to ask him: What you did—was it instinctual like opening a door? Or did you think about it? Did you plan it? But how would he answer? Would he say, “I don’t know,” or would he say, “You’re welcome”?

I wouldn't get my answer until a year later, when I settled in for the night, after eating my dinner, walking the dog, then returning to see what was on television, to see what might interest me. My thoughts came rushing back; I'll never forget the exchange of kindness. I wish it would have never happened. I wish that girl would have never disappeared. I wish they could have rewritten the ending. But then again, it's a documentary involving a killer, a killer that I had met, a killer I had "thanked" for holding a door open as I walked past, as he waited to meet his fate.

HOW A POEM LEADS TO MURDER

I hadn’t read the poem “My Brother Killing My Brother” in years—2004 to be exact. The Detroit poet said he had no idea it would apply to U.S. soldiers. I guess timing is everything when it comes to publishing.

I brought the poem inside a correctional facility, its true meaning hidden within the pages of a now defunct literary journal, a meaning soon to be stretched within the confines of three concertina-wired fences and neighboring gun towers.

“I know this poet’s brother!” the classroom tutor says, chuckles. He parks his wheelchair near my desk.

I have a confession to make: I’m not passionate enough about poetry, unless, of course, it’s confessional poets validating their words through extreme measures. Still, I listen.

The tutor tells me how the poet’s brother pummeled a man with a baseball bat, how the poet’s brother didn’t know his victim, how the cops discovered the poet’s brother sleeping in a field not too far from the car he’d left idling on the shoulder of the road, how that car idled until it ran out of gas. “James,” the tutor remarks, “blacked out. The cops woke him up. He hadn’t a clue about what he’d done.” More laughter.

Of course I have no way of substantiating any of this; I have the words of a prisoner confined to a wheelchair.

I study the words, I stop at the subtitle: (in a series of poems denouncing violence). I read about images of exposed brain: tofu in Merlot sauce, feta cheese & beet juice on a salad of sticky hair, white chips of shattered skull…

I’m mesmerized by the words, by the totality of it all. And I’m a bit shocked as well. I feel like a detective assessing the crime scene. Who is this Detroit poet in question? I read parts of the byline: Joseph Ferrari, business owner of Leadfoot Press. If I wanted to know more, I’d contact the poet. I’d start by asking, “Do you have a brother?” Not that I need to—the poem has done its job, the poem is that good.

IN SEARCH OF ...

I want the truth. That’s what it came down to. Not writing style. Not subject matter. Not even character. Just “Truth”—its complexity, its many facets. It didn’t matter whether the fictional characters knew about the truth, discovered it, stumbled upon it, or were killed by it—that’s not what I was searching for—what mattered is how I discovered or accepted that “Truth.”

I’m talking about my top five picks for the Reader’s Choice award at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night’s “Truth in Wine” contest.

Ironically, my personal favorite, “Vintage” by Jimmie Vee did not make my top five. I desperately tried to justify why it should be my number one pick; however, the discovery of “Truth” rang hollow. Oh sure, I loved the writing style. I loved the story. I certainly could identify with Tripp as he admired his wine bottle, as he drank from it and discovered the wine’s vinegary taste; unfortunately, his deliberate actions did not meet my acceptance of “Truth”. Maybe it was the return of his smile, how it meant an acknowledgment that Vivian had died over nothing, her accusatory voice silenced forever. He felt perfectly comfortable with the outcome. He’ll remain an abuser, a murderer. But to not show disappointment over the wine’s vinegary taste after admiring its contents is to show an absence of “Truth.”

I could go on and on—there were so many excellent entries—but to do so would not change my mind regarding my top five picks. My list includes stories involving female coworkers whose differences blossom, an ex-Vichy accepting his fate once presented with a vial of poison, a young couple's romantic encounter in a barn while their country becomes involved in war, the intimacy between objects after a glass of wine is spilled, and an illegal immigrant’s longing for his homeland, a country he ran away from. Without further ado (and without explanation) here are my top five picks in descending order:

Five: "Exit Strategy" by Angelique H. Caffrey
Four: "Judgment Day" by Peter Dudley
Three: "Truth in Wine" by Bebo
Two: "Intimacy" by Precie
One: "Moussa's Stop" by Dottie Camptown

*Footnote: I posted this after the Reader’s Choice deadline so as not to influence others.

THE SOBER TRUTH ABOUT TYLER & ZACHARY ON BICKERSTAFF STREET

Management switched my route. No overtime. No allowances for strange dogs sniffing at my heels, slowing me down. I’m on Bickerstaff, a cul-de-sac, last street before lunch. It’s hotter than the Devil’s breath out here.

“Mister, you look thirsty.”

“Well I’m not.” This kid’s sitting with a younger boy at a card table. Crystal stemware flicker like diamonds above a handwritten sign: Drinks, $5. A cooler sits in the uncut grass.

He introduces himself as Tyler, says, “It’s for a good cause.” He tells me a sob story how his baby-brother Zachary broke Mom’s vase, how they’re raising money to replace it.

Mom obviously doesn’t know, or they’d be using Styrofoam or plastic. I cram letters in their mailbox and smile at Zachary.

“Daddy said Mommy’s a whore.”

“Pardon me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

“Zachary’s disturbed,” Tyler says.

“What,” I ask, “could you possibly be selling at that price?”

Tyler opens the cooler, pulls out a bottle of Merlot, starts pouring.

“You can’t serve alcohol. You’re minors. Where are your parents?”

“Dad’s gone,” Tyler says.

“And your mother?”

“She’s gone too!” Zachary shouts.

There’s definitely anger in his voice. I wave my cell phone, indicate “police.” Tyler pleads with me, gives me their aunt’s number. I call her instead.

“I’m their legal guardian,” she says.

I explain my predicament, the alcohol, my social obligation.

“Their father’s in prison,” she says, “for murder.”

“And the mother?”

“Are you kidding? She’s on the fireplace mantel.”


**Originally posted at Clarity of Night.

THE BROOM-CLOSET-OFFICE

When your boss sticks you in a broom-closet near the med-lines and tells you this is your new office, you do not argue. He is a doctor; You are nineteen. You need your job. But still, you are more deserving than a broom-closet.

Still, you perform your secretarial duties like before, back when you shared an office space with the other female coworkers. Now it’s different, you are alone. In a broom-closet. Near the med-lines. In a male prison.

When you begin your shift, an inmate shimmies your lock with a paperclip and steps into your broom-closet-office. He closes the door and thrusts a shank in your direction. You do what you’re trained to do—you holler for help and pull your PPD (Personal Protection Device). You do this at approximately the same time his fist connects with your face.

Luckily, the corrections officers respond and you are not hurt. Luckily, the maintenance workers did not act on the maintenance request your boss submitted—you know, to have your broom-closet-office re-keyed. I guess your boss didn’t think it would be necessary for the officers to have access to your broom-closet-office. Thankfully, the only deterrent keeping the officers from helping you was a paperclip. You are safe.

I mention these things, not to be funny. I say this because one of our employees could’ve been killed today.

LETTER TO THE WHITE HOUSE

Dear President Obama:

When Air Force One flew over our prison the other day—we are a “no fly” zone by the way; had some kook in an ultra light waving to the prisoners—my immediate concerns were “how will I get home for dinner?” I had visions of secret service agents, men in black, shutting down I-94. I based my fears on a previous surprise visit by former President George W. Bush. He disrupted traffic for miles, for hours … and for what?—to purchase candy at Morley’s. My worries, at least this time, were unwarranted and purely selfish. I was hungry. I’m married. I have obligations. You understand.

But I digress. First, I’d like to thank you, Mr. President, for visiting Michigan and emphasizing how the unemployed autoworkers, the unemployed in general, need retraining. I wonder: Should those of us who are happily employed seek retraining as well?

If so, you needn’t worry about me. I’m like a chameleon. I can adapt to anything. For instance, when my work computer crapped out and promises of a new one went unfulfilled, I cabbaged a CPU from another area. When the Department of Information & Technology uninstalled the learning software on my student computers, I copied worksheets for them during my bathroom break. When my employer gave me furlough days, I crammed 80 hours worth of work into a 72-hour pay period.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can do more with less … and less … and less … and less. Is that what is meant by retraining? Learning to do more of everything and getting less in return? Is this the new United States’ Work Equation?

Improved Skills + Bigger Work Load = Less Money

Thanks in advance. Sincerely,

JR the Prison Educator

TOO MUCH WINE & TRUTH SPEAKS

I’ve been reading all those “In Vino Veritas (Truth in Wine)” short fiction entries at Jason Evan’s Clarity of Night and leaving comments. Funny thing is, the writer of one of my favorite flashes (so far) had to defend his story from what I thought was a compliment.

Here’s what I said: I must admit, the way your main character was examining the bottle, I had a feeling it would be used as a weapon. Still, the descriptions were very well done.

His response: JR, I’m sorry to hear that working in a prison environment all these years has traumatized you to the point that you expect anything taken up in hand will likely be used as a weapon (although it is certainly understandable). I don’t feel the climax was so obviously laid out for the “general population” reader. Nonetheless, I do appreciate your and everyone else’s comments.

Hmmm… from the tone of his response, I’m not sure he appreciated my comment—that is, unless he wants to invite me over for a glass of wine. I’ll leave it at that. I encourage everyone to read his story (it really is that good). Click here.

Oh, and if you haven’t read my flash, here’s the link:

The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street.

LOST, FOUND & CLARITY OF NIGHT

Another happy childhood memory, another “Young Author’s Award” (1973), and another disturbing page from a much larger work. Perhaps Julie (see her comment on July 8th’s post) has a valid point—I’m beginning to see and hear the poetry; the words are jumping off the prison stationary.









There’s no need for commentary here, but if you’d like to read my flash fiction story, “The Sober Truth about Tyler & Zachary on Bickerstaff Street” then "X" marks the spot. Also, as the competition “wines” down (deliberate spelling, pun intended), I’ll give you the links to my favorites.

LOST & FOUND

I threw out my high school diploma years ago; curbed it with the regular trash. I’m not sure why I had done this.

—Why did the ancient mariner shoot the albatross?
—Why not?
—Because it was there.

I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered a “Young Author’s Award” tucked between the pages of a book I’d read long ago (James Dickey). It’s those things that we don’t readily see that end up surviving. I won this award two years in a row, 6th and 7th grade, and attended a Young Writers’ Conference at Malow Junior High School. What did I write about? Beats me. What I do know is that thirty-five years later and I have yet to attend another writing conference. Most of my stories are workshopped amongst the felons I teach.

On a different note, when I showed this certificate to my brother, he recalled Principal Cunningham’s daughter. When we were both in college, he dated her for a short period of time. Her first name escapes us.

As for the second, fairly current document written on prisoner stationery, it’s the misplaced work of a delusional individual. This is part of a much larger work that he is trying to get published. I wonder how long it will take before he discovers that his masterpiece is incomplete. Perhaps the story is so disjointed that it shouldn’t take away from his brilliance. I will say this: most of his time and energy is devoted to his art.

TURN THE ... SCROLL THE ...

Based on the premise that “you are your books,” I have to say I’m losing myself. Call me an organ donor, donating pieces of myself to my local community’s book sale, basing my sacrifices on the following: “Will I ever read that novel or that short story collection again?” I already know the answer and I refuse to delve any deeper than one word—“NO”—even after scanning my bookshelves, reading each title, jogging my memory of stories, plots, themes, characters, authors and so much more. “No.”

My reading habits are slowly changing too. I’m no longer turning as many pages; I’m scrolling and pointing instead. I’m creating new experiences over the Internet. I’m adding online literary journals to the “my favorites” tab on my web browser, as well as deleting a few less favorable favorites. Still, there are a few books I will continue purchasing annually. "The Pushcart Anthology" is one of them; I get the best stories, poems, and essays of the small presses without having to subscribe to all those literary journals. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still subscribing to a few journals here and there.

Now I have another must order book, spawned by my changing reading habits—“Best of the Web 2009” published by Dzanc Books in Westland, Michigan. I had preordered it and so far it’s worth every penny. Why, you may ask, am I paying for something I can read for free over the Internet? Let’s just say I’m boosting Michigan’s economy and Dzanc Books is steering me in the direction of some of the best fiction and poetry on the Internet.

Kick ass story from Best of the Web 2009:
“When My Girlfriend Lost the Weight” by Matt Getty from "FRIGG."

“…There I go, turn the page.” Bob Seger

“…There I go again, scroll the page." JR Thumbprints