GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

ANTICIPATION: OVERCOOKED TURKEY

Can it be true? And just in time for Thanksgiving? I’m thinking “Buy Out.” Wife’s telling me to report to personnel after the holidays. Last time I dealt with the personnel department, they were campaigning to have me escorted from the prison grounds for what they thought was an expired teaching certificate (you can’t always believe what you read—especially if it’s from a website that hasn’t been updated in months. Incidentally, I update my blog on a semi-regularly, non-intermittent basis).

But this is different … or maybe not. Maybe it’s a subtle hint for me to “push-on.” I’m examining what appear to be official looking documents sent by the State of Michigan Civil Service Commission. There’s an application too, with an assigned policy number. It says:

Dear JR,

As an eligible State of Michigan defined benefit retiree, you are being given an additional opportunity to apply for Retiree paid Benefits …

What does this mean? I’m too young to be mistaken for a retiree. I’m not even a half-century old. Is this the State of Michigan’s way of chipping away at my future pension? I need to start planning. I need to investigate what type of shenanigans the Civil Service Commission is up to. I need to do it now. I need to crunch the numbers. Or perhaps I’ll wait; perhaps I’ll do it during the Detroit Lions’ Thanksgiving Day football game. At least some things never change.

A TIME OF CHEER, TWO MORE DAYS

Maybe it’s too early, or too depressing, or whatever. I see the anguish in their faces.

“You’re killing us,” one of my tutors says. They sit in a “tutors only” area, near the GED books, answer keys, and locked storage closet. They seldom lift their asses from their cushy chairs for fear of the students swapping out their hard chairs.

I console them. “It’s only for two days.” They are not happy about the situation. “Besides,” I continue, “maybe I can flush you out of the pocket like a Detroit Lions quarterback.” This is my indirect way of suggesting they work the classroom floor to see if anyone needs help on their assignments.

“You got to be kidding,” the other tutor says. “I’ve been sacked one time too many.” He has a valid point; in here, if you try to help someone and it doesn’t go well, fingers get pointed and accusations fly. “He’s the son-of-bitch told me to do it that way,” a student might tell me.

“Today and tomorrow,” I remind them. They’re worried about the month of December.

A student joins the revolt. He enters the “tutors only” section. He’s mad as hell. He’s rattling the door handle to the storage closet.

“I’m not changing the radio station,” I respond.

“Anything but Christmas music. Anything. Even if it’s country.”

“Nope.”

A female sings, “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me,” and ends on a high note, “if only in my dreams.”

**I’d like to thank former prison educator Mr. Woodman for donating his boom-box. Also, our deepest apologies for not having a going away party for you.

YOU'RE NEVER ALONE ...

There once was a time where I held semi-normal conversations with inmates—current events, sports, the weather (small talk really)—but not so much anymore; Now it’s all gibberish and drool and impassive stares.

 Coming back from the lunchroom, I witness stacks of boxes being wheeled into the facility on a daily basis--just like clockwork. Last I heard, approximately thirty-four thousand dollars a month is spent on various skittles which are dispensed, swallowed, regurgitated, bartered, and swallowed again.

 Two days. I need to get through two more workdays. Then I can relax, eat some turkey (wife’s going to stuff it with some lemons per Rachel Ray’s recommendation) and watch some football.

 In those two remaining workdays, I need to calm down a new student, a forty-three year old man with Schizoaffective Disorder. He seems to think the Michigan Department of Corrections will honor a worn & tattered memorandum from 2005; it’s from the United States Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, granting him permission not to attend school based on his combined limited intellectual ability and serious illness. He was as proud as a nervous, ultra-hyper, peacock showing me this document.

 I guess he’s never read the Schizophrenics Anonymous Steps for Recovery:

1. I SURRENDER … I admit I need help. I can’t do it alone.
2. I CHOOSE … to be well. I take full responsibility for my choices and realize the choices I make directly influence the quality of my days.
3. I BELIEVE … that I have been provided with great inner resources and I will use these resources to help myself and others.
4. I FORGIVE … myself for all the mistakes I have made. I also forgive and release everyone who has injured or harmed me in any way.
5. I UNDERSTAND … that erroneous, self-defeating thinking contributes to my problems, failures, unhappiness and fears. I am ready to have my belief system altered so my life can be transformed.
6. I DECIDE … to turn my life over to the care of God, as I understand Him, surrendering my will and false beliefs. I ask to be changed in depth.

I’m afraid he’s stuck on steps number one and two. His choice not to attend class will result in “00 Status”—no prison job, no pay, no nothing. After thirty days, per the school operating procedure, he’ll be re-enrolled in school and subsequently placed back on “00 Status.”

MY PERSONAL PROTECTION DEVICE

There seems to be confusion regarding PPD’s (Personal Protection Devices)—that’s how the meeting starts; As if those of us on the front line of the battlefield, those of us who spend a majority of our workday with prisoners, haven’t a clue about when to use them. What’s your perception of the PPD? When should it be used?

There’s been a rash of fights/assaults at our facility, and now someone wants to play Monday morning quarterback; wants to review the tapes and tell us—strike that—wants to “imply” what we’re doing wrong. The meeting room falls silent; no one is willing to step up to the plate and offer an interpretation. And why should they? To be gutted and filleted like some young fish?

You CAN USE your PPD when two inmates start fighting. IN FACT, we encourage you to do so.

I’m holding back my opinion on this; there’s no sense in stirring up controversy. It’s a “no-win” situation.

During the forced discussion, I decide to interject some humor. “The last fighting incident in my classroom,” I say, pausing for emphasis, “… at least they waited until after everyone finished testing.”

A few chuckles, nothing more. I did not use my PPD during this incident. I honestly didn’t feel it to be necessary; I wasn’t in harms way.

Later in the afternoon, I approach two corrections officers. I say, “Look, if I pull my PPD, it’s for me, I’m getting hurt, okay?”

They understand the message and reassure me that they’ll come running; I’ve made it personal.

TESTED. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU QUALIFY.

After seven days in the box (otherwise known as segregation), Prisoner Smith reappears in my classroom. Last time I had seen him, he was writing an essay.

“That’s some real bullshit,” he announces upon entry.

He’s referring to the fighting ticket I had written on him. I acknowledge his claim of injustice. “You had an opportunity to get out of the situation, but you chose to fight instead.”

“He sucker-punched me.”

This is a valid point. During a GED half-testing session—where they try to qualify for the actual GED exams—another prisoner took his best shot at the side of Smith’s head. Smith quickly stood his ground, as if the glancing blow hadn’t fazed him, and said, “So you wanna go again do yah?” Then he put up his dukes. I yelled for him to exit my classroom immediately. Another teacher in the hallway assisted; He opened the classroom door so Smith could make his escape.

He’s laughing now. “What you’re saying,” he sort of asks, “is that you wouldn’t have wrote the fighting ticket if I had ran out of your classroom.”

“Well …” I hesitate. “Not exactly.”

He waits for an explanation.

“The way it was explained to me,” I continue, “is that when you got into your boxer’s stance, you were showing an outward sign of aggression. Per policy and the Prisoner Rule Violation book, this fits the description of fighting.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Then I did the right thing?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” I say. He’s referring to his decision to serve up a five-piece combo, backing his opponent into a corner of my classroom with his superior boxing skills. “You qualified for the GED exams and you’re scheduled to take them next week,” I add.

He doesn’t seem to care about the GED, but he's no dummy; he understands perfectly clear how to survive in here.

A POTENTIALLY EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

It hasn’t happened … yet. But in the foreseeable future someone’s going to get slapped with a sexual harassment claim, someone’s going to get burned. And why not?

Yesterday, I’m making copies of worksheets when a coworker says, “This is the best weekend to hit the bars.” He’s not speaking to me, but to another coworker, a female. Still, the conversation is meant to be an open invitation for anyone to participate.

“This weekend?” she asks, somewhat puzzled. “What about …”

Before she can finish, he starts up again. “It’s the beginning of deer hunting season. While all those husbands are in the woods looking to shoot Bambi, their wives will be in the bars looking for some action of their own.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I’m not amused. He’s married. She’s married. I’m married.

On another occasion, I’m waiting my turn to speak to this same female coworker when a male coworker steps out of her office, and for reasons I’m not sure of (maybe he thinks I’ll be impressed) he leans back inside the door frame and says, “You can put your shirt back on now.”

He laughs; she laughs.

I do what is starting to become routine: I turn and walk away. No sense in being part of the situation. It’s hard to believe this type of behavior takes place inside a prison. It’s no different than playing with matches inside a place that manufactures fireworks. Soon enough, sparks will fly; soon enough, there will be a chain reaction of explosions; soon enough, there will be depositions and lawsuits. What started out as innocent banter between the sexes will careen out of control. It always does.

OVERWHELMING NUMBERS

When you’re looking for something, searching with all your might, and when you put your finger on it (in this case: a childhood photo circa 1973), the reality behind the search and the reality behind the subsequent discovery, can leave you speechless.

On March 8, 1973, I was a 9 year old boy. (Here I am, posing with my brother.)

On March 8, 1973, a Detroit teenager learned his fate.

Twenty-five years later we would meet: I, the convict-teacher, and he, the convict-student. He would earn the nickname “Speedboat” due to his learning difficulties, for what was written in his court transcripts, that he would never earn his high school equivalency diploma, that with an IQ of 75 he was mildly retarded. However, he proved the experts wrong; he passed his GED after studying mathematics in my classroom. This was approximately 10 years ago; It took him 17 years to complete.

Last week, he gave me a rather large envelope and requested that I look at its contents. In it I saw an official looking document with an embossed gold seal. Here’s part of what it said:

To the Michigan Department of Corrections,

Whereas, in the Circuit Court for the County of Oakland, (______) was convicted of the crimes of First Degree Murder and Conspiracy to Commit First Degree Murder. He was sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms;

And Whereas, the Michigan Parole Board has recommended . . .

Now Therefore, I, Jennifer M. Granholm, Governor of the State of Michigan, do hereby commute the sentences of (______) to terms of thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum and thirty-seven years, four months, fifteen days minimum to life maximum, thereby making him eligible for parole on February 27, 2009.

You are hereby required to make your records conform to this commutation.

With approximately 18 years correctional education experience, this is the very first Letter of Commutation I’ve seen. Speedboat made the following announcement to my students: “Never give up hope. Keep trying.”

I remained speechless, overwhelmed by the numbers.

ATTEMPTED ESCAPE

It’s true, I’m going through the motions, putting in my time—aren’t we all? And because of my complacency our facility almost had an inmate escape. Here’s what happened:

Every weekday at fifteen-hundred twenty hours I hear the following announcement: “Building 300 is closed. All prisoners return to your housing unit.”

My students file out, that’s the routine—lock-up and be counted.

“See you tomorrow Teach,” someone says.

I load up my cart: pencil box, stapler, three-hole punch, class binders, and dictionaries, and I roll the cart into a secured storage area. I give an A-O-K nod to the corrections officer making one final round. I power down my computer and lock my desk drawer and filing cabinets.

Nothing beats getting out of prison at the regular scheduled hour. No emergency situations. No sirens. No extra duty.

I put my coat on and just before I hit the light switches, I notice a young man sleeping in the back of the classroom.

“Hudson,” I yell. “Get the ##@$% out of my classroom!”

Hudson rises for a hot second, long enough to shake his dream world. His sleepy left leg doesn’t cooperate and he falls to the floor.

“You’re gonna miss count!”

He stands again, falls again—more encouragement from me. Soon he’s dragging his left leg down the hallway like Egor. He knows that if he doesn’t make it back to his cell on time he’ll be charged with an attempted escape. There are no excuses. He knows better.

THE SOMEWHERE ELSE HOME

JR,

First, thanks so much for sending us "Cocoon Man." After a healthy discussion, we have decided to pass on it. Know that we both agreed the story is efficient, tightly wound, and all the details and dialogue work toward the ending. We worried about the story lacking a wider or heavier sense of implication. There is the "descent while she watches from above" - which one might describe as an allusion to the archetypal circles of hell, which in turn are a consequence of sin, which in this story pertains to the threat of adultery - but it might arrive too loosely at the end. It is clear you know what you're doing as a writer, but in the end, it just wasn't a fit for us. We wish you the best of luck finding a home for it elsewhere. We're confident you will.

Sincerely,

The Editors
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Previous blog posts:
Reflecting Forward
Here in a Flash, Gone in a Flash

OFF CENTER WITH A LOSS OF APPETITE

I just haven’t been “feeling it” lately, and I’m not sure whether the approaching holidays are affecting my otherwise bland routine or what. Not even the lunatics—too numerous to count—are able to shock me out of my doldrums; I’m afraid they’ve become the norm.

A rather large student, on the heavier side of two-hundred fifty pounds, approaches me in the corridor. Most days I can’t shut him up, but today he remains awkwardly silent. He invades my space, leaving little room to maneuver around the girth of his stomach.

“What’s your problem?” I ask. I’m not interested in whatever bullshit he’s going to pull.

He remains tight-lipped. A few inmates laugh.

“What? You’re not speaking today?” I ask.

He opens his mouth wide, exposing his dry chalky tongue (daily medication will do that); a grasshopper hops out, landing on the tiled floor.

“You need some Hershey’s chocolate syrup,” I suggest.

He bends down, picks up the grasshopper, and places it back in his mouth. I’m perfectly content with this arrangement; anything to keep him quiet.

ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT ATTENDANCE

It’s etched in stone, signed by the powers that be, (been that way since October 5th): Prisoners are no longer allowed to “sign off” and not attend their call-outs. So I held my own, students came to class sick—runny noses, coughing up mucus—rolls of toilet paper torn and wadded up, honking into tissue then discarding inside computer hutches and bookshelves, on top of desks and of course the ever-popular floor. Swine flu? No reported case, not in prison; kind of like: no one ever dies in here—you might exit in a body bag but you’ll be handcuffed to prevent an escape.

Naturally, when your freedom is taken and you’re forced to do things you don’t want to do, the polite, considerate “cover you mouth when you cough” rule is tossed out the window.

“If you’re so concerned about getting my cold,” one under-the-weather inmate says, “then you should let me go back to my cell”—aim, cough, cough, cough.

It’s not long after that and I’m getting a scratchy throat followed by a fever. A few days later I’m being accused of bringing God-knows-what into the prison and contaminating everyone I’ve had contact with. See what happens when you follow protocol? But I’m better now. It’s November. Memo? What memo?

*Cartoon illustration of my classroom.