CFL AWARDS CEREMONY

Someone from Programs invited me to a CFL Awards Ceremony. “They’re having hot wings and fries. It’s okay if you cancel class. Your tutors can come too.”

When is it not okay to cancel class? How many students in the prison would actually complain? “CFL,” I repeat. “What’s that?” And before an answer is provided, I take a stab, “Canadian Football League?”

During our laughter, she says, “Chance for Life.” Prisoners, I’m told, are trained to be mediators. They deal with their hostile peers. It’s an intervention type program where inmates iron out their differences. The mediators are advisors, referees, and Mommy and Daddy all rolled into one; they offer brotherly advice. I’m also told that they’re allowed to have these types of meetings without custody staff standing over their shoulders. Closed door sessions? I raise an eyebrow.

So I bring my posse of tutors to the shindig. Five to be exact. As we approach the greeting table, two prisoners start filling out our name tags. A third prisoner, his hands gesticulating in the distance, runs up to the table. “We’re not going to have enough food,” he says.

“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “I already ate.”

He’s referring to the posse. He rephrases his statement, turns it into a question, as if he’s having trouble with his eyesight. “How many tutors do you have?”

I can take a hint. I turn around and instead of using my index finger to count, I point. “You, you, and you, leave.” Then I tell him, “Two.”

As my lower seniority tutors exit, one of them says to the uptight-don’t-know-how-to-count inmate, “You’re a whiny little bitch.”

I walk toward the seating area, wondering if a closed door session is needed before the CFL Award Ceremony begins. I’m sure they’ll work it out at a later date.

EMPOWERMENT

Last Month: A young Vice Lord says, “I’m gonna get you fired.” He’s waving a torn sheet of paper in the air. It has one lousy word written on it. “They (custody staff) will know it’s your handwriting.”

“Who really cares?” I reply.

“You’re gonna look mighty stupid once they find out.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“What you gotta say for yourself, Teach?”

I choose my words carefully, giving him a clear understanding of the aftermath. “First of all,” I explain, “it was inappropriate of you to ask me to spell the M-word. I could’ve written you a 057 Sexual Misconduct ticket. Instead, I remained professional and spelled a word similar in meaning. Second, the nature of your felony (Criminal Sexual Conduct) should be enough for you not to press this non-issue. And third, it’s not as big a deal as you’re trying to make it, especially since I can make it bigger.” Then, for added emphasis, “It’s your move.”

He stuffs the scrap paper back into his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he says, “for insurance purposes.”

I tell him it’s okay, everyone needs a security blanket once in awhile.

The controversial word that’s such a non-issue: onanism.

Today: A young Vice Lord, still carrying around that scrap sheet of paper, qualifies for his GED Exams. He does it the good old fashion way—by studying and doing well on his standardized tests.

Old Pic: Fisher's 666 in Detroit

Level IV, II, I

“So,” I interrupt, I’m dealing with a surly prisoner’s temper tantrum, “are you a ‘true’ Level II or an ‘actual’?”

He knows what I’m getting at. IV’s and II’s refer to security levels; the higher the Roman numeral, the bigger the risk factor. A ‘true’ security level is where an inmate is ‘supposed’ to be; it’s based on a classification point system determined by the type of crime committed, staff assaults, tickets, and so forth; whereas, an ‘actual’ security level is determined by bed space. If a facility’s Level IV cells are at capacity, an inmate is placed at a lower security level, allowing him more access, more freedoms within the confines of the prison environment.

Level I’s are supposedly less of a threat. They sometimes work jobs out in public.

Two days ago a corrections officer supervising Level I prisoners on a work crew (roadside work) was stabbed with a pitchfork and left for dead. His assailant made a short-lived getaway in a state van full of his peers. The corrections officer is currently in the hospital. Everyone in the Michigan Department of Corrections is praying for his recovery.

“So,” I remind my student, “what’s your ‘true’ security level?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shouts. “I’m going home!”

BURNING BRIDGES

Once again I’m receiving complaints regarding Christmas music in my classroom and there’s no reason for it. I understand that being locked-up during the holidays can be downright depressing: no loved ones to gather around the Christmas tree with, no spiked eggnog to drink and no mistletoe for … (on second thought, because the prisoners are known to improvise, strike those last two). As I was saying, the radio station, I changed it, changed it last week to an easy listening format. Dick Purtan in the morning. Sure, he sandwiched “Jingle Bells” between Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and The Monkee’s “I’m a Believer,” but still, it’s better than Christmas music on the airwaves 24-7.

Prisoner H, a 20-something-year-old, is the biggest cry baby. “Turn that shit off! I hate Christmas.”

“There must be a few fond memories from your childhood that you can reflect on and smile,” I suggest.

“Not a one.”

I’m not so sure about his claim, but I know not to press certain issues; He may have burned every bridge, every connection to his family. I ignore him instead.

Within a half-hour “Frosty the Snowman” hits the rotation.

“Look,” he says, pounding his fist on the table, “if everybody in the room is warm, but one person says they’re cold, you gotta close the window.”

“That’s a bad analogy,” I reply. I’m hoping for Aaron Neville’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” I think that’ll warm him up.

ENDORSEMENTS? WHAT ENDORSEMENTS?

I think I know how we got on the conversation; I think it had something to do with Tiger Woods and accusations of domestic violence (his wife’s “rescuing” him with a golf club); A few students thought the media should leave Tiger be. I disagreed. Their rebuttal: Because he married “white,” and not “black,” because he had affairs with “white” women, he’s being held to a higher standard. Twisted, faulty logic, straight from the penitentiary: Yeah, he should’ve married and cheated within his own race, that way we’d all feel much better. What race is he anyway?

I pointed out Tiger’s squeaky clean image, how he, and he alone, tarnished it. More talk about race. Blah blah blah. At some point during the discussion I said, “I have no people.” Before I could finish with the standard line: “I am my own person,” a student of African-American persuasion interrupted, “We are your people.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yeah, you’re our teacher, Tommy Boy.”

“That so?” I paused, waiting for further explanation. None was offered. I continued, “So, if I came over to your house for a family barbecue, I’d be welcomed with open arms?” This elicited laughter from all my students, White, Black, and Hispanic. “If, between passing the potato salad, I asked your sister out, you would be perfectly comfortable with that.”

“You’re a funny man, Tommy Boy.” More laughter.

“Do you see,” I said, “how the setting changes the group dynamic?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Tommy Boy.”

“But it is, isn’t it? Especially when you’re making statements about interracial relationships.”

*For the record: I do not golf; this is my wife’s golf club.

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.

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.

REALITY CHECK

On Wednesday, as I walked past the hallway podium where prisoners' IDs are checked, I heard Officer Milk Dud say into the phone, “Yeah, he got his Mickey blowed out.” I picked up my daily call-out report (a list of inmates I will see for the day) and headed straight for my classroom. I knew not to expect an emailed explanation or debriefing regarding the staff assault.

From what I’ve heard, Officer Milk Dud became our hero, saving the day from a convict-punk who sucker-punched a teacher. Another corrections officer described it like this: “He (Milk Dud) tore off his shirt and a big ‘S’ appeared.” I chuckled a bit, but soon realized that any one of us could be assaulted at any given time, or worse—murdered. In eighteen years (knock on wood) I’ve remained relatively safe. No punches thrown my way; Never been pushed; Only the occasional verbal threats.

Prison employees are such a rare breed. We laugh and joke about those close calls as if it’ll bring us closer together. Although this may be a false assumption, we're reminded of the risk we take in dealing with prisoners. A good day at work is a day when you make it out, when you’re in your car and driving home to your loved ones.

Officer Milk Dud knows I have a history of talking sharp to the inmates. He reminds me about my orthodontics, about all that money I have invested in my mouth. “Protect your teeth,” he says. I smile a bit, my rubber bands adding tension to my jaw. “I’ll try,” I tell him. “I’ll try.”

IF BIRTHPLACE MATTERS ...

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems inherently wrong for a convicted murderer to run for Detroit City Council. You could argue that he paid for his crime, that he did twelve years for killing a man, however, if a foreign born citizen cannot lead our country, cannot become our President, then it stands to reason that Raphael Johnson should not have an opportunity to run for city council. Yet here he is campaigning.

I’ve talked about Johnson in the past, and perhaps I was a bit envious of his accomplishments: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees from the University of Detroit Mercy, successful businessman, and speaker and author (how many times does he have to be on Maury Povich?), however, after learning more about his upbringing, I’m convinced that he would’ve been successful regardless of his crime. Prior to his conviction he attended the University of Detroit Jesuit High School on a scholarship, and before his trial he graduated with a 3.6 GPA at Cass Tech High School.

From my experiences as a correctional educator, a person of this caliber wouldn’t fit the typical prisoner mold. He says he’ll curb violence in Detroit by trimming back large trees that block the street lights. He says he’ll continue talking to our youth about making bad choices. His platform includes creating a task force that will reach out to at-risk teens—not that he was ever “at-risk.” He never grew up on the wrong side of the tracks; instead, he elected to go there.

You can’t choose where you were born, but you can make choices later on in life as to where you want to be. In Johnson’s case, he returned to a party with a gun and shot a 40-year old man to death. Hopefully he will not get elected to the council. The citizens need to take a stand.

STEWED

I’ve dealt with all kinds of misguided anger over the years (where students simmer, waiting for those inevitable triggers to boil over); I keep a lid on it.

“My last teacher,” a new student says, “was enthused about teaching.”

He’s sitting in the front row, eyes the size of saucer cups, tattooed forearms: fallen pillars, one on each side of a mathematics competency exam I placed in front of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Are you passionate about teaching?”

Perhaps he’s crying for help.

“My last teacher at Muskegon,” he continues, “loves his job.”

“Good for him. What’s his name?”

“Selbig.”

“Selbig’s a woman.”

“Sir, you’re mistaken. Selbig’s a man.”

Now I know he’s a loon. After class I pull his school file (just in case he gave me the wrong name)—sure enough, his last teacher was Selbig. Ann Selbig. Female.

A week later, he’s still working on the same fifty-problem test; He’s on number ten. His brain’s stuck in the mud, spinning on perfectionism. His meaty guardrails protect his paper. I’ve already helped him on basic fractions and assigned him a fractions book; He refuses to do it. He thinks he’s mastered fractions.

“My last student,” I comment, “was enthused about learning. Are you enthused about learning?”

He’s rubbing the middle of his forehead with his knuckles, circling, circling, circling; his face looks like an overripe tomato. He’s left a bruise.

I end my sarcasm.

EXIT CONVERSATION

Our exit conversation went from whether the Detroit Tigers would get rained out to whether the ambulance near healthcare would interfere with us leaving at our regular scheduled time. Some state employees had brought umbrellas for protection against the drizzle, but the sun had poked through the clouds, radiating its warmth on our backs.

By the time we reached the Administration Building, I asked a custody staff person about the ambulance. Turns out, two of my students were involved in an altercation; or to be more direct, an assault occurred.

“From what I gather,” my informant said, “Prisoner B. stabbed Prisoner E. in the ear with a piece of metal and sliced him downward along the jaw-line. B. thrives on violence. E. was holding his face together and blood was going everywhere.”

A maintenance worker, corrections officer, and sergeant, focused on finding the weapon, passed us, heading in the opposite direction toward the crime scene area.

As I write this from the comfort of my home and reflect, I’m remembering that part of our exit conversation regarding umbrellas, how those metal-extension rods would make great shanks.

CRUEL & UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

He sits in a wheelchair, my classroom tutor, and he talks real sharp to everyone because, as he’s stated many times before, “I’m going to die in prison, so I’ll speak my mind.”

He missed two weeks of work due to segregation, due to running his mouth in the chow hall when another inmate cut in front of him. He says the guy sucker-punched him, that he fell out of his wheelchair, had a seizure, blacked-out.

“You’re gonna pay me,” he says.

“How do I know you weren’t found guilty of fighting?” Segregation, after all, is a revolving door—seven days in, then back to general population. My classroom tutor did fourteen days; I’m a little suspicious.

He says, “That’s absurd,” and quotes policy, “through no fault of my own I was unable to report for duty.” Then I hear about how he’s going to slap a grievance on my ass, how Carl Marlinga (ex-Macomb County Prosecutor turned convict lawyer) is already defending him in a legal case against the Michigan Department of Corrections … blah, blah, blah … the mouth in perpetual motion.

I actually enjoyed not having him in my room. I’m not sure whether he showers regularly or has a colostomy bag or both, but he stinks up my classroom and the smell lingers. I know this might sound terrible, but I think I'll write an evaluation regarding his personal hygiene and have him thrown out of my class. Between the mouth and odor, I’m tired of him.