EVERYBODY POOPS (Even Shittie Muslims)

Once upon a time (Hey, why not? Isn’t that how most children’s stories begin?) … Once upon a time an inmate approached my desk to inform me about a school/religious conflict he had. "Wait a minute," I said slightly confused, "the Melanic’s primary service isn’t today."

He smiled that big ugly grill of his and said, "Yeah, I know. I switched my religion. Check my itinerary, my detail, you’ll see that I am now a Muslim."

Real slick bastard. Anything to avoid going to school. He chose religions as if he were at Baskin Robbins picking an ice cream flavor--"What will it be today, sir?" the woman with the religious-ice-cream scoop would ask. Unfortunately, some religious affiliations you can never quit; You’re a lifetime member--good for the lifetime of the member and not the religious group.

The Melanics were instrumental in pummeling a former inmate beyond recognition with a baseball bat right outside the prison weight-pit. When the victim was discovered, the corrections officer began CPR, blowing into a pulverized face, her uniform and CPR mask soaked in blood. He was already dead, overkill, if you asked me.

One week later, this flavor-of-the-day worshipper unintelligibly asked me if he could be excused from class. His explanation: The spotter in the weight-pit forgot to "spot" him and the weights fell on his face. His jaw was obviously broken.

"So are you a Melanic or a Muslim?" I asked. We both knew the answer to that one.

The prisoner kites and Labradoodle shit on my wood deck are somewhat related and not meant to be offensive in any way. I’m tolerant of all religions. It's just that I need to train that damn dog to go in the yard.

THE WAY FORWARD

Where’s the loyalty and commitment to an American company nowadays? Have we lost our minds for not supporting and buying American products? Or is it too late, as most of us continue to cut costs and budget our money by purchasing foreign made goods. Perhaps our income dictates our decisions. There was a time when I would not step foot inside a Wal-Mart. Then my wife (I can always blame her, right?) coaxed me into one of their stores. I jokingly said, "I’ve never seen so many people with tattoos and rotten teeth as I have at Wal-Mart."

So I exaggerate. I’ve seen lots of tats and bad grills on the inmates I have contact with on a daily basis. But back to blind loyalty and a sense of pride for a job well done at an American company. Hey, prisons in the United States count too, don’t they? I remember an inmate tutor (D-prefix, meaning fourth time in the joint) with a Satan tattoo prominently displayed on his neck, braided horns sticking out like knobbed moth antennae, and long finger nails like Robert DeNiro in some bad movie I can’t recall--Angel Heart? I think--telling me a story. He said:

"The brothers at the Muskegon Correctional Facility was fighting over stumps, you dig? Administration had the maintenance workers cut down the trees in the prison yard and gave the inmates details guaranteed for so many hours work getting those stumps out of the ground. Well, they reached their maximum hours of pay, you dig?--and them stumps was still anchored into the earth. Soon, other brothers came to help and fights ensued. ‘This is our stump muthafucka! Get your own stump!’ So they worked for free. I don’t know what it was--boredom or wanting that feeling of a sense of accomplishment, but theys got them stumps out and that’s all theys talked about for six months straight."

We need to stand united and support our American workers. I leave you with a Ford song that says it all: The Way Forward.

TENSEGRITY (Excerpt from Corktown Press)

They sell crack-cocaine across the street from Mr. G's, so when the shivering bum in the pajama top and hair net asked for some money to buy two eggs and a half-loaf of bread, he received not only a generous amount but a suspicious look.

Once inside, he headed straight for the coolers and plucked a single can of Colt 45 from it holster. His flip-flops cut into a pair of uneven, gray, wool pillars that blossomed brown polyester dress pants under a buttonless, navy-blue, corduroy coat. He slapped three crisp George Washingtons inside the mini-turnstile, next to the malt liquor, and spun it toward Mr. G.

"Can I get three squares with this?" He nodded toward his good fortune.

"For you, since you're a regular, I give you two."

The bum did not hesitate. "Awright then." His words meandered through the seams in the mini-turnstile, around the scratched bulletproof glass. Two unfiltered Lucky Strikes pre-wrappped in cellophane. One Colt 45 served in a brown paper bag. You don't get a receipt at Mr. G's. You don't even get change. This is the neighborhood of disposable income, where during the summer children hear merry-go-round music blasting from Old Man Floyd's fleet of restored Good Humor trucks, where the drivers--all decked out in sterile cotton--carry concealed weapons and sell red, white, and blue Bomb Pops for ninety-five cents each. Let me tell you: Business is better here, better than in the suburbs, where parents force their children indoors, and serve them ice cream from five-quart pails. "We belong to Sam's Warehouse," they explain.

"Hey Homey," I said, "You're not getting any more money from me, not a dime." He ignored me, so I drove the words into the back of his neck. "Hey Homey, I'm talking to you. Do you understand? ... Zilch."

He turned to face me while patting his pockets. "Haven't I looked out for you, Cookieman? Watched your car?"

Was he threatening me? Or was he merely defending himself from the exposed lie? Where were the eggs, huh?--The half-loaf of bread?

He vanished out the front entrance, leaving a thin cloud of smoke drifting toward us and a spent match on the sticky floor.

"Cookieman, he's harmless," Mr. G said from his fishbowl. "I got security cameras, Look, real reality t.v."

Sure enough, the bum reappeared as he stepped off the curb. He traveled from each quadrant of the monitor at varied time intervals and slightly different angles. Once he reached the blurred centerline, his flip-flops sunk into the slush. But he didn't seem to care. His head snapped back as he gulped his beverage; his chin folded into his chest as he sucked large quantities of nicotine into his lungs. He was a bona fide human tragedy jaywalking the cold-patched streets of Detroit, and since I was remarrying and considering adoption, it occured to me: kids shouldn't have to see people like him. He reached the other side by sheer willpower, gripping the brass knocker on the crack-house door. Then a woman--what seemed to be an apparition of my lovely wife Lorna--opened the door and beckoned him inside, into a world most middle income folks could never imagine. Strange as it seemed, I found this comforting.

TENSEGRITY

I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP

Once again I’ve been asked to perform the school principal’s duties when my current boss goes on maternity leave. And once again I’ve stood my ground, telling her, “I’m not qualified.” The last time I assumed the acting principal role personnel did not want to pay me for working out of my classification.

Oh I’m sure administration was eternally grateful for the extra duties and responsibilities I assumed (and I’m sure that if something went seriously wrong I’d’ve been held accountable), but cutting me a check meant an admittance of guilt to a civil service rule violation. Plus, no one in prison wants to be perceived as soft, even the folks up front in their cushy little offices working on the outside of the prison walls.

I could have followed the appropriate channels and filed a grievance, but when the principal at that time returned from sick-leave, I told him not to worry, I’ve got a trick up my sleeve.

Every year we’re required to have a TB test—a simple needle prick under the skin. Within 48 hours we take our results from healthcare to the Personnel Department. Not me. I kept my results. After numerous threats of placing a “Stop Order” on me (meaning I could no longer be on prison grounds and would no longer get paid), I called the personnel director and in typical Monte Hall Let’s Make A Deal fashion said, “I’ll give you the TB results when I receive my extra pay.” Not long after that the check was in the mail, procedures for the submittal of TB results were changed (nurses are now responsible for the delivery of test results to personnel), and the regional director reinforced the “no working out of classification” rule with yet another memo.

My recommendation this time around: There’s another teacher who could do the principal’s job while she’s away. Although he too would be working out of classification, his qualifications to oversee the entire Michigan prison system’s educational programs should supercede any requirements not met. What do you think?

BAILEY THE LABRADOODLE

For the past three months I’ve found my wife frequenting a website that I disapprove of. Although I had my suspicions and checked the web history on our computer, my wife denied the allegations by saying she wasn’t ready to get a dog. Hallelujah! But when I confronted her further—“Why are you visiting www.petfinder.com every day?”—she smiled and confessed, “I’m looking for a Labradoodle.”

She had access to every Humane Society in the United States and I couldn’t stop her from searching. I told her, “I’m not driving all over Timbuktu for some dog.” So she promised to limit her search to the lower half of Michigan. I knew I had increased my chances of not getting such a creature. The Labradoodle (a cross between a Labrador retriever and a standard-size poodle) is an extremely popular allergen-free dog. It’s also extremely expensive—dog breeders charge $800 and up.

On the internet Friday night she found a Labrador retriever/Poodle mix at the Cascade Township Humane Society in Jackson, Michigan.

“It’s not a Labradoodle,” I said.

“Yes it is,” she countered, showing me a picture of a sad-looking puppy.

After a one-sided discussion (she talked, I objected) we agreed to make the 1 ½ hour drive the following morning. The Humane Society opened at 11 a.m. We didn’t leave our house until 11:30. My way of thinking, if it were indeed a Labradoodle someone would adopt her before us.

Not so. We beat another couple there by ten minutes. Meet Bailey, a three-month old, micro chipped pup. She’s been neutered and her shots are up to date. I’m only $150 in the hole. I’ve already discussed the option of selling her for a handsome profit, but . . .

THE GOLDEN SMOCK

Now that Stephen Grant, the prime suspect in the murder of his wife Tara Lynn, has been apprehended, the Hackel Hotel (Macomb County Jail) will be patiently awaiting his arrival. I'm sure they will keep him healthy by outfitting him with a Golden Smock made by Ferguson Safety Products. Here's what the company says about their specialty item:

Safely provides warmth and modesty for suicidal individuals in locked facilities. This garment is designed to eliminate features that make other clothing potential weapons of self-harm.

This will guarantee that Mr. Grant is brought to trial, and if found guilty, sentenced accordingly.

Will I be seeing him any time soon? I hope not.

IF I HAD JURY DUTY

Only twice in my life have I received letters from our judicial system informing me that I may be chosen for jury duty. Both times I've filled out their general questionnaire regarding my occupation and place of employment. Yet, I've never been called to fulfill such an important role. Why is that? Is it because I work for the Michigan Department of Corrections? Is it because my profile indicates that I'm too one-sided, that I couldn't possibly weigh all the evidence before making my decision, my vote, as to "guilty" or "innocent"?

During the past week I've been mulling over the possibilities regarding the disappearance of Tara Lynn Grant. I wanted to believe, as tragic as it may seem, that she found a Puerto Rican lover and left her family. I wanted to believe that her husband (yes, I've heard that he cheated on her) was devastated, that he kept a solid front for the sake of his children. However, I knew, deep down inside, that he had killed her. When they started searching Stony Creek and the surrounding area, I kept wondering whether they would send a dive team over to the dam, a place I used to sneak off to and fish and drink beer.

I grew up approximately a half-mile away from where they found Tara's torso. Some of my high school friends lived in the subdivision the police cordoned off. My brother and I jogged the same trails that Tara had. It's been said over and over, by many people, I can't believe something like this would happen in my neighborhood. Well guess what? It does. In fact, where I currently live, just two streets over, a young man was badly beaten at a houseparty and thrown outside. He was discovered the next morning. The person responsible for his murder (I truly believe there were more culprits) is doing time at the Adrian Correctional Facility.

In the case of Tara Lynn Grant, I wish my intuition were wrong. Now the question is: did someone help her husband with the dismemberment and disposal of the body? Lastly, how many years in prison will the husband serve? Or will he get lucky, like the Freezer Man, and do less than ten years for a crime of passion? I don't know. I'm just hoping, for his sake anyway, that I'm not summoned for jury duty.

HOW MAY I HELP YOU?

When my late grandfather worked with trustees at the Jackson prison farm system in the mid-seventies, he would often tease my grandmother about her religious volunteer work at the county jail. “She’s cheering for the wrong team,” he’d say. I never questioned my grandmother’s intentions—I’m sure there are folks out there awaiting trial in need of prayer (currently she writes to an inmate who murdered his ten month old baby and is having difficulty coming to terms with what he had done)—however, my grandfather’s oversimplification of “us” versus “them” seems somewhat appropriate, to me anyway.

Speaking of people wanting to help the down-and-out, we had a middle-aged lady who donated her time and energy at our facility with the Catholic services and programs. From what I’ve heard, her daughter would sometimes accompany her. I’m not too sure what happened to this lady. It was rumored that she took a liking to a prisoner nearing his out date and that she disappeared shortly thereafter. Also, it was rumored that her daughter became romantically involved with an inmate of her own. You know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

What is known is that this middle-aged woman’s husband, a successful businessman in the area, had been found in his vehicle with a zip-tie around his neck. His death was ruled a suicide. I guess he strangled himself because of his marital problems. I’m still unsure whether they found his wife. Or the ex-felon. The years have been rolling by and I guess it’s no longer newsworthy.

I wonder how long it will take for the media to lose interest in the disappearance of Tara Lynn Grant, the young mother from my area?

MY BROTHER, THE ONLY CHILD

As I observe the inmates around me, I can’t help but think that religion is for those who need it the most. I’m not trying to create controversy or imply that I don’t need God in my life—I do—it’s just that some of the most religious people I have known have done some very heinous crimes. Yet, I try not to sit in judgment of others. Maybe that’s why I don’t like talking about religion. Why should I impose my views on others? Too much arguing and fighting comes from discussions of faith.

I remember attending a Department of Corrections training session in Lansing. I can’t recall exactly what we were being trained for, but I do know that they had jelly-filled donuts, bagels and cream cheese, and juice and coffee, and you were to help yourself at any given time during the presentation. When I had arrived, I recognized a prison athletic director from another facility. I’d seen a much younger version of him on the television playing basketball for Michigan State University. He’d been quite the college partygoer, but I had heard that he gave up drinking and took to the Lord. I often wonder whether it had anything to do with his NBA dreams never materializing.

As I sat down next to him, he offered me a religious pamphlet and said, “Peace be with you.” I looked at him. I looked at the pamphlet. I looked at the sweat rolling off my glass of orange juice and, without much thought, decided to use the pamphlet as a makeshift coaster. I didn’t mean to offend him, really, I didn’t. But I also didn’t feel it was the appropriate time and place for his offering.

Same goes for the inmates. I try not to undermine their faith, or make a big deal out of it. It's a fine line. There are always one or two deeply religious convicts that want to rope me into their theology. I often wonder where their core beliefs were when they decided to rape God’s children. What type of faith did they have when they firebombed a home full of people? What made them sit in judgment the day they put a gun to the back of someone’s head and pulled the trigger? I’m sorry, but there are too many inmates that’ll use religion to focus on what they think are your weaknesses, when they really should be looking inward at themselves.

Instead of engaging prisoners in conversations about religion, instead of arguing the Bible, I’ve learned to say the following: “Did you know that ‘God’ spells ‘dog’ backwards?” It shuts them up every time. They leave me alone. They think I’m a heathen.

READING JACK CONWAY

"Was It Something I Said" by Jack Conway

YOUR MOTHER'S WHERE YOU'LL FIND HER

One night I dreamt about my mother, father, and I loading the freezer. My mother passed to my father, my father to me, and I lay them in their designated places like every fall when our butchered cows arrived packaged in servings of three. But the faded pink writing on the packages that usually said hamburger, T-bone, roast, said right arm, left leg, ribcage.
—“Killers” by Kami Westhoff

I’m amazed at how long someone can turn up missing and not be found. In past postings I mentioned a former inmate that I had regular contact with. They called him Freezer Man. He was a Detroit Public School Administrator who killed his wife and stored her body in the basement freezer for three grueling years. I’ve often wondered why his teenage daughters hadn’t cooperated with the authorities. Why didn’t they say something about the padlock on the freezer? The situation could have been resolved immediately. They could’ve called off whatever searches were planned. But we’re talking about their father, we’re talking about emotional involvement here, a certain closeness to the man who helped raise them. Did they ever discuss amongst themselves what would happen if their father were taken away? Did they ever argue about it?

It’s fairly obvious that the daughters were in some type of denial. But when did things change? Had they actually thought their mother had abandoned them? And without a trace or shred of evidence to suggest she started her life over? There were no credit card charges. No cell phone usage. No sightings. Nothing. Vanished into thin air. Or did their father say something to indicate his guilt? Did he make his one daughter feel responsible? After all, it was her boyfriend that started the chain of events that could never be undone. The Freezer Man had learned about his wife’s sexual escapades with the daughter’s boyfriend and that’s what set him off. They argued in the basement, he grabbed her, and for once in his life he became extremely angry and acted out on his hurt and his pain. He started bashing her head against a basement pole, not once, not twice, but repeatedly, until there was no more life left in her.

The Freezer Man did less than ten years for his horrible deed. The courts said it was “a crime of passion.” One daughter supported the judge’s decision to re-sentence him, to give him “time served” and a chance to rebuild his life; The other daughter didn’t want anything more to do with him.

I mention this case as our local sheriff’s department searches for Tara Lynn Grant, a thirty-four year old mother who disappeared more than two weeks ago. Her husband reported her missing, but he isn’t cooperating with the authorities on advice from his lawyer. How long will it take until they find her? How long?

Connie chewed her lip and worked up her nerve to ask where was Momma? And their father said, hitching up his suspenders, on his way outside, “Your mother’s where you’ll find her.”
—“Faithless” by Joyce Carole Oates

USE A GRAPHING CALCULATOR

I watched C-Span last night. They had some Educational Psychologist with a Ph.D.—"pile higher and deeper"—explaining to the United States Governors and other various politicians why test scores are so low in Mathematics and Science at the secondary level. He said teachers are paid the same amount based on seniority and not content. A social studies teacher can make the same amount as a mathematics teacher. He said this needs to be fixed. He said this is wrong.

Well I’ll be damned! How many times have I heard that argument? Hasn’t made my salary inch upward. In fact, we had a teacher with a masters degree in Parks and Recreation making more money than the other teachers. Guess mathematics isn’t as important. Or science.

Here’s a classroom management suggestion from yours truly, a prison educator certified in mathematics at the secondary school level (7th – 12th grade): Next time a disturbance arises in the classroom, identify the source of the problem, give him your TI-82 or TI-83 graphing calculator, have him punch the program button and select “work.” Then tell him to press enter. This subtle message usually works. Now how much can I get for that piece of instructional knowledge?

NO VACANCIES

We all need our personal space, our alone time. It’s not always easy, especially when you’re married, when you have bills to pay, errands to run, and a “honey-do” list a mile long. With spring fast approaching, my life gets more hectic. First, there are Science Olympiad district and county competitions—I still need to organize twenty stations with insect displays and questions. Then I have house repairs. We need new exterior doors and the outside trim needs a fresh coat of paint. Also, the pond will need a thorough cleaning and our pool (what water’s left in it) will need to be patched or relined. Yet, I’m anxious for the warm weather to get here, regardless of all the extra work that needs to be done on my property. I’m sure other side projects will come up too.

I’m slightly puzzled as to why an inmate would tell me he’s too busy—“I’ve got too much on my mind”—to study for a high school equivalency diploma. Here’s a list of excuses they use to ignore the needs for a basic education:

“What good’s a GED to me, I’m doing too much time.”

“I’ve got to work on my case.”

“I don’t have enough time before I’m transferred.”

“School interferes with my yard.”

“Classes conflict with my Law Library.”

These excuses are mere smokescreens to avoid a formal education. When you get right down to it, most inmates associate school with past negative experiences; there’s this personal shame they carry around with them. I try to remind them, “Hey, you’re already in prison, what could be worse than that?”

One time, after trying to convince a prisoner to continue with his studies, he replied, “You ain’t renting no space in my head.” Indeed, I’m not. I’m perfectly content with the space I have.

WORKING AT THE YMCA

After my last two posts about female corrections employees falling in love with male convicts, I guess I should probably emphasize that male corrections employees are not immune from this either. I remember a male librarian’s assistant (let’s call him LA) who didn’t seem to understand just how dangerous working with inmates could be. I had to laugh the first time he walked through our school building. “That’s Tyburski,” he said, nodding in the direction of an elderly prisoner. Tyburski, aka Freezer Man, a former Detroit Public School administrator, had killed his wife in a fit of rage and kept her padlocked in the basement freezer for three years.

Somewhat taken aback by LA’s comment, the corrections officer on duty asked LA how he knew the inmate. “I was one of the jurors,” he said, as if this tidbit of information were unimportant, as if he were ready to get reacquainted with the man he helped convict. If it were me, my initial reaction would have been: “Get me out of here. I’ll tell you about it once we’re on the other side of these walls.”

Not LA. From the beginning, his mannerisms and nonchalant attitude sent red flares all over the compound. It wasn’t long and custody and noncustody alike were talking about LA. Typical comments were: “He’s got too much sugar in his tank.” “He’s light in his loafers.” “He’s Mr. Twinkle-Toes.” I even heard an officer singing a Navy song where he emphasized men, Men, MEN, MEN, men, Men, MEN, MEN and midstream switched to the “YMCA Song” by the Village People.

Now I’m not one to judge a person based on their sexual orientation; however, when a student of mine disappeared during count time, and they found him behind a locked office door with LA, what was I to think? After numerous warnings, custody staff kept LA on a short leash, questioning his motives every chance they could. One time they caught him coming through the front gate with female anatomy polaroids in his jacket. He claimed that he had forgotten they were there, that they were shots of his girlfriend. Our union representative told me otherwise. “It was fairly obvious that these were photos of different women. Big breasts. Small breasts. You name it.”

LA survived that ordeal with a verbal warning. It wasn’t until after I had transferred that he was fired. His offense: Smuggling in a bag of marijuana. I guess he wanted to party with the big boys.

THE FISHBOWL JUST GOT SMALLER

Before I transferred from the prison in Detroit to my current facility, I had heard about their school secretary, a middle-aged white woman, arriving for work on her scheduled days off so she could finish the academic program’s ACA (American Correctional Association) standards. Of course this was just a front, her way of arranging an ongoing dalliance with a younger inmate doing time for murder. And not just a garden variety I-lost-my-temper-and-pulled-the-trigger type of killing either. From my recollections of what I’d read in the Detroit Free Press and saw on the WDIV news station, this fellow was involved in the St. Aubin Massacre, where bodies were found hacked into pieces.

Of course, from my previous post, you already know there are no secrets in prison, that we work in a fishbowl. So it’s no surprise that this woman had been under a cloud of suspicion. Perhaps someone walked in on the two lovebirds kissing, or maybe the typical snitch kites started flying. A brief investigation ensued and what transpired next may have been a blessing in disguise (for her anyway). Once upon a time it wasn’t a felony for having sex with an inmate; instead, the guilty employee was simply fired. That’s exactly what happened in this case, leaving her with an opportunity to pursue work elsewhere.

It gets weirder. One day, while I was having dinner with my wife, she asked, “Do you know a Pat W--?” I had learned that this former secretary found a better job, a promotion actually, with the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality. The DEQ had offices in the same building where my wife worked. “Her coworkers hate her guts,” my wife added. “And the rumors are flying that she married a convict. Do you know anything about it?” Did I ever. Approximately one year later, I started teaching in the building where Pat W fell in love. Imagine that.

PREEXISTING CONDITIONS

I’m not easily offended. So when our former prison librarian stood outside my classroom ready to apologize for something she had said, I told her, “Hey, you’re entitled to your opinion. You needn’t apologize.” Whatever it was wasn’t important—if it were, I would have remembered. Then, as a peace offering that wasn’t necessary, she told me she wanted to give me her dead ex-husband’s neckties. I could see the tears welling-up; I could see she was ready to lose it, right there, right then, in the hallway, in full view of the inmates inside my classroom. After an awkward moment of nonverbal reassurance, I said, “I love ties. Just drop them off at the front desk tomorrow and I’ll pick them up.”

Afterward, some of the inmates commented about how the librarian, fifteen years my senior, had the hots for me. I dismissed such nonsense. Coming from them, a woman who talks to you is looking for one thing and one thing only. Their delusional fantasies get the better of them, get them into trouble. I told them not to speak disrespectfully about my coworker. To shut up.

From what I could gather, but I’m not exactly sure of the arrangement, or the specifics, the librarian had remarried her ex-husband so he could get healthcare benefits. Whether they were able to conceal his preexisting condition, I’ll never know. What I do know is this: She had referred to him as “the ex-husband,” even after his death. I often wondered why she took him back, why she was willing to go through all that suffering with him.

I did wear those damn neckties. Not that I had wanted to. Why would I give a prisoner an easy opportunity to strangle me? Perhaps I wore those neckties for moral support because, from my observations, the librarian seemed very lonely, very sad, and somewhat isolated from her coworkers. But I didn’t wear those neckties for long. The librarian had been placed under investigation for allegedly performing oral sex on her library clerk, an inmate doing a life sentence. I didn’t want to believe it. F**king convicts stirring up trouble, that's what I thought. I guess I was in denial. After all, inmates will prey on your loneliness, they’ll suck you into their games, they’ll try to make you feel special. She had messed up royally and now other inmates wanted a piece of the action. A denied piece of ass meant snitch kites to the inspector, which in turn created a dangerous situation for everyone involved, thus the investigation.

In the end, the librarian either quit her job or was fired. Last I heard, she married the library clerk and to this very day visits him regularly. My question is: How much suffering and loneliness can a person endure?

SEX, DEATH, AND TAXES

People sometimes ask me why I write. Because, I tell them, I don’t golf.
—Thomas Lynch, Milford, MI, funeral director & writer.

There’s no doubt about it, at least from the upward spike in yesterday’s comments, that sex sells (not that I’m making any type of money from it)—and truthfully, that’s not what I’ve been preoccupied with anyway. Feeling somewhat vulnerable—hey, we’re all mortals here—I’d say writing about sex in sensual terms has never been easy for me; fictional sex has always been deeply embedded in some type of realism, sandwiched between death and taxes. In fact, my interests of late are more with the dark side of things. Same goes for my wife.

There’s no doubt about it, with our constant late night vigil cozying up to the television watching “Six Feet Under”—we’re currently into the third season thanks to DVD—we’ve become fascinated with the Fisher family’s funeral business. Each episode starts with some poor soul’s last dying breath, and from that a new time line emerges with brothers Nate and David pushing to sell the most expensive casket the grieving family can afford. Oh sure, the funeral home serves as a backdrop to each character’s personal story, including an overabundance of sex—straight sex, gay sex, senior citizen sex (all for the sake of entertainment)—yet, there’s a sense of seriousness, a sense of closure when each episode wraps up the planned funeral.

Pair my current interest in the death trade with my daily ritual of scanning the obituaries of people my age or younger (plus the rereading of Thomas Lynch’s essays) and you would think that I’m having a mid-life crisis. But in all actuality, I find both the television series and essays quite refreshing. Hopefully, if and when I kill off a fictional character or two, there will be more to it then a candle lit dinner followed by foreplay followed by … well … you know … the stuff that makes me blush.

Recommendations:

DVD Series: “Six Feet Under”

Books: “Bodies In Motion & At Rest” by Thomas Lynch
“The Undertaking: Life Studies, from the Dismal Trade” by Thomas Lynch

Taxes: Federal, State, and City (now this is truly depressing!)

PRISON DATING

Back when I was still a guppy in the prison system and inmates were allowed to wear their own clothing, I had a gay tutor show up in a 70’s style red satin running shorts. I also noticed that his head, eyebrows, arms, and legs were shaven. As soon as he approached my desk, I told him he couldn’t stay, quoting the “no shorts allowed” school rule. I don’t think I over-reacted; at least not like in a Tim Hardaway fashion. I never commented on his sexual orientation, even though he did make me uncomfortable. I thought he was drawing too much attention to himself, that he might cause a situation I wasn’t necessarily prepared to handle. I don’t consider this being homophobic on my part; I consider this being, more or less, reasonable. In prison there are folks that only think about one thing—S.E.X.

I’ve overheard inmates readily admit that they aren’t gay because they’re not on the receiving end of things. “I’m doing all day,” I had a lifer tell me, “does it look like I care what others think?” Then after a slight pause, he’d add, “But I’m not gay.” Also, around that time, I remember students concealing pornographic magazines behind their GED books. I hadn’t thought much about it until a female teacher mentioned how distracting it was. I told her I’d look into it. I had learned that convicts could purchase a dinner and a date (in prison terms this meant a bag of chips and pop, a piece of rolled-up meat in a fefe can, and a palm magazine) for a very affordable price. It sounded kind of ridiculous to me. I suppose a guy has got to have some type of outlet or fantasy or whatever the hell you want to call it while locked up.

As for the porno mags in the classroom, I discovered that a Chaledean inmate was renting out this material per each class session for the price of one stamp. “Look,” I told him, “I’m going to ask you nicely to peddle your wares some place else.” He understood, and his clients either did a better job of hiding their rental magazines, or he changed his business model.

FIXING THE THRESHOLDS

Tired of complaints about cold air seeping under our doors, I ripped out the thresholds and replaced the rubberized centers to block the incoming breeze. I had promised that I’d fix them last fall, but never really got around to it, my latest excuse: “It’s too cold to keep the doors open for any length of time.” So, is it better to tolerate a minimum amount of cold air over a long duration, or is it better to tolerate a maximum amount of cold air for a shorter, determinate amount of time? Let’s just say that I can check this duty off my “honey-do” list.

Speaking of promises, my wife coaxed me into going out for dinner last Sunday, but, before I would agree, she had to set-up the VCR to tape “60 Minutes.” They were running a segment on the unnecessary death of Timothy Souders, a prisoner in the Michigan Department of Corrections. I, along with my coworkers, was curious to see the media’s portrayal of our prison system. At the restaurant, I ran into a nurse that works at my facility. We exchanged pleasantries, excluding introductions to significant others and so on. Neither of us mentioned what we were missing on television.

Later that night, my brother called. He said the MDOC Director, Pat Caruso, did not represent us well, that she had smiled when confronted about unnecessary deaths inside our prisons. The “60 Minutes” producers ran the following caption, which had been printed in the newspapers as well: “… unauthorized death penalty at the hands of a callous and dysfunctional health care system that regularly fails to treat life-threatening illness.”

The Delay: When I went to watch the tape, I got an episode of “Lost.” My wife quickly apologized by saying she may have forgotten to switch tapes. Later on, I learned that she had set my tape aside. Yesterday, I watched it.

Facts: Timothy Souders died of dehydration. The water to his cell was turned off due to him flooding the area. He refused water from the corrections officers. He wore “Top of Bed” restraints for sixteen or seventeen hours straight due to his unpredictable behavior. Custody videotaped him at regular intervals in his cell.

Facts: At the time of Timothy Souders death, he was not wearing restraints. He simply collapsed onto the floor, in an extremely hot cell, never to breathe again. A prison nurse failed to recognize the inmate’s condition as critical and was subsequently fired.

Observation: The MDOC Director, Pat Caruso, defended our custody staff, and her so-called “smile” was more of an invitation to keep the lines of communication open between her and the interviewer.

Questions: Why did the family of Timothy Souders learn the true cause of his death from the Detroit Free Press? Why did the MDOC stall for so long in reporting the cause of his death?

SOME GIFTS YOU SHOULDN'T SHARE

After three winters of shoveling snow with a non-ergonomic shovel, my wife came home with a surprise—a Toro snowblower. She told me a coworker gave it to her, no questions asked. As I unloaded it from my wife’s van, I couldn’t help but think about receiving and concealing stolen property. To be perfectly honest though (how’s that for irony?) these thoughts soon dissipated with each passing snowfall.

The following winter we had a couple move in next door—an elderly gentleman and his younger girlfriend, both retail workers, and by the looks of their furniture, a Value City futon and pressboard television stand, I could tell they were embarking on a new relationship together.

With the next heavy snowfall, I decided to clear their driveway as an official “welcome to the neighborhood” gesture. I had just finished making my last go around when the elderly gentleman pulled into the driveway. He introduced himself as “Jerry” and commented on my snowblower. “I need to get me one,” he said. “How much does something that size cost?”

I proudly told him how my wife acquired it for free from a coworker whose lifestyle resembled Elizabeth Taylor’s. “I guess she didn’t want her soon-to-be ex-husband to have it,” I said.

After an awkward moment of silence, Jerry said, “My ex-wife did the same thing to me with my tools.” Then he abruptly thanked me and excused himself from my presence.

EDITOR'S PLEA TO WARDEN, 1996

Dear Warden,

Today, March 26, the final print of our news publication has been returned from the printing company and is ready for distribution. However, at this present time this final print is being held in abeyance in the administration building. It is my understanding that one of your subordinates has decided that “Pages 11 & 12” must be torn from the issue before it can be distributed.

Warden, this is the same issue that was viewed by you during our interview with you on March 20, 1996. At the time you viewed this copy, you expressed no ill feelings or rejection toward any of the material in this particular issue. Please know that I brought the draft copy on the interview to insure that you had an opportunity to view it prior to its final printing. After receiving your blessings we proceeded with the final printing. In fact, you even said, “your paper is the best one I’ve ever seen.”

Warden, since this issue received your blessings, I failed to understand why it is being held in abeyance. As briefly discussed during our meeting, this is just one more example showing how the timeliness of our publication is often hindered. As I recall in our meeting you stated that you, “strive to get things done on time.”

In addition Warden, we are talking about physically cutting “Pages 11 & 12” from over 1000 copies of this edition. Needless to say, this will greatly disfigure the professional appearance that we strive to project. It has always been our objective to represent this facility through the Ryan’s Review in the most professional manner possible and feel that if we are forced to disfigure this edition, it will not only reflect on our news staff, but also on this facility and its administration. Pages 11 & 12 are only pictures!

At this point I appeal to you in all humbleness, asking that you approve the distribution of this issue and instruct your subordinates to release this issue immediately for timeliness sake. Thank you for your help in this matter.

Sincerely,

Ryan’s Review Editor

JR’s Related Facts:
The Editor inserted pictures into the final layout after the Warden’s approval.

The Editor’s manipulativeness and stubbornness led to all 1,000 copies being destroyed.

Prison newspapers statewide could no longer use pictures, and shortly thereafter, all prison newspapers were shut down.

JR volunteered his personal time with the prison newspaper.

JR, as the Newspaper Supervisor, took the heat for the termination of the Ryan Review.

Side note:
The Editor is serving 120 years for killing his twelve-year old son with a shotgun.

JOE AVERAGE'S VALENTINE'S DAY GRIPE

Michigan has regressed from being a wealthy state to a Joe-Average state and is now skidding rapidly toward the ranks of the poor states. But we pay our help—schoolteachers, prison guards, and other public employees—as if we were the prince and princess of Monaco.
—Tom Walsh, Detroit Free Press newspaper columnist (Feb. 11, 2007)

Am I to presume that “we” refers to the taxpayers of Michigan? Or is “we” the politicians in our state capital? I’d say it’s the latter because when the state employees (including myself) deferred four hours of pay per paycheck into a BLT account (Banked Leave Time) for approximately two years, the fat cats in Lansing were (and still are) reaping the benefits of thirty-four percent pay increases. Oh, but TW probably thinks IOU’s are not a big deal. How many work hours has he donated to his employer in their time of need?
—JR’s Rebuttal

Michigan’s schoolteachers are faring better than the state’s workers overall.
—Tom Walsh again

Is that a bad thing? The requirements imposed by the State Board of Education have contributed to the increased pay in teacher salaries. Teacher recertification requires an initial 18 credit hours of college coursework AFTER, I repeat, AFTER acquiring a college degree, AFTER taking the necessary education classes toward a provisional certificate, AFTER student teaching, and AFTER teaching in the field for five years. Then the Board supposedly eases up: teachers only have to take 6 credit hours of college course work every five years thereafter. I believe these requirements force a majority of teachers to earn advanced degrees. Hmmm, I guess what TW is really complaining about is the surplus of over-educated teachers. Well, I’m happy to report that I, unlike the majority, have elected not to get a masters degree, thus making myself more affordable. Some may think this defies logic—but hey, I don’t want to price myself out of the public school market. There may be a day where I don’t want to teach in a prison anymore. To get back on track, this is why Michigan’s schoolteachers are doing better than the state’s work force overall.
—JR’s Rebuttal

Speaking of the public schools, most of their employees will be enjoying three or four days off for spring break, while I’ll be in the classroom as usual. Department of Corrections teachers teach year round. I must confess though, I was forced to use a BLT day since my van wouldn’t start today. Is that okay with you, TW?

I hope everyone survived their Valentine’s Day.

TRUE LOVE

I’ve witnessed my share of tragedies while sitting at the dinner table watching the local news channels. I saw a couple, hand in hand, comforting each other; the wife reiterating the fact that her husband’s right leg cramped up on him—he couldn’t remove his foot from the accelerator, she explained, that’s why he turned down that dead end street. His eyes averted hers, and in all fairness, he avoided the cameras too, preferring to look downward instead. She continued to defend him. Then they cut to footage of where a station wagon had careened out of control and into the Detroit River. I heard the anchor man in the studio report the names and ages of the children who had drowned. I thought of my grandfather; he died in much the same way.

I often wonder why I still get the Detroit Free Press. It’s filled with nothing but bad news. I read about how this couple had problems way before their vehicle went into the water. I read about how the husband turned on the gas to the stove and left lighted candles in their house. I read about how he was tried and convicted for the murder of their children.

At work, I don’t like to match faces with the tragedies I have witnessed on the television or read about in the newspaper. Sometimes it happens. One day, as I was leaving the prison, I said to a coworker, That woman in the lobby, she looks familiar. Who is she?

That’s inmate so-and-so’s wife. You know—Mr. I-got-a-cramp-in-my-leg guy.

No way! I said.

Yep. She tries to visit him faithfully. I don’t think I’d visit someone who tried to kill me. He usually refuses the visit anyway.

I’ve often wondered how you can measure “true love.” Is it by the Hallmark smiles on a couple’s faces? Or is it by the amount of suffering a person is willing to endure?

Short story recommendation: "Love" by Nell Goddin

TOO CLOSE TO HOME

A week ago Sunday, my wife kept yelling for me to turn on our local news channel. I was in my basement office writing—I don’t like interruptions, she knows that—so by the time I found the remote, whatever she had been clamoring about was over. Somewhat annoyed, I kept typing.

“Did you watch it?” she asked. She was standing on the bottom step.

“Watch what? I’m writing.”

This did not deter her; it usually does. She told me she saw her friend on the TV. Her friend’s a police officer, works in the evidence room at the county jail. She was exiting a mobile home with evidence from a crime scene. The crime: two counts of first-degree murder.

What my wife said next made me quit tapping on the keyboard. “The woman killed her two daughters, eight and six years old. She even killed the family pets, including a mouse.”

I thought to myself, what would possess a person to kill their own children? I’m glad I don’t have to see the aftermath. Then I envisioned my wife’s friend carrying a plastic bag from the scene and wondered whether they actually saved the dead animals for evidence or just took pictures of them. Then I thought about my students, how I’m able to deal with them once they’ve been acclimated to the prison environment. As long as I don’t know the specifics regarding their crimes, as long as I don’t have to see the actual carnage, I can interact with them quite well.

A week later, I read that the father of the youngest daughter, Jeffrey Brownlow, is serving time in Michigan’s Carson City Correctional Facility, and that Uncle Kracker (a musician from my neck of the woods) paid $900 for Brownlow’s furlough so he could view his daughter’s body before they laid her to rest.

Am I being cold-hearted?—because I’m wondering: Why would Uncle Kracker help this man? After all, he’s locked up for not paying child support and driving while intoxicated. I understand his wanting to grieve, but there’s this nagging question: What if he had been around? What if he had paid his child support? Then again, knowing that Uncle Kracker has daughters around the same age as the victims, maybe he felt compelled to console the man in what ever way he could.

MAKING AN EASY NAME FOR MYSELF

In my younger days, I could rattle off an inmate’s six digit number by heart—my way of sending a message: “Okay, you want to act like a convict, then I might as well treat you like one.” Usually a direct order would follow, and if that didn’t work, then a “Disobeying a Direct Order” Rule Violation Ticket. But I’d rather not go that route with my students. They already know they’re property of the Michigan Department of Corrections, and they already know that they have a unique number that they’ve earned for being tried and convicted of a crime.

Sorry to disappoint you, but the name you are born with is not as unique as a prison number. So where am I going with this? MW wants me to lighten-up a bit and write something non-prison related, and since I once again referred to Ellie as Emily, I thought I’d take the heat off myself by directing you to the other me, the professional writer me. Please go to: www.jim-tomlinson.com/index.htm .

If that doesn’t grab your attention, then try researching the other 449 folks in the United States that have my first and last name, or see how many folks share your name. I guess I’d rather have this problem, than have an inmate number. Some things you’re forced to keep and can’t leave behind.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 449 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

A comment or two, depending on just how many folks you represent, would greatly be appreciated. And once again, I’m sorry Ellie for the mix-up.

THROWING OUT THE NUMBERS

By this time next year, he planned to have the city of Detroit wrapped up. It wasn’t a bad dream for a young man of twenty-two. He had come to prison at the tender age of eighteen; now, four years later, he was educated with a schooling that a man could get nowhere else but in prison.
—Donald Goines, Black Gangster

I’m not going to pull some arbitrary number out of my arse like Michigan politician Jack Brandenburg and tell you how effective or ineffective I am as a convict teacher. I’ll be first to admit that our success rate for decreasing recidivism is very low. In the employee lunchroom, the often repeated joke is that we succeed 6% of the time—a number that Brandenburg claimed in an editorial to the Detroit Free Press. For some strange reason this number has been erroneously attached to our GED success rate. Good Ol’ Boy Jack would rather invest our hard earned taxpayer money in showing these men how to write resumes. Instead of fabricating facts in editorials, he should check the help wanted section. I believe the minimum requirement for a job nowadays is a high school diploma or GED.

Enough about him. I’ve been repeatedly asked about those few students that have made something of themselves. I still say the biggest success story I’ve witnessed is by an inmate nicknamed “Speed Boat.” He’s still locked-up, but that’s beside the point. There’s another inmate that comes to mind. “Bunnie.” When we first met, he told me not to laugh, that that was the name his mother had given him. Stranger than fiction. Stranger than the name “Whoreson” in a Donald Goines novel, or “Milkman” in a Toni Morrison novel.

Bunnie was the only ex-felon that I called after his release. With the permission of my boss—she provided me with the number—I delivered the good news. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and when his mother told me he was sleeping, I told her to wake him up. Somewhat groggy, he was surprised that I had actually called. “You working midnights or something?”

“Nope,” he replied.

“Are you working at all?”

“Nope.”

I then told him that he earned his GED and that we’d forward his scores to his home. I also reminded him that his chances of getting a job were much better now and to start pounding the pavement. I haven’t a clue as to where he is now, but I’m hoping he’s not back in the system.

Disclaimer: The random numbers generated for the photo do not reflect my current students in the Michigan Department of Corrections, nor did they originate from the Offender Tracking Information System.

NO MORE "G" ON THE DOCKET

Today, our facility had a luncheon for our illustrious hearings investigator. Starting next week, she’ll be working at another correctional facility. Ms. G had the unpleasant task of investigating and gathering statements from inmates and staff before forwarding prisoner rule violation tickets to our hearings officer—the lawyer who decides the verdict (guilty or not guilty) and the punishment (loss of privileges, top lock, segregation, etc).

I’ll never forget the time an inmate started rifling through the files on my desk. I warned him. Look, I said, I’m having a bad day. Stay away from my stuff.

Out of boredom, or just plain stupidity, the inmate continued to push my buttons. I run this, he said. You don’t tell me what to do.

I looked him straight in the eyes. Let me repeat, ‘I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today.’

He continued. How would you like me to open a can of whup ass on you?

I’ve always believed in giving a man a second chance, so I asked him while clicking my ballpoint pen and placing a ticket form on my desk, Do you care to repeat what you just said?

You heard me. I’m gonna whup your ass.

To make a long story short, I had him handcuffed and escorted to a segregation cell. The charge: 012 Threatening Behavior (a nonbondable offense).

A day later, while conducting class, here comes Ms. G ready to get a statement. How is everybody today? She asked—her way of saying, ‘There ain’t no secrets here.’—before pulling a chair up to my desk and speaking with me. So, Mr. T, did you really feel threatened by so and so’s actions?

Ms. G, I replied, I thought I was leaving here in a body bag.

The room grew silent. After an awkward lengthy pause, Ms. G and I started laughing. She had that type of affect on a person. A week later, the student I’d written the ticket on tip-toed into my classroom. Look, he said, I don’t want any problems. Just tell me what I need to do.

After spending time in the hole, they found him ‘Not Guilty’ of the charge and sprung him back into general population. I guess Ms. G and I’s moment of laughter sealed, or should I say unsealed, his fate.

PAY ATTENTION!

Some of these kids talk about catching a case like it was going to a Boy Scout Meeting. Prison has become a norm, and no one’s paying attention.
—Carl Taylor, Michigan State University activist and scholar, quoted in today’s Detroit Free Press.

Not too long ago, a federal lawsuit was brought against the Michigan Department of Corrections for violating the rights of our under-educated prisoners below the age of twenty-one. With the help of a prisoner advocacy group, these youngsters were given more than the standard 1 1/2 hours of schooling per day. Do you think they were eternally grateful for this? Do you think they actually cared? My observations beg to differ. Ninety-some percent of the youngsters I encounter complain about having an extra class. They don’t give a rat’s ass about people in the free world having their best interests at heart. “I should get an extra fifty-nine cents a day for the additional class session,” I often hear.

Never mind that most of them attend the prison school to socialize, as if they’re trying to relive those middle school or junior high school years. “Studying”—what’s that? You’re the teacher dammit! Teach me! With arms crossed, these—for lack of a better description—chair-slouchers erect an impenetrable fortress while waiting for you to serve up a pencil, paper, and a book.

I had one youngster complaining about his hepatitis medication. I don’t feel well, he said, looking for a reason to miss class. I told him, I am not a doctor. No sympathy from me. On the way to the bathroom, within sight of the officer’s station, he’d shove his finger down his throat to induce vommitting. After a few incidents, the officer approached me and said, You need to do something about so and so. I can’t have him puking in my hallway. We already knew this young man’s days of incarceration would soon be over. Light at the end of the tunnel came suddenly—a hard to come by parole date, a school exemption included (an easy way to circumvent the “No GED, No Parole” law). Good riddance and good luck.

Last I heard, this inmate enjoyed five or six days of freedom. They caught him in possession of heroin, an obvious parole violation and a nice avenue for spreading his hepatitis with a shared dirty needle. He and his druggy friends are doing much more than just catching cases; I’d say they’re Eagle Scouts by now.

HEAD ON A STICK, FIST IN MOUTH

When one of us felt like it, we’d yell, “Head on a stick.” That meant you’d been paralyzed in an accident from the neck down, and the other person had to do everything for you that you couldn’t do as a result of your condition.

—Michelle Brooks, “The Difference Between Pluto And Goofy,” from the Alaska Quarterly Review

I’ve encountered my share of messed up kids masking their deficiencies with bravado. When that didn’t meet their emotional needs, I’d see them cowering, sulking, and even sucking their thumbs in the back of my classroom. Believe it or not, these were some bad ass teenagers. Thumb-sucking was not unusual for this breed of kid. I guess we all need some type of security.

I’ve only encountered one kid who sucked his entire fist. I don’t know how he did it without gagging or choking himself to death. He’d insert his massive right hand into his mouth damned near all the way to his wrist bone. Or so I’d thought.

As a reward for good behavior, I’d take my class to the boarded-up St. Rose hall across the street from our school. We’d play basketball on the broken-tiled gymnasium floor, and on a few occasions I’d invite the men standing on the streetcorner for a pick-up game. Our director frowned upon this; I often told her, don’t worry, they check their weapons at the door. We never had a problem except for the fist-sucking kid, who, for whatever reason, would insert his massive mitt into his mouth after the slightest confrontation. When he felt comfortable again, he’d rejoin the game, and as soon as he touched the ball everyone would hit the sidelines.

“DeWayne’s low man. Low man’s got to disinfect the ball,” one kid pointed out.

“I ain’t touchin’ it,” DeWayne said before turning to the culprit, “Nasty, germ infested muthafucka!” The perfectly functional ball remained in the middle of the court and might as well have been deflated. Game over. The low man never did what he was told; No sense in damaging his pride too.

Another time, while doing classwork, the director called me into the hallway to inform me that this kid’s mother was murdered with a shotgun. She looked as if she wanted me to deliver the bad news. “Hang on,” I said, “I’ll get him for you.” In no time at all, she sent him right back into my room. And in no time at all, he sat down and inserted his fist into his mouth. And in no time at all, the rest of the class started complaining about his filthy habit. “Leave him be,” I demanded, not knowing what else to say.

So there he sat, catatonic, staring into the void, and all I could do was distract the others from the only security he had—his fist.

BEFORE ST. MATTHEW'S

I’ve been asked about my transition from a Catholic school to a prison setting, and before I tell you how seamless it truly was, I’d rather describe my days teaching in an old run down asbestos filled building the Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit leased out to the Michigan Department of Social Services. Can you say, SlumLord? My students were funneled into our program from the Wayne County Youth Home, housed in a leaky dormitory, and escorted by a youth-specialist in transportation mode (a single file line, arms crossed in front of them, and absolutely no talking) to an ill-equipped classroom.

Although they were young boys, their rap sheets were quite extensive—sexual assaults, armed robberies, car jackings, breaking and entering, possession of controlled substances, and even murder. The director, a school marm of Danish origin, rarely came out of her office. The boys scared the hell out of her. However, it wasn’t their demeanor that got under her skin so much as the cleaning service contractor with Turret’s syndrome who often screamed “You bitch!” as she stepped around the numerous buckets in the half-lit corridor.

Before my UAW representative negotiated the terms of my resignation, I had written a memo informing the director of my classroom windows not being properly secured. I even offered her a simple solution: change my classroom to the off-limits second floor, that way, if a student tried to escape he’d have to think twice about the impact of gravity. The director verbally assured me that the higher security level kids were properly screened and not to worry about escapes. So I didn’t.

The first day they arrived in the school building, they ran willy-nilly down the hallway, shoving one another and cussing like drunken sailors. The youth specialists never had them under control. As I prepared to greet them at my classroom door, two boys headed straight for the hand-cranked windows and in a matter of seconds slid their way to freedom through the narrow openings. After the investigation, I was told that I did not have control of my class—never mind that one of the escapees shouldn’t have been in my area. The director covered her own ass by claiming that I should’ve made her aware of the windows, and that I shouldn’t’ve let students into my classroom that didn’t belong there. I took my lumps, instead of mentioning the neglect of duty on behalf of my fellow coworkers.

Soon thereafter, I had a job teaching 7th graders at a Catholic school in the inner city. My main duty, according to the principal, keep the boys from pissing on the steam heat radiators in the lavatory, makes one hell of a putrid smell. By this time, I believe I was already prepared for teaching in a prison.

THE VELCRO FACTOR

I think this business of “lovability” is a dangerous area for writers; more than a few writers have been seduced into thinking that characters should be charming and lovable. I don’t think so, you know; I think they have to be interesting. They have to have enough of, let’s call it the “Velcro factor.” We have to be able to attach ourselves to them and they must attach themselves to us.
—Charles Baxter, interviewed by Stewart Ikeda

I’ve had the displeasure of working with all kinds of students during my teaching career. From the suburban high school female yapper who confronted me with the following question, “You don’t like me, do you?” —where I answered in front of the whole class, “You don’t give me any reason to like you.” —to the urban male ward of the state and delusional fantasizer working his jimmy from under the student/desk combo. “He’s doing it again,” my all male student class would inform me, and instead of pretending to be oblivious to the situation by letting him clean up in the bathroom afterwards, I decided to let him sit in his own mess.

Lately I’ve been hearing some radio advertisement where the narrator claims his proven training program can help parents alter their children’s behavior, and I can’t help thinking that if this were true, why are so many children “state raised,” and why do so many children advance to prison? Take the female yapper I mentioned, I met her mother at parent/teacher conferences and she proceeded to rip me a new derriere (putting it mildly). “My daughter said you announced to the whole class that you didn’t like her. Is that true?” she asked. I had difficulty answering the question, not because I didn’t have an explanation but because the mother yapped on and on and on just like her daughter. I’m willing to bet the daughter went to college, and perhaps earned a degree or met someone within her new social circle and married and had children and continued the vicious cycle of yappers. I’m willing to bet her chances of prison were nil.

As for my little circle jerk, it didn’t take him long to figure out that he could ask for permission prior to working his jimmy, which in turn meant that he could work his jimmy elsewhere and clean up immediately after his fantasy. His actions were always determined by mine. If I refused him a potty break early, I and my all male students were punished with his private moment. So just exactly who was training whom? And if I had to guess to his current whereabouts, he probably graduated to criminal sexual conduct and is sporting a prison number across his back. Still, looking back, I wish both of them would have just zipped it, but for how long I don't know.

INTERVIEW WITH A TEACHER

My career path as an educator did not go exactly as planned. At the age of twenty-seven my United Auto Worker’s representative—I knew I was in trouble when the rep said, I’ve never had to defend a teacher before—negotiated my resignation from the Michigan Department of Social Services for my refusal to chase two black youths down the back streets and alleys of Detroit. Now I might not be the smartest person in the world, but I knew the potential danger involved. First of all—if I caught these youngsters (and I probably would have due to their having to frequently hoist their pants up)—then what? An ass kicking? And by whom?

I left DSS with two letters of recommendation and a guarantee that my former employer would not bad mouth me. Call it the art of the deal if you will. I frantically pursued work elsewhere before someone had a change of heart. It wasn’t long and I found a teaching position at a Catholic school in Detroit. During that time, I vowed to never ever work for the State of Michigan again.

Unbeknownst to me, my name and civil service test scores remained on some state agency list, and when I least expected it, three-fourths of the way through a school year, I got the call. “Would you be interested in teaching in a prison?”

Again, I’m no dummy—I knew to follow the money, after all, the Archdiocese of Detroit wasn’t paying their teachers diddly-squat. But there were no guarantees that I’d actually get the prison job. In fact, I was under the impression that I had set up an interview appointment with one person, a principal; however, this was not the case. I sat at an elongated table in an elongated conference room surrounded by a warden, deputy wardens, personnel manager, inspector, and a school principal—each person ready to bombard me with questions. My only defense, an empty glass and a pitcher of water in front of me, a stalling tactic within arms reach.

“What would you do if two inmates started fighting in your class?” the Warden asked.

“I don’t know exactly what your policies and procedures are,” I answered, “but peer restraints have worked wonders for me in the past.”

“What’s that?” the Warden asked.

I poured myself a glass of water and took a sip. “It’s where I have the other class members ‘circle-up’ and ‘take-em’ down until order can be restored.” I was being cocky, knowing damned well they don’t do those sorts of things in prison, but for some reason everyone on the interview panel enjoyed my answer, and the one's to follow. I’ll be the first to admit, my early years in teaching were probably a far cry from resembling the role that Hilary Swank played in Freedom Writers. In other words, I just didn’t give a damn.

BAD DECISIONS OF VARYING DEGREES

In 1997, after five years of teaching in a prison in Detroit and suffering two to three flat tires a year, I decided to transfer to another facility in another county. Filled with renewed energy and a fairly decent reputation, I thought I’d get along with staff just fine. Unfortunately, within one week I was battling the personnel department for reneging on my rate of pay. Seems that the personnel manager had a habit of decreasing the amount of money new employees were promised. I pleaded for a lateral transfer back to my old stomping ground; however, I had helped my former employers find my replacement, thus killing any chance of turning back.

During my first week at my new job, I remember stepping onto the elevator in the administration building on my way to lunch. Not knowing my identity, the corrections officers ceased talking. “I’m not a federal agent, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said, “I just transferred here from Ryan Correctional Facility. I’m a teacher.”

Still, they looked at me suspiciously and with good reason; sworn depositions were the norm around there. Three of their coworkers were arrested earlier in the week for taking bribes from inmates to smuggle in drugs, handcuff keys, and pepper spray which endangered the lives not only of the transportation staff but everyone who had contact with inmates. Two of the officers did approximately one year of jail time. The third officer, Dion Scott Koglin disappeared, until recently. According to the Detroit Free Press, he was living as Richard Bishop in Tennessee with his girlfriend and 4-month old baby. He showed a sense of relief when the FBI asked him if he knew why they were there.

Everyone makes decisions that they’ll regret sooner or later in life—but the key is to move forward no matter how dire the circumstances. After ten years of teaching at my current facility, which is double the amount of time I spent at the prison in Detroit, and after seeing employees come and go, I’m still chugging along, trying to make all the right moves, trying to survive the best way I know how.

STANDING AND DELIVERING WHAT?

If you work for an institution, whatever your job, whatever your level, be yourself when you write. You will stand out as a real person among the robots.

—William Zinsser

In the United States, whether sports or movies, most people root for the underdog. In “Stand and Deliver,” a movie I hadn’t seen since before DVD, I had whole-heartedly approved of Edward James Olmos’s portrayal of Jaime Escalante, a real life mathematics teacher from East Los Angeles’s Garfield High School.

From what I had remembered, Mr. Escalante had the insurmountable task of teaching Hispanic students from an economically impoverished community AP Calculus. Initially he was hired as a Computer Science teacher, however, the school did not procure the necessary funds for equipment, which in turn meant that he would have to settle for teaching Math 1A (Basic Math).

Mr. Escalante accepted the change in subject matter, proving that he could easily adapt. Consequently, if the class name were any indication, his new employer gave him their low-track math students. Undeterred by this, Mr. Escalante felt he could do more than teach introductory mathematics courses. He wanted to prepare his students for college by teaching them higher level mathematics. He set his standards much higher than his colleagues, standards that seemed unfathomable to some of the parents, standards that, at one point, deeply offended the head of the mathematics department. From the viewpoint of Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Theory, Mr. Escalante had to influence the existing culture to change their perception of education. He had to make a social impact on the students’ families, peers, the school system, and the neighborhoods. In true underdog fashion, once Mr. Escalante accomplished his goals, he had to deal with a national testing agency (macrosystem) that accused his students of cheating on a standardized test.

I did not agree with all his actions, but I do understand how his tactics could motivate adolescents. His sarcasm and name-calling may turn off some students or lead to negativity; but his altruistic intentions seem to negate or override any hostility. If, on the other hand, he were teaching elementary grade school children, his verbal bantering and cajoling would be totally inappropriate.

His use of math manipulatives—using apples for an introduction to fractions and using his fingers to demonstrate multiplication facts—are interesting techniques for attracting attention to his subject matter. Also, his ability to focus in on a classroom ruffian (played by Lou Diamond Phillips) and challenge his intellectual skills demonstrates how serious of an educator Mr. Escalante is. If you can get the least likely student to cooperate, then the rest of the class will tow-the-line. Mr. Escalante took a gamble with this student, creating a win or lose situation. Further evidence of his altruistic endeavor is depicted in a later scene when he allows this student three textbooks so he can protect his tough Chicano image. In exchange for the favor, Mr. Escalante is promised cooperation in class. I believe teachers need to be flexible with the students, and this scene shows a willingness to help a student learn even if it means breaking a rule.

As far as teaching methods, Mr. Escalante’s fill-in-the-hole analogy for adding positive and negative integers is a clever way of getting his students to visualize a key algebraic concept, and his ability to tie in the concept of zero with their heritage (Mayan Culture) is brilliant—it generates a natural curiosity among them. Once he wins over their admiration, he is able to get them to repeat multiplication rules for reinforcement and to use ritualistic chants and handclapping so they’ll stay academically alert.

In one scene, he invents an application problem where Pedro has five girlfriends, Carlos has one less than Pedro, and the Gigolo has … need I go any further. The story problem is blatantly sexist, but entertaining to the class. While the administration is tolerant of his story problem (he teasingly asks the school principal and head of the math department whether he can get some gigolos for a demonstration), he at this point is not being a good role model. In another scene, he indirectly questions a student’s sexual orientation because of his late arrival for class. Unfortunately, his chastising comments get the better of him in a later scene. He steps way over the line when he tells a female student that she has more boyfriends than Elizabeth Taylor. He is using a student’s personal life as classroom fodder and he should not be doing this. His determination to see his students succeed has, at times, made him lose sight of their individual identities. He is not a bad teacher; he is a driven teacher. Outside the school, he pleads with a father who owns a restaurant to let his daughter continue her studies, and he schedules a field trip for his students to show them where calculus is applied in the real world.

The first time I viewed “Stand and Deliver” I didn’t give much thought to Mr. Escalante’s interaction with his students. I was caught-up in his one-man crusade. I was cheering for the underdog, whom, against all odds, would achieve his goal. After the second viewing, I became more aware of the students’ socioemotional needs. Ironically, I’ve done some of the very same things Mr. Escalante has done in his classroom.