Thursday, August 16, 2007

WHEN YOUR BOUNDARIES CHANGE





Prior to my transfer from one prison facility to the next, I intermittently supervised an inmate school clerk. I say, “Intermittently” because not only did I perform the school principal’s enrollment and student orientation duties, I taught GED classes as well. The only way to do both effectively was to cut corners, and by that, I mean overlooking a few Michigan Department of Correction's operating procedures and policies.

Never one to follow all the rules (which is probably why the convicts can identify with me) I had Inmate Clark, a former rapists/murderer, typing prisoner details on an old stand-alone Macintosh computer. I can still hear the muffled screams of that dot-matrix printer spitting out triplicate copied forms from a corner office. Each form, otherwise known as a prisoner detail, once signed and delivered by me, gave an inmate access to our school building at specific times of the day.

“JR,” the school officer asked, “since when is it okay to leave an inmate unsupervised?”

“Since there’s not enough staff to do the work,” I answered.

After explaining how I would assume full responsibility if anything were to happen, business continued as usual. There were a few occasions where I checked that Macintosh computer and deleted numerous files devoted to a so-called pornographic novel. When confronted about it, Inmate Clark assured me that he would seek an alternative method for his creative writing endeavors.

I knew better. On my last day at the facility, I told Inmate Clark that his days of generating prisoner details were over. “Go back to your regular filing duties and stay out of that corner office. Do you understand? Because I’ll deny everything.”

Evidently, he did not get my message. After two weeks of settling into my new job, an investigative questionnaire caught up with me.

Did you ever assign Inmate Clark his own office?

No.

Did you ever let Inmate Clark use a school office computer without direct supervision?

No.

Is there anything more you would like to add to clarify this matter?

NO.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

SEEING DANGER














I’ve always felt that you should have an idea of what, and not who, is coming through your classroom door. Murders, rapists, pedophiles, drug dealers, and thieves are the norm. Instead, I’m speaking about what is commonly referred to as OPMT’s (Out Patient Mental Treatment). “He’s OPMT,” an officer will say, as if that justifies any peculiar behaviors you’ve witnessed.

Some OPMT’s constantly battle demons. Some listen to the voices inside their head and cut their way back into reality. Some are comical (the offender who repeatedly fell in love with storefront mannequins and couldn’t resist kidnapping them); some are sick (the head banger, forced to wear a bike helmet, who inserted a ballpoint pen into the drinking fountain and mounted it until someone said, “Hey! People drink from that!”)

Last Thursday, returning from a peaceful lunch, I witnessed two officers escorting an OPMT to PC (Protective Custody). After completing his orientation earlier in the day, and because he hadn’t been screened for his medication yet, he started spewing racist venom at all the black inmates in his cellblock. “N-this, N-that! N…N…N…” As they marched his ass backward in handcuffs down the walkway, he looked up momentarily and we made eye contact. Young, fresh, white meat removed from GP (general population).

We didn’t speak to one another until yesterday. No one informed me of his current situation, and he certainly didn’t reveal anything to me. What I’ve told you I learned mostly on my own.

He seemed anxious to please me and dove right into his class assignment. The young black inmates took turns getting up from their desks and walking by him.

“How’s it going?” the first inmate said on his way to the pencil sharpener.

Then the next guy, “You doing okay?”

Then a third guy, “You need any help come holler at me.”

By then I had had enough. “Sit your asses down and cut the crap.”

After class, I asked the school principal to give me the scoop. Turns out, he’s some suburban kid who repeatedly stabbed his mother in the eyes more than one hundred times. However, that wasn’t the information I was seeking. I told her what transpired in my classroom and that we might have to adjust my class rosters to avoid a potential blowout. She agreed.

Monday, August 13, 2007

THE CURE














The Cure's Prayer Tour 1989 (Lovesong)

However far away / I will always love you
However long I stay / I will always love you
Whatever words I say / I will always love you



When Bill Davidson broke ground on The Palace of Auburn Hills, my boss DW, of DW Properties, brokered a deal among several business owners to lease a suite. The way it worked: DW Properties would manage and distribute the tickets for basketball games, concerts, and miscellaneous events in exchange for one share at a considerably reduced cost. Talk about the art of the deal.

As soon as The Palace opened its doors, DW—with his old school charm and history of hiring young, inexperienced secretaries for a little extracurricular activity (he made Warren Beatty look like an amateur)—convinced the concierge to come work for him. If this were any indication of past hiring practices, the suite holders would be storming the fort demanding changes.

Here is a perfect example of my experience with a DW Properties’ secretary: “Excuse me, sir,” a Barbie-doll-like secretary said, directing me toward the Fax machine, “It must be broke or something.” I checked it out. Everything appeared to be in working order. “But the document’s still here,” she stated, somewhat puzzled.

When the concierge left her Palace job and set-up camp in the offices of DW Properties, I gave her my standard nobody’s special around here greeting, “Who the hell are you?”

Instead of eliciting a warm bubbly smile, this one lashed back. “And just who the hell are YOU?”

Even though we were the same age, we definitely did not hit it off. Not that it mattered. I soon discovered that this secretary was different from the others. She actually had a head on her shoulders. She kept The Palace suite holders happy—distributing tickets, handling complaints, and billing each in a timely fashion. As for our working relationship, I would plunk box after box of old invoices on her desk week after week, and she would input the information into her computer and shred the documents. After saving that last box of invoices to her computer, I complemented her on a job well done. Then I made an unusual request, “I want you to delete all the invoice files on your computer.” She looked at me incredulously. “If you won’t, I will.”

She soon learned that DW had enemies everywhere, even in his own camp. Not long after that, I asked her if she would be interested in having lunch with me.

Six months later, DW noticed his secretary wearing a concert t-shirt. “You should’ve told me you were interested in the Cure, I could’ve gotten you in for free,” he said.

Little did he know, not only did he pay for her concert ticket and t-shirt, he paid for mine as well, plus food and drinks. We started going to all sorts of events, compliments of DW Properties.

Next week that secretary and I will be celebrating our 14th Wedding Anniversary.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

SELF-IMPLOSION














The last time I saw the Rockets, Lenny D. kept pestering me to sell my concert tickets at regular cost. I'd spent the summer of 1981 teaching swimming classes and lifeguarding for the Bruce Township Parks and Rec. Not much money coming in; yet, I'd purchased those two tickets with the intentions of asking my coworker, a popular high school cheerleader, whom I never talked to except for the occasional "hello," if she'd be interested in going. In order to challenge myself, I told a few friends, perhaps for no better reason than to hear their words of encouragement.

Thus Lenny D. And his phone calls. And he wasn't a friend. Just someone from my high school graduating class. The cousin of a friend. "Are you going to ask her?" I heard him repeat into the receiver every time I gave a reason for my delay. I hadn't yet discovered that some ten years later he'd run a backhoe over a major gas line in downtown Rochester, Michigan, and blow up a building. I had learned about the explosion on the local news. His involvement was revealed months later when I asked, "What happened to your eyebrows?"

He fessed up to the accidental dig but claimed no one informed him of the gas line.

"You're lucky to be alive," I said. He acted like it wasn't such a big deal. No deaths occurred and the area had been evacuated.

"You're too late," he claimed. "Why don't you sell me the tickets?"

The phone calls continued into the next morning, the day of the concert, pushing me over the edge. "I already called her," I said. "It's a done deal."

Shortly thereafter, I picked up the phone and made that call. There's no sense in going over the details except to acknowledge that it was our first and last date and that I had probably sabotaged all chances of ever dating her again. By the start of my senior year, I became a faded memory.

As for Lenny D., I'd run into him now and then. "Hey, can you give me a ride home?" he asked. He had a suspended driver's license for too many DUI's and the Michigan State Police were waiting for him in the parking lot of our local watering hole.

"Sure," I said, knowing that my condition faired much better than the night I'd last seen the Rockets in concert.

Here's Turn Up The Radio:

Thursday, August 9, 2007

GLADIATOR SCHOOL


I'm unwinding to The Tragically Hip and thinking about what I could've done differently Wednesday morning, the day a fight broke out in the next classroom. I heard furniture flying, thump-thumping, and muffled expletives. Had two of my own students escorted out fifteen minutes earlier--hey, you got to do something when they're swarming you like a pack of rabid dogs. I told a third inmate to "get the hell out, and stay out, and if you come back, bring you i.d. because I'm gonna write your ass up for being out of place."

"C'mon man," he pleaded, "I'll behave. Just let me stay in here for awhile." He sensed that I wasn't in the mood for his bullshit and off he trotted to "Gladiator School," or at least that's what the corrections officers jokingly call the classroom next door because of the broken chairs and tables that get hauled away on a regular basis.

The younger prisoners (17 to 22 years of age) often complain that I'm a miserable old cuss. I'd like to think I'm playing the part. I'm not so sure this prisoner drawn sketch is an accurate portrayal of my physical features, but it certainly fits my working mood. So, when the thump-thumping continued, the youngsters I've bitch-trained to stay seated looked up at me. "You gonna see what's happening?" one of them asked.

"Don't tell me how to do my job. I'll check on it when I'm good and ready." The thump-thumping grew louder. Followed by more muffled expletives. "Stay where you are," I ordered. Sometimes those dogs just won't listen; they followed.

The prisoner I'd threatened with a write up and his foe had each other in headlocks. I'm not quite sure what the teacher was trying to do. Standing there in disbelief, I guess. From what I'd gathered, he pulled his PPD (Personal Protection Device) which alerts custody of a problem. Sixteen years with the Department of Corrections and I've yet to use this little device. In fact, I've only had one alleged stabbing incident. I say "alleged" because no one could prove it took place in my area. When questioned by the inspectors, I replied, "I didn't see shit."

So here I am, listening to The Tragically Hip and wondering whether I had done the right thing. I worked crowd control, ordering my students back into my classroom while other staff members pried the two inmates apart. Soon they were handcuffed and hauled off to segregation without anyone getting injured. Much different than the time our horticulture teacher witnessed a handcuffed inmate get a pencil buried in his arm. "Don't pull it out," the corrections officer advised, not missing a beat. And why should he? Healthcare and Segregation are in the same building.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

TO BE A SUCCESS



Michael "Flash" Haggerty is so popular he no longer visits my house. Not that I want him over. I would much prefer seeing him at my old high school friend’s place in Capac, Michigan, where we can socialize over barbecued chicken and cold beers. I have put my foot down more times than I can count. Dug my heels in deep.


"That’s it," my wife threatens, "I’m calling Flash."

Her words sting. No man likes to be told they’re inadequate. Especially me.

Flash is known for his rock and roll roots in a band called Adrenalin, which later morphed into DC Drive. Flash started the band. Last time I spoke with him—the usual testosterone-filled, male-to-male greeting, "so how’s it going?"—he brought me up to speed on a few reunion concerts he participated in at the Emerald Theatre in Mount Clemens and the Freedom Hill in Sterling Heights.

During their glory days, the band warmed up for Bob Seger and Aerosmith at the DTE Music Theatre (or should I say "Pine Knob?") Their music appeared in the sound track of a Hollywood movie starring Louis Gossett Jr. However, Flash isn’t Flashy like his name suggests, even though he has a successful plumbing business in Eastpointe (or should I say "East Detroit?") and no longer makes every house call. Instead, he has employees do that for him.

"Go ahead," I tell my wife, dropping my pipe wrench. "Call Flash."




Flash is wearing the white jacket.

Monday, August 6, 2007

THE POINT OF NO RETURN














My favorite albums are framed and hanging on the basement wall of my house. Nostalgia on vinyl, under glass ... relics of a by-gone era. Knowing how little room we have, my wife suggested I select a few favorites, those artistic album covers: Steve Miller Band's Pegasus, Journey's angelic-like Earth, Kansas's ship sailing to The Point of No Return, ELO's UFO, and of course, the Rockets' Rocket.

"Display them," she said, "and sell the rest." And I did.

Lately, I've been tempted to pry the backs off those frames, read the liner notes, and put needle to plastic. It ain't easy just looking at them when my wife's Sanyo stereo system, complete with turntable is nearby.

Luckily, a few years back I discovered twenty or so songs by the Rockets digitized and readily available in cyberspace. Do I feel badly about helping myself? No. Not really. As a high school kid, I bought those albums, T-shirts, and concert tickets. I was (and still am) a Rockets fan. Besides, their music has never been digitally remastered on CD.

I'm not sure my student appreciates David Lee Gilbert's voice like I do. David and he drank and did drugs together. Call it "The Has Been" and "The Never Been" wasting away their days; Two points of light on a wide spectrum of possibilities. One flaming out early; the other serving time in prison.

Currently, my student is fighting a habitual offender label he incurred. He entered a guilty plea to the possession and sale of cocaine in 1988. Ten more years were added to his minimum and maximum out dates for a 3rd degree sex offense that happened in 2000 here in Michigan.

Here's the paperwork the inmate signed regarding the drug charge:

It appearing to the satisfaction of the Court that you are not likely again to engage in a criminal course of conduct, and that the ends of justice and the welfare of society do not require that you should presently be adjudged guilty and suffer the penalty authorized by law ... yada yada yada ... therefore, it is ordered and adjudge that the adjudication of guilt and imposition of sentence are here-by withheld and that you are hereby placed on probation for a period of two years under the supervision of the Florida Department of Corrections and its officers, such supervision to be subject to the provisions of the laws of this State.

And my student's response sent to his attorney regarding his current sentence:

This conviction was used to compute my prior record variables and to enhance my sentence to 2nd degree habitual offender. If this 1988 conviction from Florida isn't supposed to be on my record, then I should have merit to appeal my sentence. I'm hoping that some good can come out of this. If this prior conviction can't be used, it would change my sentencing guidelines considerably.

If I were his lawyer, I'd deal with the realities of the situation. I'd ask: "Were you under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of your sex offense?"

I'll bet he was.

Friday, August 3, 2007

THE ROCKETS



Dave Gilbert had a voice to die for.

"Rocket to the crypt" by Brian Smith, Detroit MetroTimes music critic.

See yesterday's post also.

WASTED TALENT














Most people are appalled when I tell them there's a music room at our prison. "The inmates have regularly scheduled jam sessions," I say--initiating all sorts of responses, the most popular being: "That's bullshit!" I also toss in the following trivia: "Guitar string is a necessity with our tattoo artists; they use it to make needles on their homemade tatttoo guns."

There's an abundance of creative types in our prison, artists and musicians everywhere. Then there's your average working stiffs like myself, earning an honest wage off other folks' miseries. Last week I overheard a student reminiscing about his younger days jamming with David Gilbert. I interrupted his conversation. "Are you talking about David Lee Gilbert from the Rockets?"

"Yeah," he answered. "I did carpentry work with him before I came to prison."

If I were to draw a timeline of Gilbert's life, this inmate knew him after the fame, after the rock-n-roll lifestyle took its toll. The Rockets were (and still are) my favorite Detroit rock band. They should've made it big, if only Gilbert, their lead singer, would have quit his alcohol and drug use. They warmed up for Journey, the Who, and many other rock acts. Headlined a few shows of their own too. By 1983 though, the Rockets disbanded. Gilbert's downward spiral lasted for eighteen more years. He became another working stiff just like the rest of us, trying to survive, trying to pay the bills. Unfortunately, his substance abuse problem did him in. On August 1, 2001, at the age of 49, he died of cirrhosis and liver cancer.

As a tribute, tomorrow I'll post a slideshow along with the Rockets' "Born in Detroit."

Here's the lyrics:

Well Hollywood is fine if you're just passin' through / People out there will treat you pretty cool

Parties in the hills are always lots of fun / Malibu is great if you wanna catch some sun

And I know folks who really love the town / But it just ain't home, I never stick around

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

New York City's such a soulful town / Anything you want, you know they'll shake it on down

Hot spots, hot shots, the place never sleeps / When I used to live there I was always on my feet

But even though I dug it, I knew I couldn't stay / Home kept callin' I was on my way

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

When you're cruisin' down Woodward on a Friday night / Don't take no orders and run from a fight

Good times, bad times, I've seen it all / I'm gonna keep rockin' so let's have a ball

C'mon baby, don't you wanna go back to Detroit City - the home of rock 'n roll

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

I LIKE TO FISH














Yesterday, as I entered the administration building (the clubhouse before our lovely gated community) custody staff corralled me. Entryway to the time clock, lunchroom, and bathrooms were off limits; all doors were locked.

As I stood in line waiting for my turn to pass through the electronic gate and into a shakedown room, a corrections officer started passing out twenty-dollar bills. "Here’s that twenty I owe you," he kept saying. At our facility, the maximum allowable amount you can carry inside the joint is twenty bucks. (Later in the day, this same C.O. was busy trying to retrieve his money.) As I stood there, I pulled a breakfast bar out of my pocket and ate it. The coworker beside me shook his head at my obvious cover-up; you cannot bring food inside either.

When it was my turn in the shakedown room, a corrections officer searched my personal belongings. "Why is this in here?" the officer asked, pointing to a crappie rig in my lunch bag.

"Do you want the long explanation or the short explanation?"

"The short," he said.

"I like to fish."

After taking off my shoes and socks, and emptying my pockets, I waited for an officer to frisk me. No problem there.

The only difficulty I had had to do with that damn lunch of mine. Not so much the fishing gear, but the storage thereof of my freshly cut cantaloupe and ham sandwich.

"Put your lunch on the cart."

"Do you have a refrigerator in here?" I already knew the answer to that.

"We’ll make sure it gets refrigerated."

"How long will that be?" I asked.

My persistence paid-off. They allowed me access to the lunchroom. When I returned though, they made me get back in line for another shakedown. By now, I had had enough. What could I possibly smuggle in, after being searched and allowed access to a secured area? The sergeant decided it was a little too excessive and let me pass through.

Others were not so lucky:

A corrections officer didn’t leave his cell phone in his car. When he entered the administration building and saw the line, it was too late. He voluntarily informed the sergeant of his mistake, which in turn, resulted in an automatic five-day suspension without pay.

The librarian (why is it always the librarian?) wanted to use the bathroom. After being denied the luxury, he decided to utilize the parking lot. Upon his return, custody staff confiscated his identification card. The charge: Refusal of a shakedown. The consequence: Suspension with pay pending investigation and possible termination of employment.

Here’s my hypothetical question: If, after a long drive into work and a very large cup of coffee, would you be compliant? Or would you find a place to relieve yourself?

Monday, July 30, 2007

DUCK ASS















According to the Michigan Department of Corrections Education Policies, prisoners impacted by Public Act 320, "No GED, No Parole," will be granted exemptions prior to their parole dates under the "no fault of their own" clause if they meet the following criteria:

1. Regular school attendance at every opportunity within the prior two years.

2. Satisfactory school progress evaluations.

3. Submission of GED Exemption form with administrative approval.

Since I'm no longer giving students "needs improvement" and "unsatisfactory" ratings on their quarterly evaluations, they should have an easier time circumventing PA320. Most of them, anyway.

I’m not sure where my new student, Inmate Murphy, will fit into the greater scheme of things. Mr. Ben Williams from the GED Testing Service sent a letter to DLEG (Department of Labor & Economic Growth) saying, "because of Mr. Murphy’s fraudulent action, he is prohibited from GED Testing."

However, the MDOC has come to the inmate’s defense by clarifying the matter. They feel he should be able to test; after all, he wasn’t caught attempting to cheat on a scheduled GED Test; he was caught "presenting" an obviously forged GED to support an alleged program completion.

I’ll bet he ducks my question the first day he starts attending class. "Are you in prison for uttering and publishing?" I’ll ask.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

LOST ON THE OREGON TRAIL














Are your students in the Michigan Department of Corrections really failures of the public school system? Or are they failures of another kind - victims of abuse, criminals, budding sociopaths, individuals who, in general, have stepped off the curb and entered a different lane of traffic? Are they mentally ill?

Your essay doesn't really address what I believe the reader - me - would find interesting: who you teach now. Who are they, why are you working with them - default or empathy or both, how are they different from students in mainstream society. What have you experienced that is compelling in your line of work? Just showing up isn't enough.

I worked as a mental health nurse in maximum security for ten months to get material for a book. I worked with famous criminals and garden variety psychotics and everything in between. The stories are fascinating. Be brave - don't be morose - it's just not interesting enough. Then submit work to me.

Evelyn Sharenov, Nonfiction Editor
Oregon Literary Review

Friday, July 27, 2007

DON'T SAY A WORD














My dog has mange and all I keep thinking about is how an inmate gave me scabies. Four years into my teaching career, moving from desk to desk, offering each prisoner help on their class assignments, and what?--I get scabies. If I had known the possibility was there, I would've stayed behind my desk like I do now.
In the lunchroom, before I could take a bite from my sandwich, I started scratching my forearm. The institutional maintenance teacher asked me what was wrong.
"I don't know," I said. I broke out in a rash, little white flecks dotting the surface.
He suggested I scrub my arm with some special medicated soap he kept in his storage area. His suggestion turned out invaluable.
On the way home from work I went for a check-up. The doctor told me a parasitic tick burrowed under my skin and laid eggs. He gave me a prescription for a delousing shampoo. "Just in case," he said. My wife washed everything in site: clothes, bedding, pillows, you name it.
The next day I announced to my first class that someone gave me scabies. I described the symptoms and told them about the medicated soap. Instead of thanking me for the free advice, a few convicts complained to the assistant deputy warden. "You must leave immediately," she said. "We'll give you administrative leave. Make sure you get a doctor's note saying you're okay to work." She kept talking like I had a flesh eating bacteria, treating me like a leopard.
I did as I was told. Came back the very next day, note in hand. Personnel said they would not let me have administrative leave unless the prison health care staff reported a case of scabies. No cases were ever reported. I had to use my own personal time.
My dog has mange, but it's not the contagious type. Eye drops twice a day. We go for long walks. She meets other dogs. I don't say a word. Why should I?

Thursday, July 26, 2007

THE GREAT MARCHENKO'S CATCH-22













“You shouldn’t’ve violated the conditions of your parole,” I told an inmate sulking in my classroom. His first bit involved a B&E, where his partying friends encouraged him to steal an expensive scale from a specialty store. The idea was to use it for weighing their dope. Never mind that they lost sight of their goal when one of the inmate’s friends thought it would be funny if they called the cops on him.

“What?” the inmate asked incredulously, “The Great Marchenko,”—he often referred to himself in the third person, as if observing himself from a distance would ease his pain—“can’t drink a beer in his own home?”

“Was it a condition of your parole?” I pressed.

“The Great Marchenko can’t have a beer in his own home?” he repeated.

Knowing the circumstances of his first felony conviction, I was somewhat embarrassed for him; I asked anyway, “What? Did Operation Night Hawk come pounding down your door?”

“Worse,” he said, “my wife called the cops!” He explained that he was sitting in his favorite La-Z-Boy watching a football game when the Five-O arrived.

I could tell he was looking for sympathy. I’m no dummy. “Marchenko,” I asked, “were you smacking the old lady around prior to the opening kick-off?”

He wouldn’t answer me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Please exam the bottom half of the displayed Prisoner Assaultive Risk Screening Sheet. Take a closer look at the series of questions. Notice how tying the knot, at least once in your lifetime, can make you less assaultive. The irony.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

I THINK I UNDERSTAND














Where do you draw the line between sanity and insanity?

Our newest quarterly prisoner evaluation form has the following rating system:

4 – Excellent
3 – Satisfactory
2 – Needs Improvement
1 – Unsatisfactory

It has been brought to my attention that giving an inmate the last two rating numbers for attendance is highly frowned upon.

Therefore, I asked, "Why are those ratings there?"

I was told to use the last two ratings for intermittent discipline. In other words, use the same quarterly evaluation form during a non-quarterly evaluation time to warn or terminate the offender or offenders due to lack of attendance.

So I said, "Isn’t that more paperwork?"

I was told that it’s a deterrent, that thumping one or two inmates over the head this way will send a clear message to the others.

Therefore, I pointed out that I had been writing the necessary "036 Out of Place" tickets on the offenders and then evaluating them each quarter on their attendance.

"You’re not kicking them out?" I was asked.

"No," I answered.

"You should kick them out, and then do the evaluation form to terminate them from your class roster."

I thought about it for a moment, before agreeing with my boss.

Here’s what I’ll do: Give all my students "Excellent" or "Satisfactory" attendance ratings on their quarterly evaluations. A few days later, the offending parties will get "Unsatisfactory" ratings on non-quarterly evaluations once they’re found guilty on tickets I’ve written on them.

Does this make sense? All of my students will have "Excellent" or "Satisfactory" attendance, yet some will be thrown out for poor attendance.

Here’s why it will work: I’ve been told to backdate all my quarterly evaluations.

Monday, July 23, 2007

HMO FOR PRISONERS


















"Our costs can come down," said Patricia Caruso, director of the Michigan Department of Corrections.

In the words of Michael Moore: "Sicko!"

Visit Red Tape Blog for the latest news on the Michigan prison system.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?













I can only imagine that to the outsider looking in they probably think I'm making up all these prison stories. And although the common perception is that I have an interesting job when in fact it's quite monotonous and dull, I can assure you that I'm not hyping up anything. I will admit to this: At this very moment I'm bored, or as Iggy Pop would say, "Chairman of the Bored," but I'm not fabricating anything.

It's a late Sunday evening, and after scarfing a gyros sandwich at a Greek diner and having a slight indigestion problem, I'm reminiscing about an educational conference at the Carson City Correctional Facility. I can't for the life of me remember what the training was all about, or whether the free lunch was any better than the lamb I'd just eaten. All I remember is a simple question asked by Jolly Turner, a fellow correctional educator. He asked the waiter, "So, what brings you here?"

His question wouldn't be the least bit funny if I were sitting in that Greek diner four blocks from my house. However, it's always nice to know who is handling your grub. You see, our food had been prepared and served by a bunch of convicts enrolled in a food technology class.

As I sat there, anticipating the waiter's answer, he ignored the question and started pouring coffee into our cups. But Jolly wouldn't leave it alone, he asked again, "So, what brings you here?"

By now the waiter was prepared. He said, "I'd rather not divulge that information at this particular time."

Today's picture shows two inmates in a prison Food Technology Class. I'm not sure why the knife isn't cabled.

Friday, July 20, 2007

NO ESCAPING HERE














I’m willing to bet that “He-who-has-no-name” is responsible for the sharp decline in blogging activity. Need I say more?

Immobilizations, for the most part, take place near the end of each month and not at the beginning. So when the siren literally catches staff and prisoners off guard, you know it’s serious. We had such an incident a month and a half ago. It wasn’t until the following day that I heard the inmates criticize custody for locking them down.

“You’d think they’d know how to count by now, especially with such a low number,” one of my students said, initiating shits and giggles amongst his peers. Most of them knew that the policies and operating procedures dictated how the situation was to be handled.

When the siren first blew and my fellow coworkers and I went to our designated areas, I’ll admit that I was a bit confused. “Why do they need to take count if the escape didn’t happen at our facility?” I asked. Then, before anyone in our group could answer, I said, “Don’t they know how many prisoners they had on public works detail?”

The information had already spread from staff person to staff person. Two low security level convicts working at a Port Huron cemetery decided to escape. The corrections officers contacted the appropriate authorities, loaded up the State of Michigan van, and headed back to our facility. The routine was set into motion: Lock down our prison; Start counting bodies; Send noncustody staff into the prisoner visiting area to wait for further instruction. And so we waited. And so I stayed awake.

It wasn't long and all the inmates at our facility were accounted for, except for the two short-timers from the public works crew. Within a few hours, they were captured. That'll be five years for attempted escape tacked onto their original sentences. Now who has no name?

Thursday, July 19, 2007

A FULL BLOWN RIOT

Inmate Jackson, a Control Center Porter at Ryan Correctional Facility, was “in the know.” He’d tell me the exact hour when the prison siren would make its ear-piercing sound. We knew the drill—they (the prisoners) would return to their cells for a head count, their regular scheduled activities cancelled for the day, and us (custody and noncustody staff) would practice various scenarios: hide the state employee (hostage situation), catch the state employee (escape in progress), or aid the state employee (escort healthcare to the scene). Practice, as they say, makes perfect.

One time, the day-shift sergeant slipped me a note with instructions to hide in a storage closet. When the time arrived, I exited my room full of convicts and hid in the designated spot. Sitting in total darkness, I could hear the slow, steady whir of the siren, as it got louder and louder and louder. I could hear people moving about, going to their assigned areas of control. It wasn’t long and silence fell upon me. It wasn’t long and I had fallen asleep.

They never did find me on that day. After what seemed like forever, I heard a distant voice penetrate my tranquility. I checked my wristwatch—shift change had passed.

I revealed myself.

“What are you doing in that closet?” the officer making rounds said.

“Is the immobilization over?” I asked.

“It’s been over.”

I confronted the afternoon-shift sergeant.

He rolled his eyes heavenward, “They had many scenarios.”

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

IN THE KNOW (KNOWINGLY OF COURSE)






I start work at 0700 hours; my first Adult Basic Education Class begins at 0725. The prisoners attending classes cannot enter the school building until that time. The only prisoners roaming the hallways—and I say, “roaming” because they aren’t always supervised—work for the quartermaster. One such convict passes me in the unlit corridor every morning. We keep our distance, and it’s just as well.

Last year, he wrote a grievance on me for abuse of power and requested my immediate termination. After a full-blown investigation, including videotaped evidence and union representation that I did not request, I was found … I was found … hell, I don’t know what I was found … but I’m obviously still here. And so is he. As far as I’m concerned, the issue was never resolved—that is, unless reassigning him to another teacher and giving him a job was the solution. I’m sure the assistant deputy warden responded to the inmate’s grievance in a polite and timely manner. Perhaps it slipped his mind to inform me of the outcome.

I’m reminded of the time when a different assistant deputy warden assured me that a particular inmate would be transferred out of our facility to ensure my safety. Prisoner Dobbins-Bey had been seething over an “Out of Place” ticket I had written, so he told another teacher, “I’m gonna stick that little mutha!” As he was escorted to a segregation cell, he claimed he’d pay somebody else to do his dirty work.

Two months later, after custody sprung him from the hole, he stood in my classroom doorway. “That’s far enough,” I warned.

“I don’t want no trouble,” he kept repeating.

I approached the ADW at the end of my shift. “Whatever happened to Dobbins-Bey?” I asked.

“We transferred him,” he claimed.

“Then how did he get into my classroom today?” I retorted.

Once again, he assured me that the problem would be resolved.

“Never mind,” I said.

At least my former ADW had an excuse for his lack of follow through: He was too busy campaigning to be the next Mayor of Pontiac. As for the other ADW—I haven’t a clue. Maybe he’s selling Amway.

Monday, July 16, 2007

HOMEWARD BOUND














Over the past several months, I’ve noticed new civilian staff pushing mounds of paper and guiding needy short-timers through the Michigan Prisoner Reentry Initiative Program. Out of curiosity, I asked a friendly tobacco-chewing chap (we were outside on break), “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m a job specialist,” he answered. “I help inmates make the transition from prison to society. Through MPRI we help them with their resumes and guide them to various employment opportunities.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my experience bringing tray-liner, Taco Bell application forms into my classroom for an assignment. The students felt it was beneath them. “Besides,” one student said, “it’s a waste of time.”

I countered by saying, “Yeah, you’re right. Without a GED or high school diploma, your chances of working for Taco Bell are slim.” There’s nothing wrong with riling the troops. A good dose of reality never hurt anyone. As long as you know how to de-escalate.

I’m not sure what type of employment this job specialist had in mind for those paroling, and I’m not trying to be a downer, but who wants to hire an ex-con? Not the Michigan Department of Corrections; we stopped doing that years ago.

MPRI has a monumental task ahead of them. My facility spent $11,000 clothing recent parolees—hey, you can’t send them into the world naked! Our warden decided it’s not the Michigan Department of Correction’s responsibility to clothe them when they leave. Without a support system, indigent prisoners will have to remain locked-up—that is, unless MPRI can lend a hand.

Can you imagine starting over with nothing? I certainly can’t.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

NOT ONE OF THEM














Dear JR,

Thanks for sending your piece, but I decided not to use it. I'm sorry, I can be pretty dense sometimes. I don't really understand what's happening.

Although I can't use this particular story, please feel free to send another.

John Benson, Editor
Not One Of Us

My knee-jerk reaction: I'm getting very very perturbed. Perhaps I'll put on some brass knuckles and try ThugLit. I'd like to wear one of their t-shirts to work and kick some major ass.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

A BIG MOUTH BASS














Now that our salaries have been posted on an internet website, animosity has reared its ugly head. Earlier this week, a corrections officer yelled down the convict-filled hallway, "You're the highest paid teacher here," and for emphasis, "I'm going to print out your salary for everyone to see."

For the record, none of this was directed toward yours truly. I'm not number one; I'm a distant third.

How soon some folks forget. I, along with my fellow teachers, participated in an informational picket with our union brothers and sisters from custody staff. This was our way of reminding the public of our Michigan legislators' clever way of obtaining thirty-four percent pay increases while we defered four hours of pay every two weeks.

So what's next?

"Can you check on Inmate Franklin's whereabouts for me?"

"You make the big bucks, find him yourself."

This isn't good for everyone involved. Someone could get hurt ... or killed. Why can't we go undercover? Not every state employee's salary is listed by name. Here's the explanation: To protect law enforcement officers whose jobs require them to work undercover, the officers' names are not included in cases where identifying the employee as a law enforcement officer could put them in harm's way. I guess working in a prison doesn't count for being in "harms way."

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

FISHING WASN'T ALWAYS THIS EASY

Back in the day, our prison school hired substitute teachers to fill-in during the summer months. Vacations meant returning to complete chaos, to stolen supplies, and destroyed books. One sub in particular, God rest his soul, knew how to go through the motions; he’d sit at the teacher’s desk for eight hours, let the class assignments pile up, and take shoddy attendance records on scrap sheets of paper. When confronted about it—“I showed you how to do the attendance and log scores on the computer”—he’d act as if he needed more training on the intricacies of running a prison classroom.

The man had taught high school history and government classes for thirty-some years (only updating his classroom lesson plans after major elections) and he collected his paychecks from the Michigan Department of Corrections for thirteen summers straight. He seemed skittish around the inmates, yet risked life and limb to rustle up some grub from the prison chow hall. My guess: he was too lazy to pack his own lunch or he actually liked the food. Also, he never married, his public school salary was larger than my prison salary, and he had his supplemental incomes (prison job and rental properties). Shortly after retiring from the public school system and declining a permanent job in the prison system, his name appeared in the obituary section of the local paper. His day in the sun was over.

The MDOC no longer hires substitute teachers, and from my observations, it’s probably just as well. I’ve always thought we should get a student teacher from Wayne State or Oakland University. Something to break-up the monotony. We need a guppy or two, so we can watch them swim in the fish bowl, so we can be entertained.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

TRUMP CARDS














I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not much to look at—a younger version of Ivan Prokopchuck. Not that it bothers me; Inmates often make fun of my appearance.

“Hey Mr. T, is that a zit on your forehead?”

“Damn right. And it’s going home with me tonight.”

Or they’ll make fun of my clothing. “Your Dockers are kind of tight aren’t they?”

My response, “I guess it’s not as nice as your outfit. Where do you shop?”

The Michigan Department of Corrections provides them clothing with a unique six-digit number stenciled on the outside of every item. Call it personalized clothing. The longer the sentence, the more faded the numbers become.

They shouldn’t force me to play my hand, especially those with a fresh set of blues.

I trump them with: “freedom” and “choices.” They typically fold.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

PLAYING WITH FIRE














The main objective of the Michigan Department of Corrections is to protect the public. The easiest way to do this is quite simple: LOCK'EM UP. However, this is usually a temporary solution. I've seen fly-by-night programs such as RSAT, Resident Substance Abuse Treatment (yeah--not convict, not prisoner, not inmate--but resident, like we're servicing tenants) offer their services. In my opinion, it didn't work.

Now we have MPRI, the Michigan Prisoner Release Initiative. Anything to help in the transition from prison to freedom. Anything to help Michigan's sluggish economy. So what happened with my former classroom tutor, David Allen Rider? He's still on OTIS (The Offender Tracking Information System); mugshot and offenses are listed . He's obviously a sex offender. Why didn't the Michigan Public Sex Offender Registry include his photograph ? They listed his bogus address as Community Programs Inc., 1435 N. Oakland Blvd., Waterford, MI 48327.

Unfortunately, we now know that his real living quarters was his car, and that he was allegedly looking for his next ride. See the Oakland Press for more details.

I'm totally disgusted. I can only hope that the victim and the victim's family are able to recover from such a traumatic event.

Friday, July 6, 2007

SUPER SHOCKED














Last week I went for my annual skin cancer check-up to see if I had a reoccurrence of melanoma. Since then, I have been troubling over what the woman reading my health chart said to me. As I sat on the examining table, eager to see the doctor, this attractive woman, this Heather Locklear type sipping from the fountain of youth, commented on my place of employment. She was curious, yet had it all wrong. I informed her that I did not work at the county jail (a common misperception) and that my students had already been tried and convicted of their crimes.

This piqued her interest. She asked more questions. I thought that maybe she was interested in applying for a prison healthcare job. I misunderstood.

Soon she was telling me about her teenage son and his friend and how they were caught selling heroin. The friend’s mom was a crack head and her boyfriend a minor drug supplier. I’ll try not to drag this out too long, but believe me, I sat on that examining table for at least fifteen minutes listening and commenting.

Here’s where it gets weird, or sad, or a little bit of both: Her son ended up in a juvenile detention facility and is serving time in an out-of-state boot camp. His friend robbed a dollar store at gunpoint and is serving an eight-year minimum at The Thumb Correctional Facility in Lapeer, Michigan. Our conversation went from her son and how well he’s adjusting, to her, this woman, this Heather Locklear type, telling me about her plans on visiting her son’s friend. She wanted to know how much money she could send him and whether he’d have the opportunity to take college courses once he completed his GED. In addition, she said he was a sweet boy and that his sentence was too harsh.

I reminded her that this kid would have some serious growing up to do in prison. She went on and on and on about his redeeming qualities. Then she said it, one word, or made-up word, or hell, I don’t know, something I hadn’t understood until I did an internet search on Wikipedia. She proudly told me that this kid, this friend of her son’s, had often referred to her as a “MILF.” She laughed. She actually laughed.

I laughed too. Why wouldn’t I? —I didn’t know any better. What more can I say? I don’t have cancer. There’s nothing to cut out. At least not on me.

Monday, July 2, 2007

THE DIRT MAN














I didn’t know what to think the day I came home from work and the neighbor woman across the street told me that a man was lurking in my wife’s flowerbeds.

Not sure what I was hearing, I asked, “A man in the flowerbeds?”

“Yes,” she replied, and added for emphasis, “A man with a flashlight.” She explained that as soon as she went to get her cordless phone to call the police, the man had mysteriously disappeared. “It was real early in the morning,” she said, as if to justify why she hadn’t at least called us.

At that moment, it dawned on me who she saw.

The next day, when a coworker got into my van, I asked him, “What were you doing in my wife’s flowerbeds?”

He had been riding his ten-speed to my house every weekday morning. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“I wasn’t in the flowerbeds, I was looking at the different plants with my bike light.”

“Sure you were,” I responded. His answer seemed reasonable, considering he teaches Horticulture Classes at the prison … oh, and catches a few small fish once in a blue moon.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Thursday, June 28, 2007

REVEALING TOO MUCH














There are people out there, journalists, politicians, and other taxpayers, who think my salary is too high. They believe my wages are a contributing problem to Michigan's budget deficit and lagging economy. In fact, the Lansing State Journal went as far as to publicize my wages through a database.

I'm not taking issue with the F.O.I.A. (Freedom of Information Act); I'm all for people having access to the salary range of a Teacher PII (Civil Service Classification) or other state employee job titles for that matter. What I disagree with is being able to type in an individual's name to find out their exact salary. Interestingly enough, I now know that I make more money then my boss.

As for my current situation, I have very little negotiating power. If I were to send my resume to a prospective employer, the personnel director would search the Michigan Department of Education website for a valid teaching certificate, and in the process, discover my age, and with a few more clicks of the mouse, see my earnings. They may view me as too old and overpaid. My chances of getting an interview may diminish. Then again, maybe they would find my blog appealing--that is, if they can find it.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

FORWARD DIVE, PIKE POSITION














"I’m not a very nostalgic person. I don’t really look at the past and, you know, summon up regrets or self-congratulations. It just is not a mechanism that operates very strongly in me."
—Leonard Cohen

"If I could only live by Cohen’s words, I might be happier, I might be more productive, I might continue forward with a few more stories and far less regrets. Then again, maybe I’ll continue fishing all summer long. Maybe that’s what I need. Maybe then I’ll discover what makes me tick."
—JR's Thumbprints

Recommended TV Show: On The Lot

Monday, June 25, 2007

MONKEY BUSINESS

Thanks for your submission, JR. It was a compelling and often hilarious read, but alas, not quite right for Monkeybicycle. Best of luck placing it elsewhere. And please keep us in mind if you have any other stories that need a home.

Eric, Web editor Monkeybicycle

Friday, June 22, 2007

MY REPLY TO THIEVES JARGON

Dear Mr. Matt DiGangi, Ed.,

Thank you for your timely response on my short story. Your encouragement is greatly appreciated.

I'm still going through the archives at Thieves Jargon, reading a few stories as time permits. I'll definitely be back, reading and submitting.

I wish you continued success, JR.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

REJECTION WORTH SHARING














Hi JR,

It seems like people who teach prisoners make for good writers. I like your story a good amount. Our submissions are a little full right now, and it doesn't look like we're going to be able to get this one into a future issue, but it's a good deal better than a lot of stuff that I see. You have an interesting way of unwinding the plot, and a good weird overall style. I hope you're able to find another home for this piece, and I also hope you'll think of hitting us up again in the future.

Best, Matt DiGangi
--Ed., Thieves Jargon

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Friday, May 25, 2007

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

MY OWN PERSONAL SPINAL TAP


















The marathon is almost over. I’m literally crawling to the finish line. Twelve extra pounds will do that to you—so will sitting at my computer three hundred fifty-four times over the past year. Three hundred fifty-four times that I’ve struggled to convey my thoughts and tell a few interesting stories. I’m not sure any of it has helped my writing, but I’ve given my memory one hell of a workout. I guess that’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

Tomorrow, for my one-year Blog commitment, I’ll show some 80’s vintage rock video of yours truly. No written words—just some awkwardly funny footage of a bunch of guys pretending to be jukebox heroes. I’ve lost touch with a majority of them—two former fencers from Wayne State University, a mid-manager for a marketing firm, an engineer (what up, bro?), an Arizona businessman, and of course, me, the convict teacher.

I was the initial cameraman back then, working my way up to roadie, before taking a stab at guitar, keyboards, and vocals. I soon learned that I had no musical talent whatsoever. Not that it mattered; Captain Shaklee, our manager and sponsor (Shaklee Products) ran off with what little money we had. Soon, there were no more touring dates. We disbanded, and I, like the rest, became the disappearing "Eddie" from “Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I’ve enjoyed everyone’s company, and I’ll be sure to visit your blogs in the future. Good luck!

CHANNELING OUR ANGER














Howard and I had our differences, our moments of anger, followed by a certain degree of calmness. He, spewing expletives, and I, calmly telling him, "Joe, it's no big deal. Really." I had learned that with him you're better off being candid during a confrontation. How else were we able to work together and get along?

"What's this I'm hearing about you commissioning an inmate to steal my pencils?"

"I ran out," I explained. "And someone's got to do my dirty work."

"You little f**ker!"

I quickly pointed out that we needn't fight over an issue created by our boss's penny pinching ways.

Another time, as we embarked on a journey toward the Muskegon Correctional Facility in a blinding snow storm, Howard lit one of what would be his many cigarettes.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

I pointed to the sticker on the dashboard. "There's no smoking in a state car."

"Don't worry Jimmy, I'll roll down the window."

I knew this would happen. In fact, when our boss informed me I'd be filling in for Sandra Gomez, the little old lady who would eventually be escorted from our worksite in handcuffs, I brought up the smoking issue. "Tell him not to," my boss suggested--his way of saying "man-up."

That night in the hotel room, Howard searched for an ashtray.

"This is a nonsmoking room," I said.

"Not anymore."

We both agreed that in an effort to save the school a few bucks, our boss should not have coerced us into sharing lodging. And we both gave him an earful when we got back.

Saturday, May 5, 2007

CIGARETTES & LIABILITY

In the retelling of my workplace stories, I would never ever think of using a coworker's real name, unless, of course, he were Joe Howard. It does not matter to me that one minute Joe railed against our boss, got right in his face, you son of a bitch, I ought to slap you with a defamation of character lawsuit, and a day later, with tears welling up in his eyes, showed a genuine concern for our boss's declining health. That was Howard, doing everything in life with passion.

I had first met Howard at a MDOC training session. We were working at different prisons--he, at the Adrian Correctional Facility; I, at a prison in Detroit. We were sent to the Carson City Correctional Facility for a presentation on "how to best improve the academic skills of our prisoners." Carson City hosted the event because they demonstrated the largest increases on the TABE scores (Test of Adult Basic Education). I sat amongst my peers, prison educators from all over Michigan, waiting for someone to say what I had been thinking.

Howard stood up. "You're so full of shit," he said to the presenter. "The reason the men at your facility do better on the TABE has more to do with less ride-outs." An argument ensued, and Howard, satisfied for having made his point, agreed to sit back down. Before our lunch break, I introduced myself, and soon we were discussing teaching theories at a local pub over beer and burgers.

We wouldn't meet again until three years later, when I transferred to a new facility; something he had done a few years prior.

After settling into my new classroom, I'd listen to Howard and his students actively arguing and learning simultaneously. During our short breaks, we'd stand on the prison yard, Howard freely dispensing his knowledge on every topic under the sun while searching for a cigarette. On some occasions, faced with a major dilemma, he'd order an inmate to give him a square.

"You know," I said to him once, right before he inhaled, "that's a rolled cigarette."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"The inmate had to lick the paper."

"I need my nicotine, Jimmy."

Of all the teachers I've met and worked with in the prison system, Howard was the most energetic. He didn't just go through the motions; he actually felt he was contributing to the well-being of the inmates. He ended up transferring to the Maxey Training School for Boys in an effort to keep his special education certification. I haven't heard from him in years. I learned this week that he retired in January.

Friday, May 4, 2007

FRAME OF MIND

In fifteen years with the Michigan Department of Corrections, I can honestly say that I don't know my coworkers any better than the day I had first met them. There's this underlying code not to reveal too much information about yourself for fear of the inmates finding out. You are, afterall, their main source of entertainment, followed by the soaps and Jackie Collin's novels (or is it Judy?) Inmates eavesdrop on staff conversations and compare notes back at their cellblocks. I've always felt there's no sense in giving them any leverage.

Sandra Gomez, an elderly hispanic woman with twenty-eight years of teaching experience as a state employee knew all too well about the dangers of her past. She was one door away from my classroom, and from what I had observed, very knowledgable and effective in helping the lower functioning inmates with their reading skills. Yet, I knew nothing about her personal life. If I may add a stereotype--she was a sweet little old lady.

So I was puzzled the day the Michigan State Police hauled her away in handcuffs. I think most of the school staff were shocked. How could this happen? How could someone convince a judge to sign a court order for her arrest? How could they find marked money in her Cadillac Seville? How come no one knew about the threats to her family?

Her crucial mistake in all of this, if you place your trust in your employer, was not asking for help. Sandra Gomez had endangered the lives of her fellow coworkers. I, along with my peers, were downright angry.

You see, Sandra Gomez became a prison mule, bringing drugs into our facility on a regular basis. The inmate, or undercover cop in her classroom, in turn delivered the goods to the control center where custody staff logged it in as evidence. Twenty-eight years of state service thrown away. Or so I thought.

Here's what I didn't know about Sandra Gomez: her exhusband was also an exfelon, and somehow this information in the wrong hands led to her making one bad decision after another. I'll never understand her frame of mind, or why she continued to smile and say hello whenever we passed in the hallway. I'll never know how much leverage the inmates had over her. But I do know this--she had her day in court and the verdict was: not guilty. I never saw her again.

Thursday, May 3, 2007

DIGGING POST HOLES

The first sign of trouble, at least for me anyway, were the pictures of Angie's daughter displayed on her desk. Everyone should be proud of his or her children, and it wasn't like her cubicle had been in a high traffic area; I just didn't think it was appropriate, especially in a prison setting. I'd never do such a thing. If I had a nickel for every time an inmate said, "Let me see a picture of your wife," I'd have one of those big pickle ring-bologna jars filled to the rim.

I wondered whether Angie had been aware of the part-time inmate-clerk whittling away his time poking his nose around every corner and acting like the programs staff couldn't do without his superb filing skills. He was definitely a runner, one of those inmates that tells everyone in his cellblock about the latest office gossip. It got to the point where custody made the inmate-clerks sort files and do their typing in a different area, away from the office staff. Angie didn't seem to mind this arrangement. Whenever I talked to her, we shared a common theme--lazy ass inmates getting paid for doing nothing. Angie sounded real convincing when it came to bashing a prisoner's work ethic. You could tell she despised them. We got along just fine.

About the only thing I knew about Angie, besides that she had a daughter, was that she was divorced. It wasn't until after she had been fired that I learned about the married boyfriend. She probably thought he would eventually leave his wife, and be with her. It never happened.

From what I had observed, Angie started wearing really bagging clothing, and her hair became unkempt. But she always smiled when greeting me, and went about her business. I thought she was leaving her office cubicle to check in on her inmate-clerk’s filing and typing. I look back now and think about the music room a few doors away. No one noticed what was going on until it was too late.

I guess you could say Angie was making music with a lifer. He requested the baggy clothing so they could have a quick and easy romantic interlude. I'm not sure why she would risk facing felony charges to be with someone who, as a teenager, killed his mother for not lending him the car. A year or so later, someone showed me a picture of her and the new hubby. They got hitched at another correctional facility.

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

A POOR MAN'S RETIREMENT SYSTEM

Statistically speaking, I'm willing to bet that the inmates I teach have sired more babies then your typical law abiding male. After small talk amongst themselves about my-baby-mama-this and my-baby-mama-that, I've been known to ask, "What's a poor man's retirement system?"

I get the usual answers: rob a bank, sell some dope, run a scam. No sense in becoming a working stiff. No sense in having a 9 to 5 job —That’s for suckers. No sense in building up your 401K. Takes too long. Besides, honesty doesn't put you in the real money. You've got to have game. You've got to know how to be on the take. You've got to be a player.

I usually single someone out. "You're probably already banking your future on the poor man's retirement system."

"No I'm not," is the defensive response, followed by, "what're you talking about anyway?"

"Lots of kids, my man. Lots of kids. Maybe one of them will take care of you in your old age."

My social commentary never elicits pleasant remarks. I usually get cussed at, or someone tries to drag my personal life into the mix. Whatever they learn about me is mostly fictionalized for entertainment purposes. A little verbal sparring never hurt anyone.

Last week one of my tutors seemed a little punchy. I thought he was going to throttle a student. "What's going on?" I asked him.

He reached inside his shirt pocket and handed me a glossy black and white ultrasound picture. A current date and the name Valerie Michael were printed on it. "You want to read the letter that came with it?" he said, as if he was ready to fight me if I started teasing him. From what I’d gathered, this woman, someone he swears he's never heard of before, wrote him. He showed me the most damaging part--"Congratulations! It's yours."

I didn't know how to react, so I did the same. "Congratulations!"

"How the hell can it be mine when I've been locked up for three years!" he snapped back.

I shrugged my shoulders and told him that all kinds of things can happen in the visiting room. Then I asked if he was going to pass out cigars. He calmed down some and laughed with me.

Since he was in a chipper mood today, I asked for an update. Turns out Valerie Michael used to be Valerie Webster, his daughter. Without his knowledge, she divorced her first husband and married some other guy. Shortly after that she became pregnant. She sent him a follow up letter explaining the events of her life. He, on the other hand, did not like the way the message, the news, was initially presented, and explained to me that if she ever came to visit him, he was prepared to give her a piece of his mind. I advised him to be careful; "she just might be the one that’ll take care of you when you're old and feeble."

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

THE DOCTRINE OF RELATIVE FILTH

On the news today I heard of a 60-some-year-old laid off autoworker robbing a bank so he could get caught and go to prison. His motive: fear of becoming homeless. He used a handgun (unloaded I presume) and demanded money from a teller. After making it out the front door with approximately one grand, he pretended to faint. No car chases, no gunfire exchanges, just a simple plan to get three hots and a cot. In the courtroom, the county prosecutor recommended they be lenient on the guy and help him find a job. The judge seemed to agree.

I'm not so sure this is the right thing to do. What kind of message are we sending to the rest of society?

In my annual training session today on "Leadership: Ethics & Attitudes," we covered the Doctrine of Relative Filth. In case you haven't heard of it before, it's a way of rationalizing something even though you know it's wrong. To what degree do we accept a person's rationality? To what degree do we accept the laid off autoworker's motives? To what degree do we accept the prosecutor and judge's decisions?

Other people have done worse things, true, but what has that got to do with the criminal act itself? Do you know how many times I've heard an inmate tell me, I might be a murderer, but I'm not a thief? You see, in prison the inmates who steal are despised above all the rest. At least among their own. Us law abiding citizens know that stealing covers a multitude of sins. We call rape: stealing sex. We call murder: stealing a life. And now I call robbing a bank in order to have a place to live and eat: stealing the taxpayer’s money. How dare he! Let's at least make it worth his while! It beats living in a van down by the river. He’s paid his fare amount of taxes, now it’s time he enjoy the fruits of his labor. Or am I over rationalizing this whole thing?