IT'S NOT ALWAYS AS IT APPEARS

I know what you’re thinking, and if you had one of those web cams perched atop your computer monitor, I’d trace the movement of your eyes and discredit your observations. First, it's not an errant tooth you’re staring at; it’s a salted shell I cracked between my molars and rolled around my tongue in search of its buried treasure. I always bring a large supply of sunflower seeds to share with my fellow anglers at our annual Bayport, Michigan, Catfish Tournament. It’s the thought that counts, even if they refuse my offer. “Too much sodium” and “I have to watch my blood pressure”—from men swigging Jim Beam or Jack Daniels from shared bottles circulating the campfire. They chase it with the beer of their choice and flick twist-off caps into the flames for entertainment.

I know where you stand on this sharing thing. I most certainly agree. Alcohol, no matter how wicked the proof, doesn’t kill every germ and bacteria on contact. So why are your disapproving eyes gravitating toward my midsection, toward the t-shirt my wife shrunk in the wash? You think I gave up on exercise, that I let myself go? Rest assured, my lifestyle hasn’t changed all that much. It’s true, I let my health club membership expire; I haven’t been running outside; I’m drinking at the higher end of the moderate level. Hey, we all have our vices.

Let me explain my Buddha-like posture.

Why are you shaking your head? I see you’re laughing too. Did I say something funny? Can we be serious for a moment? Appearances are deceiving. You, of all people should know that. Stop it! Click HERE for a perfectly logical explanation regarding my physique.

IMMERSION

In order to avoid learning a second language in college—a dreaded prerequisite—a counselor advised me to take Linguistics 101, The Study of Language, followed by a communications course of my choosing. I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to get out of my Intro to French class where everyone had two or three years of French in high school.

There isn’t too much I remember about that Linguistics course besides the professor’s homosexuality, the older divorcee’s willingness to share her notes, and the TA’s controversial lecture on Black English, or Ebonics, or whatever the hell you want to call it. As for my other elective, Speech 101, or 251, or some other insignificant triple digit number, I learned an invaluable lesson: When writing a piece, consider your audience. Proper English doesn’t matter as much as being able to communicate your thoughts.

Which brings me to my next point. The lovely Spanish lady pictured above came to the United States to learn how to speak and understand English. I’m not sure how her family felt about her living in the Metro Detroit area, but her immersion into our dialect must have been somewhat of a culture shock. "I don’t understand," she repeated often.

My dad, a toolmaker by trade, thought that if he spoke a little louder and a heck of a lot slower, then maybe her comprehension would improve. "Haaaaave sooooome coooorn," he said at the dinner table, thrusting a plate of cobs her way.

I remember her waking up one morning and saying, "I dreamt in English!" and from that point forward her ability to speak and comprehend the language improved immensely. You see, the poor girl had been appalled watching us eating corn on the cob at the dinner table, and after learning a few select words and sentences, she explained, "In Spain we feed it to the pigs."

Immersion is the best way to learn. I say this, knowing that one-week from now, I’ll be training two new teachers the "do’s" and "don’ts" of prison culture. They’ll become my shadows, my understudies, and every thing I say will finally have some validity (or not). As long as they don’t have nightmares, I’m sure they’ll do fine.

SOMEONE GETS AN OSCAR

My classroom, with its elongated rectangular ironclad windows, has a panoramic view of the prison yard, where, at this time of year, if you peer beyond the convicts kibitzing and beyond the razor-wired double fences and the gun-towers, you will see a few innocent deer high-tailing it through an open field. Whether bow-hunters have inadvertently pushed the deer out of the nearby woods, I’ll never know; The hunters, I’m guessing, would want to stay a reasonable distance from our compound. But this isn’t about venison or the two-legged beasts standing at a wooden octagon-shaped picnic table, high-fiving one another over dominoes.

Hunters at deer camp? You ask.

Nope. Convicts.

Nor is it about the flag football game taking place near the 220-track. Tackling isn’t allowed, yet everyone gets bruised and muddied. I was going for the flag, the guilty party always explains.

Yesterday, I heard about bomb sniffing dogs frantically zigzagging the corridors and classrooms of my alma mater. Someone had called in a threat the day of their homecoming game. Although inexcusable, perhaps that someone was from the opposing team.

Whatever happened to those harmless pranks, like opening the high school exit doors so a few students wearing dark-visored helmets could navigate their dirt bikes through the busy hallways? At least afterward, when tongues were loosened, the culprits were nabbed and did their penitence. No prison time. Just a good old fashioned three-day suspension and an increase in popularity.

In the above picture, I, my date, and Grouchy (he certainly has been around) enjoyed our 1980 High School Homecoming Dance.

WAITING IS BETTER THAN TRYING

That revolving door of students, those 360 degrees of perpetual motion, will spin a teacher silly with keeping score. As soon as I get rid of one … two … or three via discipline/behavioral problems, transfers, paroles, and sometimes untimely death, there are more potential walking disasters lined up three and four deep desperately claiming to be ready for testing, not because they’re remotely close, not because they actually want to learn, but because they’re up for parole, they can taste their freedom. Take a number, stand in line, and play the waiting game. It has more validity, more significance, than enrollment status.

And why shouldn’t it?

The policy directive (based on The Rubber Band Theory, where you stretch and twist the rules and procedures to fit your needs) clearly allows school exemptions based on the following: Through no fault of his own, Prisoner So-and-so was unable to obtain his GED; therefore, he should be waived from the requirement for parole purposes.

It’s not easy getting your GED when you’re on a waiting list for enrollment. It’s much harder showing up for class.

Ask Inmate Simpson, he will tell you just how effective the system works. After missing the first three weeks of my class, I wrote him a major misconduct ticket—“036 Out of Place.” His failure to set foot in classroom #82 (it’s on his itinerary)—aka classroom #70 (it’s above my door)—instead of studying in another classroom (how dare he!), has put him on the hot seat.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. He was holding the goldenrod copy of the ticket I’d written on him. “You’ve been terminated from my class. Go away.”

“But …”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I was in the wrong classroom.”

Hmmm … why the mix-up? Is it my room number?

Upon Teacher A’s verification, the most reasonable thing to do would be to “pull the ticket” and keep Prisoner Simpson enrolled in school. No need for him to appear in Kangaroo Court.

But not so fast! The authorities have determined that on the day in question, Teacher A was conducting classes elsewhere, in a different building! Therefore, Prisoner Simpson, in theory, could have attended my class. The ticket and termination would stand.

What could I say? “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

But the plot thickens.

A day later, after speaking to Prisoner Simpson, the “powers that be” decided I needed to “pull the ticket.”

“The ticket has been reviewed,” the Hearings Investigator told me. “He’s going to trial. That is, unless you’re willing to write a memo to the Warden, explaining your stance.”

I’ve spent too much time and energy on nonsense. I’m sure it will be sorted out. The way I look at it—guilty or not guilty—he’s still in prison, he’s still waiting for a parole, but after the ticket, he may be waiting a little longer.

STRICTLY BUSINESS

Date: July 22, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

First, I’d like to thank you for your timely rejection of my short story. Your comments were greatly appreciated. Secondly, I am submitting a creative nonfiction piece as an attachment. Please let me know whether this is a better fit for your magazine. As always, I look forward to hearing from you. JR Thumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 7, 2007

Hi JR, Congratulations! We would like to publish this second piece in our fall issue of GlassFire. Attached are our proposed edits to the story. Please look over them and let us know if they are acceptable. If so, we will email you the official contract to sign. Please let us know if you have any questions. We look forward to working with you. Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire


Date: October 8, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Thank you for the good news. Your edits are perfectly acceptable. As for the prison terminology, how about some footnotes at the end? If so, here they are—1) mall area – a centralized location of intertwined sidewalks connecting the housing units to the chow hall, 2) toplock – specific cell doors that will not electronically open for mass movement of prisoners, 3) “032 Out of Place” – numerical code for prisoner rule violation when an inmate isn’t in his assigned area. Please let me know if this is acceptable. I look forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, JRThumbprints, Convict Teacher


Date: October 9, 2007

Hi JR, Footnotes are an excellent idea! You’re right—that will keep the flow intact. I’ve attached the official contract for you to sign. If you have access to a scanner, feel free to scan a signed copy and email it back. If not, please mail it to: PegLeg Publishing. Once we have it, we can release your payment. Would you like a check, a paypal transfer, or an Amazon.com gift card? Thanks, Matt Randall / Kristina Brooks, Editors of GlassFire Magazine.


The Contract:

This letter of agreement shall formally confirm and define the terms of our agreement regarding publication of your work in GlassFire Magazine.

1. You grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing one time Internet rights to publish The Work online in the English language available for viewing in all countries throughout the world. The Work may also be archived. However, the Author has the right to resell the Work at any time after publication.

2. All rights not specifically granted herein are reserved by Author for Author’s sole use and disposition.

3. You hereby warrant to us that The Work has been created by you, that you are the sole and exclusive owner of the rights to your work for The Work conveyed to us under this agreement, and that you have the full power to grant the rights herein conveyed to us.

4. You hereby grant GlassFire Magazine/PegLeg Publishing the right and authority to use your name on The Work and in all promotion and publicity.

5. In consideration of the rights granted to us to produce The Work, you shall receive $5.00.

6. The provisions herein shall bind and inure to the benefit of the parties.

7. Regardless of its place of execution, this letter of agreement shall be interpreted under the laws of the State of Oklahoma.

8. The foregoing supersedes any and all previous understandings, constitutes our sole and complete agreement, and may not be altered except by mutual consent in writing.


Date: October 10, 2007

Attention Mr. Matt Randall & Mrs. Kristina Brooks,
Editors of GlassFire Magazine:

Where do I sign? Also, does this mean I give up all merchandising rights? I know JK Rowling didn’t. Sincerely, JR Thumbprints.

"NEXXXXT!"

Although my popularity is waning due to a recent uptick in “guilty” verdicts on the MDOC docket (Michigan Department of Corrections) and due to a list of potential witnesses regarding allegations of how I targeted a few select inmates, it stands to reason that I am not a corrupt, power hungry, authoritative figure. When you’re a “no show” for a testing date and I write you an “Out of Place” ticket, when you fail to attend your Kangaroo Court investigative hearing because your yard activities are more important, then what makes you think sniping at me from the back of the classroom will change anything? Besides, your list of witnesses collaborating your claim that I said, “Class will be cancelled tomorrow”—as unreliable as they are (murders, rapists, drug dealers, you name it)—these witnesses of yours, they showed up on the day in question.

Furthermore, no one’s paying me to be “popular.” I have a job to do—I teach—and if you don’t like it, if you can’t respect that, if you can’t have the common decency to keep your mouth shut and your ears open, then perhaps I should use sign language. (Stage Directions: Narrator points to the door and says, “Get the &#*@! out of my classroom!”)

So there you have it—my typical workday in the joint. And I still think it’s much better than the public schools. At least in here I have the best classroom management a teacher could ask for. Kick one out. Bring one in.

NOTHING LEFT TO GAIN

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not true that you feel most alive when you’re closest to death, when you’re taking chances, when you’re risking life and limb, when you’re letting yourself go, hands in the air, screaming skyward. My wife calls it fun. I’m not sure what she means: Riding the roller coasters? Or watching me white-knuckling the downward drops, tucking my head between my shoulders and arms, and gritting my teeth?

“Relax,” she says. “Quit fighting it.”

Easier said then done. I’m worried about decapitation, about smacking my head on a crossbeam, about having a massive heart attack. I’ve heard about roller coasters malfunctioning, about people hanging upside down for hours on end, praying for the fire department to come to their rescue, about some poor soul having an aneurysm from all that blood rushing to his brain. On the television I believe I’ve seen and heard about seatbelt buckles, or whatever so-called safety restraint they’ve designed, breaking and people plummeting to the ground. And once again, I’ve witnessed the Cedar Point paddy wagon hauling someone away on a stretcher. My wife says, “They probably have a heart condition and shouldn’t be on the rides in the first place.”

I want to tell her, “I have a heart condition,” but she knows this to be untrue because I only visit the doctor when she schedules the appointment.

I’d rather watch everyone else on the rides; unfortunately, my wife reminds me of the time she roller-coastered solo; about the drunk man on the Mean Streak sitting next to her, how he almost puked on her. And I wouldn't? I’m not very sympathetic. Other than my wife, the majority of the people I’ve observed, who enjoy this kind of thrill, have tattoos, body piercings, mullets, and whatever chosen abnormality they think will make them stand out from everyone else.

Let me make myself clear: “I hate roller coasters. They scare me. I hate Cedar Point. I hate dealing with the crowds. I hate standing in line. I hate it I hate I hate it.”

One last thing: When my wife worked for the Stroh’s family in Detroit, someone stole her debit card from her purse, which she stored under her desk at her office cubicle. Whoever it was treated their friends to Cedar Point and rang up about $1200. I know it shouldn’t matter, that it’s been years since this incident, but in my mind, that lowlife scumbag and his or her posse were walking around that amusement park, smoking cigarettes and sneering at me.

THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

WHEN HILLS HAVE EYES

When you become part of a system, no matter how screwed up it is, you assimilate into its structure. You become one of the many pillars dodging the wrecking ball. And when the dust settles, you realize there are others—not many—just a few who are left standing—they brush the dust off and rebuild.


So it goes. I’m continuously fighting an uphill battle. My educational structure changing with each passing year, with every demolition. Public School. Private School. Youth Home. Correctional Facility. Teaching is teaching. It doesn’t matter. I say, “bullshit.”

I remember escorting my Troy High School freshmen class to an assembly. As soon as the lights dimmed and the wine-colored velvet curtains slid open, a video montage flashed hip scenes and glitzy photos across a large screen accompanied by Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” The kids cheered wildly. In my day, students in AV Club were geeks, nerds, squares. But not at this presentation. The company, Yearbook Video, promised to provide video equipment to the school. Let the kids, those not so cool AV dorks, shoot footage of all the major events. Whether football games, homecoming, prom, or band recitals, Yearbook Video would edit this material into a slick video, splicing in world news along with current music.

As my students filed out, they were given a brochure to preorder their very own Yearbook Video. I recognized the salesperson, name of Mark Lemke (if my memory serves me correct). Through him, I discovered it was Neal’s latest start-up company. I never did find out whether he turned a profit. I do know this, he went from school to school, charming the socks off of administration; How else could he have convinced them to reduce the number of instructional hours in the classroom? And for what? To make a buck.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether those kids were happy with the final product. The following year I was teaching in a Catholic School. While there, the principal chastised me for turning off the classroom television during attendance. A program called Channel One piped in the latest news from around the world, along with Pepsi commercials and other crap.

“I’ve heard you’ve been unplugging Channel One. Leave it on.”

“Yes sir,” I assured him. I don’t know whether he trusted me, afterall, whenever he clicked on the intercom system to eavesdrop on my class, I’d count to three and on cue, my students would say, “Good Morning Mr. Miller.”

Nowadays, the only televised footage I hear about comes from the security cameras. I’ve probably been taped and recorded more times than I’d care to think about.

Recommended short story: “Videotape” by Don DeLillo

AN EMAIL CORRESPONDENCE

The prisoners will tell you: Making an apology in the joint is an admittance of guilt. You’ll be perceived as soft. Therefore, never apologize, and never ever take the rap for anything or for anyone. It’s part of the prison culture. It’s a given. Better not to talk, not to say anything.

Last Friday, through a memorandum, I was labeled “non-essential” and told not to report to work next week. After a fun-filled weekend of uncertainty, of not knowing whether I’d be earning a paycheck—“earning” being too strong a word considering my “non-essentiality”—I discovered that the following Monday morning, via the 6 o’clock news, that I had to report back to work. It was business as usual. Hallelujah! No apologies necessary; just keep making those direct deposits into my bank account so I can pay my bills.

The same day as my “non-essential” status I received a response to a year-old email I had sent to an acquaintance, a friend from the past. I hadn’t seen nor heard from him in a very long long time. Here’s our correspondence:

September 08, 2006:

Hey Neal,
I received one of Terry’s yearly emails (yeah, about one a year), and I started scrolling through the list of names and saw yours. I thought, since it’s been … oh … what? … 20 years, maybe more, or less … I thought I’d give you a ring (email anyway). How have you been? Give me an update. In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been in prison for the past 15 years (working that is).

September 28, 2007:

Hey JR,
I was just going through old emails and realized that I had never responded to you. I tried to visit your blogspot just now but it looks quite different from what I remember a year ago, so I assume it is no longer a correct address. I think you are right that it has been about 20 years. A lot happens in that period of time. Here is my sequence of events:

Moved to AZ in 1991. Bought a t-shirt business. Did a lot of product for the Disney theme parks and Silicon Valley companies. Spun off a subsidiary called Burlesco that provided merchandise to 200 touring strippers. I mean exotic dancers.

During the Internet boom/bust, I started an online celebrity website. I made the official websites for John Travolta, Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson, and about 100 others. Got wiped out in the end.

My claim to fame, I snubbed advances from actress Diane Lane and one of my business partners is the person that the character of Ari on the HBO show Entourage is based on. Other claim to fame: Had a daughter in 1997. Turning 10 in December. I am going to the Hannah Montana concert in a couple of months and I know all the songs from High School Musical.

Went into gaming in 2000 by purchasing some intellectual property with my former net partners. We license casino games to the online gaming industry. Business is based out of the UK. It’s a small business with just 5 employees but it pays the bills and gets me to Europe a few times a year. Building a couple of web based businesses here in Phoenix. Tom Waring lives about an hour from me, so I see him from time to time. I am still rooting for the Detroit Lions. I talk to Terry about twice a year I guess. My mother passed away about 10 years ago and my father followed a year and a day later.

I suppose that is it. Nothing too crazy, just living life. By the way, thanks for writing. It was nice hearing from you.

My reaction:

I guess there’s a price one must pay for stability, for being “non-essential.”

WHEN YOU’RE AT THE WAX MUSEUM

Dad will paint you a picture of potential
in one fluid brushstroke, years later
Mom will still crack you an egg
burn you some toast.

But don’t even think about that magazine rack,
it’s unrealistic and downright rude.
This isn’t a fertility clinic, you know,
and don’t ask about the son
who went to prison.

If you do:

Mom will say,
But it’s not like that,
someone boxed him in
at an early age.

If the son in question could join in,
he’d blame those damn Rose Art crayons & coloring books,
so unimaginative, when you stay within the lines.

Mom will pour some coffee and butter your toast.
Dad will talk about the massive layoffs in the auto industry.

One son will survive yet another round of cuts,
while the other son, smelling of wax,
will wait.

NON-ESSENTIAL EMPLOYEES

"I am really quite fatigued as my first working day draws to a close. I do not wish to suggest, however, that I am disheartened or depressed or defeated. For the first time in my life I have met the system face to face, fully determined to function within its context as an observer and critic in disguise, so to speak." Ignatius J. Reilly (A Confederacy of Dunces)

After fifteen years of service with the Michigan Department of Corrections, I have been told that I am a non-essential employee: Due to an unanticipated loss of funding as a result of the state’s current budget crisis, I (Patricia L. Caruso, Director) am notifying you that you are being placed on a temporary layoff consistent with the provisions of your applicable Collective Bargaining Agreement and/or Civil Service Rules… Do not report to work beginning on Monday, October 1, 2007, unless otherwise notified.

After all those years, I’ve been led to believe educating prisoners mattered. I’ll be the first to admit it—I had my doubts—but when you earn a paycheck you do what you're paid to do. You teach those who are willing to listen, and you write "Out of Place" tickets on those refusing to attend school. Basically, you try to convince them, through positive and negative measures, that their education is important. More times than not, they will tell you about someone with a bachelors or masters degree standing in the unemployment line. "What’s that got to do with your studies?" I’ve always responded.

Earlier this week I received a survey in the mail from Michigan Senator Alan Sanborn. He had three basic questions:

Do you support the early release of certain nonviolent felons to save the state money?

Should Michigan join 22 other states in allowing public and private-sector employees to choose whether or not they will belong to a union, thus making Michigan a "Right to Work" state?

What is the best way to fix Michigan’s current fiscal problems?

Implementing significant government reforms that include scaling back or ending nonessential programs.

Implementing or increasing user fees and taxes including potential taxes on telephones, event tickets and gasoline, as well as increases to the income and sales taxes.

A mix of minor government reforms coupled with new taxes and fees. These reforms could help reduce the total amount of new revenue needed, but taxes would still have to be raised, potentially significantly, to continue to fund the programs that have not been reformed.

What a joke! Let me guess, Senator Sanborn is waiting to tally the results before compromising on a budget? In the mean time, I, along with my peers, will be stuck without a paycheck, or two, or three. As far as I’m concerned, the word "incumbent" on a ballot, along with name recognition, is the kiss of death. The true non-essential employees are the buffoons in Lansing deciding on the future of our state.

DISPOSABLE

TO: School Principals

FROM: Julie DeRose, Education Manager, Correctional Facilities Administration

SUBJECT: Partial State Government Shutdown

This is to confirm that in the event of a (partial) state government shutdown, it has been determined that education staff are not to report to work.

If my office receives further information or direction regarding this situation, it will be forwarded.

If a shutdown occurs, even for a brief period, scheduling for all October training, meetings, etc. will be adjusted. My office will provide notice of any necessary changes as soon as we are able to do so.

Please ensure that you share this memo with your staff.

Thank you.

Michigan Works vs. Focus: HOPE

Many many moons ago, back when John Engler was Governor of Michigan, I, along with my peers, attended the Midwestern Regional Correctional Education Association Conference (CEA). Our Educational Guru in Lansing secured the necessary funds and gave us her blessing; however, our facility administrators pooh-poohed the idea, attempting to block half of us from going. Heaven forbid we shut down our classrooms for the week, which meant an extra burden on programs staff. Hell, all they needed to do was run a Latchkey program (minus the keys of course)—throw some board games on a table and let the prisoners have at it.

Needless to say, no one fell on the sword and hung back.

Two speakers stood out in my mind during that conference, and for very different reasons. The first speaker, a Texas transplant and appointed official under Gov. Engler, speaking on behalf of Michigan Works, lectured us on how we needed to do a better job preparing our students for the working world. Her slick Power Point presentation illustrated various areas of concern. This woman, dressed in her fancy suit jacket and pants, didn’t have a clue about our daily battles on the job. I’d even go as far as to say she never set foot inside a prison. If it weren’t for our sense of decorum, or if there had been tomatoes on our lunch tables, I’m sure a few would’ve been launched her way.

The next speaker, Eleanor M. Josaitis, the Co-Founder of Focus: HOPE, simply thanked us. She didn’t have any fancy charts. There were no statistics to toss our way. Not even a slideshow. Just her, Eleanor Josaitis, telling us how she appreciates our effort.

She shared a personal story about trying to have milk donated to struggling mothers. There were literally thousands of gallons of milk going bad every week. Without naming names, she told us about a certain politician that looked her in the eye and said, “I’d rather see that milk dumped into the sewers than give it to the poor.” You could hear the passion in her voice. She threatened to take his statement to the media, just to show the public what a mean-spirited bastard he was.

I’m not even sure she finished her speech. Everyone (well, almost everyone—except for the political hacks) gave her a standing ovation. I’m not kidding when I say I had tears in my eyes. I, along with my peers, had this sense of renewed energy. We talked about improving humanity.

On October 15, 2007, Focus: HOPE will be co-hosting a 21st Century Detroit Career Forum with State Representative Andy Dillon. He may not have been able to deliver the necessary votes in the House to raise Michigan’s income tax, but hopefully his involvement with this organization will help some of our unemployed citizens find work.

TRUE LEADERS GET IT DONE

“The afternoon wore on, hazy and dreadful with damp heat; the sow staggered her way ahead of them, bleeding and mad, and the hunters followed, wedded to her in lust, excited by the long chase and the dropped blood.” William Golding, Lord of the Flies

I don’t exactly know what it is, or why I even watched the first episode of “Kid Nation,” but for some reason I haven’t been able to kick the reality television habit. With close up shots of the children looking at one another as they stood on dry, desolate land, trying to figure out who will take charge, a helicopter flew overhead. Then a voice-over explained to the viewers that four kids on that helicopter were their designated leaders.

Uh—oh, I thought, put a few kids in power and it’s bound to be a recipe for disaster. As the children headed down a dirty, dusty trail in search of a ghost town, the host swore the four leaders to secrecy. He gave them a $20,000 gold star and told them not to tell anyone. Also, it was explained that at their first townhall meeting they’d have to award it to the most deserving kid. After picking four teams, they had a Survivor-like challenge to determine the pay structure for each team—the cooks and the general laborers made the least.

I won’t bore you with how it all played out, except to say, when faced with a difficult decision, the leaders acted swiftly and judiciously, and they did it as a collective whole. The leader of the general laborers didn’t complain, “We have one outhouse for forty kids. If the television is chosen instead of an additional seven outhouses, then we’re not cleaning it any more.” After a quick huddle, the four leaders announced, “We’ll take the outhouses.”

If only it were that simple for our politicians in Lansing. Will today be the day for them to solve Michigan’s budget mess? Will they agree on raising taxes? I’m not holding my breath. Heck, I’m willing to bet those kids on “Kid Nation” decide to kill a chicken long before our state politicians do anything. Now, just when is that next episode?

ISIAH THOMAS & THE TRICKLE DOWN THEORY

In our lunchroom at work, I overheard the tail end of a conversation between our designated sexual harassment counselor/grievance coordinator and my boss. For some reason, even though I knew the conversation was inappropriate, I joined in.

“Reminds me of the kid eating yogurt on the back of the bus,” I said.

The school secretary looked my way. “What?”

“Don’t you remember the yogurt trick kids used to play in the cafeteria?” I asked.

Now I had everyone’s attention. I retold the story of this kid eating yogurt on the back of the bus. With a large spoon full of yogurt in his mouth, he’d asked the girls, “Guess what I am?” They, of course, had no idea, so the youngster would start massaging his neck and making weird facial expressions. Not long after that he’d start spitting yogurt at everyone.

“You’re gross!” was a popular phrase back then. But this trick elicited the following angry response: “You’re a dick!”

And his reaction: “You’re absolutely one hundred percent correct.”

After lunch, I resumed TABE testing (Test of Adult Basic Education). My boss had reminded me that anyone who refused to take the test or simply skipped out should receive an “036 Out of Place” ticket and automatically be put on “unemployable status.” No problem there.

At the end of the workday, my boss asked me how testing went.

“Two inmates missed their testing session,” I said, holding up two tickets, “…and they’re bunkies.”

“I wonder why they didn’t show,” she responded, knowing that on some rare occasions prisoners have legitimate excuses.

“I don’t know. Maybe they were tossing yogurt.”

RAT CAGE MAINTENANCE

If there were a suggestion box at my place of employment, or if I thought someone from Michigan’s state capital would actually listen to a state employee instead of flexing their political muscle, then I’d offer a simple solution for cutting costs in our bloated prison system. I’d suggest the following:

Let the prisoners wear their personal clothing.

At one time, each inmate had his own wardrobe. I recall a former GED graduate lifting his graduation gown just far enough past his ankle to show off his snakeskin shoes. Obviously, his days as a drug dealer proved quite lucrative. I’m not implying that prisoners have better threads than you do or I do, nor am I suggesting they put on a fashion show; those snakeskin shoes were a direct violation of MDOC policy. Undoubtedly, he pulled a switcharoo with a family member or friend during visiting hours. All I’m saying is “Why should the Michigan taxpayers be burdened with the added expense of providing shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes to inmates?”

I’ve heard arguments regarding safety; however, try identifying one of these wise guys out on the yard from a sea of blue shirts; it’s not easy. In addition, I do realize the importance of distinguishing civilian staff from convicts, especially in three crucial areas: 1) the sally port - where food, medication, and store items pass through, 2) the front gate - where staff, volunteers, and visitors enter and exit daily, and 3) the perimeter fence - where corrections officers can shoot center mass to prevent an escape.

I also realize the chance of human error (especially involving the first two choices), but in regards to the third, I can’t imagine civilian staff strolling along the deadlines of the fence. There is one exception. We have a maintenance man who searches for nests in the rolls of concertina wire. We can’t have birds tripping the alarm system. I’m sure the officers in the gun towers know what that’s all about. Lastly, I do recall, prior to the standard prisoner attire, our former Governor John Engler waddling his way around the perimeter—but that was a long long time ago, after the escape of ten inmates and the construction of gun towers—and no one shot his ass. In fact, he went on to get re-elected.

State Issued Prisoner Clothing Within a Facility:
Trousers – 3 pr.
Belt – 1
Shoes – 1 pr work Oxfords
T-Shirts – 3
Headgear – 1 winter, 1 summer
Athletic Shorts – 3
Duffle Bag – 1
Shirts – 3
Socks – 5 pr.
Shorts – 9
Gloves – 1
Jacket - 1

THROWING TOMATOES

One year ago I wrote: This is serious. Something needs to be done about all the tomato pushers out there, aggressively forcing large quantities of their mutated fruit onto unsuspecting citizens such as myself.





Today I write: There will be no continuation of tomato pushers in my neighborhood because of an invasion of tomato hornworms, and even though I preserved a half dozen of the fat little buggers in Isopropyl Alcohol, I’m afraid the damage is done. I must admit, they'll make for neat specimens in the 2008 Science Olympiad competition.

Last night I met with one, yes—one, not two or three or four—but one Science Olympiad committee member. The meeting went pretty much as expected. Start by praising the volunteers (my wife and I) for doing a phenomenal job, then ease into the concerns, aka complaints. According to the guidelines: The competitors will identify various body parts, characteristics, habitats, ecological significance, and life cycles of twelve orders of Insecta. However, even though our questions do not deviate from the two reference books listed on the rule sheet, some coaches thought it unfair to ask the kids to actually identify specific bugs by their common name.

“I’ve been making my own insect collections for the competition,” I defended, “and every bug that I ask for identification of is pictured in these books. Plus, they’re allowed to bring a homemade bug chart into the event.” Then I asked for specific schools that complained regarding this issue. He offered up one school in particular.

After much discussion, I agreed to add one line to the rules: They will also identify insects from within these orders.

When my wife and I returned home, I commented on how unprepared some coaches were. “Let’s see, it’s okay to ask a garden variety of questions on a bug, its life cycle, its ecological significance, its habitat. But you cross the line when you ask for its name.”

My wife cut me short. “Well, you know,” she said, “his child competed in our event last year …”

I was dumbfounded.

“…and that’s the school that complained.”

I should’ve known. I’m glad I didn’t cave-in to all his suggestions.

Here’s a bonus question for everyone: What type of wasps will emerge from the cocoons on the back of this tomato hornworm? (Keep in mind that at the elementary level this question would be multiple choice.)

UNEMPLOYMENT LINE, HERE I COME

Last week I infiltrated the ranks in preparation of a government shutdown in Michigan. My most logical choice: a middle school science classroom. Why? Because I started an insect identification program for our county’s Science Olympiad Program, which, I might add, is the largest elementary school program in the United States. Not that it should matter, most public schools are begging for subs on the cheap. School administrators will work them for eighty-nine days, then forget about them. Something about a union contract stating that after ninety days, the school district must hire the sub as a regular—that wouldn’t be financially responsible, now would it?

What really amazes me is how easy it is to walk into a public school building and not be questioned. An open house is truly an open house. Not one teacher questioned me. Not one teacher said, “I don’t recognize you. Are you new to this district? Which student on my roster is yours?”

Instead, I heard one teacher say she doesn’t assign homework on Fridays because the weekends are for her and her family. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, even though I wanted to say, Yeah but you have the whole summer, whereas I teach all year round. Then I thought, Not anymore, now that our dear politicians in the puzzle palace, otherwise known as the state capital building in Lansing, refuse to work together and settle Michigan’s budget crisis. Our two party system is alive and well. (See the "Blogging for Michigan" link on the right for more details.)

When the first bell rang, signifying the parents to switch classrooms just like their children would, I decided to visit a Social Studies class. I realize that the easiest teaching certificate to obtain is in this subject, but still, the instructor should have made sure that “September” had been spelled correctly on the board. Again, not that it mattered. No one said anything. Perhaps out of politeness. Still, “Sepmember” looked a little funny.

The only time a parent raised a concern in a classroom had been when another teacher’s presentation consisted of all the advanced degrees she had and how many committees she participated on. She implied that she was so busy fighting for the education of her students with meetings and her own personal schooling, that there were times when a sub would be necessary; it was inevitable. A father spoke out, “Just how many days do you plan on missing?”

I shouldn’t bash my fellow teachers. It’s not an easy job. I’m just hoping the state settles this budget mess by October 1st or I’ll be in the unemployment line or subbing. I don’t know which is the bigger ass kicking. Speaking of such matters, Monday evening I’m scheduled to meet with the Science Olympiad board members. They want to review my event and share some of the complaints and concerns lodged against me. Should be interesting, considering it’s a voluntary position.

I'M GOING TO DISNEYLAND

In 1992, the year I started teaching for the Michigan Department of Corrections, a Los Angeles rock group known as dada arrived on the scene. Their debut album “Puzzle” had considerable airplay. I remember singing one particular song on many occasions while navigating the streets of Detroit. It seemed appropriate, since I was usually traveling to work.

“I just ran away from home…” I’d mouth along.

Although clear and straightforward, some lyrics take time to sink in; even for a prison educator such as myself. Back then, when a professional sports team won a championship, it wasn’t uncommon for the millionaire athletes celebrating their victory to claim (next verse of the song):

“I’m going to Disneyland…”

However, once you’ve been on both sides of the concertina-wired fence, you become less optimistic and more cynical. You realize that these words mean absolutely nothing—they’re just another slick marketing campaign by then Disney CEO Michael Eisner and his underlings. Disney has an ugly side; they probably pay these athletes to endorse them. It sickens me.

At one correctional institution the white inmates in horticulture class planted an assortment of flowers on the prison grounds. Their instructor let them choose whatever design and flowers they preferred. It wasn’t long after they were finished that someone, perhaps a maintenance worker checking for a leaky roof, noticed the evil formation of marigolds hidden in an assortment of other plants. Shortly afterward, an inspector snapped a picture of a rather large swastika before having everything ripped out.

It’s not always easy staying positive when you work in an environment that is continuously manipulated. Below are the rest of dada’s lyrics to “Dizz Knee Land,” followed by a cheerful, current picture taken outside my school building.

I just crashed my car again / Now I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just robbed a grocery store / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just flicked off President George / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just tossed a fifth of gin / Now I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just got cuffed again / I’m going to dizz knee land yeah

Shot my gun into the night / I’m going to dizz knee land.
I just saw a good man die / I’m going to dizz knee land.
Come on … I’m going to dizz knee land.

Kicked my ass out of school
Rolled me out into the streets
Hitched a ride on a monkey’s back
Headed west into the black
I’m going to dizz knee land.

I'LL DRINK TO BIG HAIRY LEGS!

If I could celebrate my life using vivid present-tense scenes in small, seemingly, interesting increments spliced together for effect, then others could rejoice and scream Hallelujah JR, you’re the man! Oh wouldn’t that be spectacular! And I’m not talking about using a narrative summary either. Why dramatize my actions when I can just live it in digestible bits and pieces? At least this is how I feel about some of the other folks I’ve met and dealt with in the past. One person in particular is forever etched in my mind:

He’s a prison maintenance worker, a rather large, fat man who usually wears bib overall shorts throughout the winter season. I will always identify him by that one challenging act he did in the not too distant past. In celebration of his life and culture, he decided to show a little extra leg (and underwear) inside the joint. Our warden at the time, an African-American man, disagreed with his actions, or should I say, attire.

“You can’t go to work dressed like that,” he commented.

Our dear prison maintenance man quickly pointed out that it certainly wasn’t a problem for the chaplain, who wore her African robes and African hats throughout the year. “Why can’t I honor my heritage too?” he asked. “Why can’t I share it with others?”

The warden shook his head in disbelief. I’m not sure what he actually said, but I’m sure it went something like this: “Sir, you cannot—let me repeat—you cannot wear a skirt inside a men’s prison.”

The warden’s lack of understanding probably elicited the following rebuttal: “Sir, with all due respect, it’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt.”

NOTES FROM AN INMATE

My teach lost what little cool was left in him. Put three of my road dogs on ice. And all we was doin’ was chillin’ man. Doin’ our time the ways we likes it. Waitin’ for the tooters to get off their asses and check our works. It don’t matter no how. We was turnin’ in our papers. That’s our game—shove piles of shit on them—no names, no page numbers, not even fingerprints or DNA. We starts the flux. Let the tooters sort it out, that’s what they get paid for. It ain’t like theys gonna dry snitch on us. Specially when the Teach starts actin’ like the Po-Po. Dress this man in blue, I say. Make him a Black Tag. We start spittin’ for fun.

Never fails man. The Teach, Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh himself, gets in the mix, starts pressin’ our bits. Says we gots to sit down. Stay seated, he yells. Then all kayahs (I think I spelt it write)—all kayahs breaks out. He flexes on my man McAllister first. Tells him in so many words to get ta steppin’. Next, it’s Brewster, tells him to kick rocks. The third guy, Parker, he’s okay, still learnin’ how to jail, he gets his work back. But Mr. Five-Fucking-Oh won’t back off. He says, Lemme see your stuff. Nothing to show, I knows, just numbers and letters on paper. Instead of giving in, Parker throws his shit on the floor, and Teach makes him into another Jimmy Hoffa.

Now it sounds like death in here. Nothin’ worse than doin’ your bit in a vacuum. I can’t breathe. I needs to shake the stink off. I’m gonna hook up with my dogs later. We gots us a portable hot tub near the greenhouse and a Shop Vac full of spud juice. Teach says we cants take our hands off each other. He’s probably right. I’m hopin’ Parker shows and gets drunk. I’m gonna turn him out.

UNTITLED POEM #44

I thought I saw myself
Before I was born,
My minds-eye playing tricks on me.

Where’s the ultrasound?
Where’s the smoky-white fetus?
The sucking of a transparent thumb?

Insecurity develops much later,
The ghost saturates the image.
I scan it anyway.

But I know better.
The date’s all wrong.
1962, a year too early.
October, the month afterward.

So I’m turned around. Breech born.
Looking inward, instead of outward.
Rolling back time.

Call it a “do-over.”

President Kennedy completes his term.

The celebration of my arrival postponed by a day.

Still, I watch and wait.

The matching floor lamps serve as incubators
I refuse to race toward the gate.
Then I discover my flight’s been changed.

Call it “9-10.”

There’s a slight tug on my ankle,
And a calculated slap, with momentary blackouts,
Before Father smokes his Cuban cigar.

HERE'S WHAT BUGS ME

I had run the gamut of teaching jobs. Public, Private, Social Services, and Corrections. But I never made it to that lily-white school district—you know what I’m speaking of—the district with the best of everything: textbooks, equipment, healthcare, pension, and salary schedule (excluding Chippewa Valley Schools of course, where they wanted to charge their teachers for using extra electricity for plugging in their personal fans). They could kiss my proverbial white … I know, how unprofessional of me.

I interviewed for numerous teaching jobs, only nepotism, or the lack thereof, ruled me out. You see, I’m the direct lineage of a UAW toolmaker, and not the nephew of a school superintendent. I did interview though for a position with Ford Motor Company. However, teaching laid off autoworkers, those guys and gals who made more than I, would’ve been as equally difficult as my prison gig. “Let’s improve your education,” would be my mantra, “so you can get a new job and make less.” Sounds unmotivating enough, don’t you think?

So what does one do to improve his marketability in the education profession? Simple. Obtain a teaching certificate in an area of demand. How about Math or Science? Much better than English or History. And at the secondary level to boot. My past history as a college engineering student wasn’t such a waste after all. I updated my resume and started searching for greener pastures.

I got the scoop on two teaching positions at Fraser Public Schools. Help Wanted: High School Journalism Teacher and High School Mathematics Teacher. Hot damn. Two birds with one stone. I’d be out of prison in no time. In order to increase my chances of an interview, I played up my role as an Inmate Newspaper Supervisor. Get your foot in the door, they advise.

As always, a panel interview. I showed them my portfolio, including past issues of “The Ryan Review .” The principal, assistant principal, and department heads ooohhhed and aaahhhed. Hypothetical questions regarding student discipline never came up. The personnel director thanked me for coming and explained that they had many more applicants before making a decision on a Journalism Teacher.

I found the appropriate time. I asked, “How many applicants do you have for the Math position?”

He answered, “Not many.”

“Would you consider me for that position as well? I’m certified in the appropriate discipline.”

Then it happened. I was dead in the water. He said, “You don’t have a degree in Mathematics.”

And my rebuttal: “No I don’t. But I’ve taken the necessary course work, passed the competency test, and met all the requirements by the State of Michigan to teach Mathematics.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re looking for someone with a Mathematics degree.”

So he and I debated the whole Michigan certification process. Everyone on the panel listened. Turns out, I knew more about it than he. Not good. Not good at all. Within a week I had my “We’re sorry to inform you” letter, which crossed paths with my “Thank you for the interview” letter. My foot might as well have been physically in the door as it slammed shut. Or at least where I’d feel better. No one, and I mean no one, likes an ass kicking.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

In 1992, during my first year as a convict teacher, Raphael B. Johnson, then 17, shot and killed a man in Detroit. In 1993, he received an 8- to 25-year sentence for second degree murder. Fifteen years later and guess what?—I am still teaching convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections while Raphael served his time, published a book, “To Pose A Threat: My Rite of Passage,” earned a four-year bachelor’s degree, and started his own business, Total Package Lifestyle. Oh, and let’s not forget, he has his very own website: http://www.raphaelbjohnson.com/. And what do I have? A crummy little blog.

If you were to compare a timeline of my life with his, I’d be first to admit that he has accomplished more. Why is that? Am I being too harsh on myself? Maybe I need a pep talk, if so, I can attend one of his motivational workshops at Total Package Lifestyle. Or maybe my abs are turning to flab (pure speculation on my part), if so, I can seek advice on fitness training at Total Package Lifestyle. Oh, but wait just one minute here, I’m not allowed to associate with ex-felons due to my line of work. Nor is Raphael allowed to arrange speaking engagements in our prisons. I guess our paths will never cross. Not that I’m disappointed. Not in the way Johnny Havard’s family is disappointed.

I realize that my main duty as a convict teacher is too help prisoners improve their academic skills; I have no problem with that. I also have absolutely no problem with hearing about former students becoming honest, taxpaying, working stiffs like myself. I guess my difficulty is with Raphael’s business model. Everything he has done since his heinous act is predicated upon where he’s been and what he’s done, and yet, not once has he mentioned Johnny Havard on his website; If I’m wrong, please correct me. Instead of admitting to killing a man, he should put a face and name with it. How about “I killed Johnny Havard” and all profits from my speaking engagements will go to his immediate family? Seems fair enough. But what do I know. I never killed a man.

KEEP FISHING

I shall remain hopefully optimistic with the submission process of a certain small literary journal that has rejected me thrice. What more can I do?—besides the obvious: Write better, keep submitting, and establish an ongoing writer/editor relationship.



I've been reading this specific journal faithfully, and know their submission format by heart. They assign your work to one of three teams of editors. Each team consists of two editors. If one of the assigned editors likes your piece, or if both editors say “maybe,” it advances to the other four editors for further consideration, or scrutiny, or whatever you want to call it. Either way, it usually spells “rejection.”

Here are some favorable comments I received regarding my last nonfiction piece:

Editor 5: No. The writing is good but the environment is alien enough to require more backstory than is given. Too many gaps in information, as it is presented.

Editor 6: No. Interesting subject matter but this lacked emotional sequel to me. I needed to see an arc in understanding from one of the characters; otherwise this is just the telling of an event without the punch a story gives. If it was wrong for the coworker to promise the inmate a tutoring gig, why was it ok for the narrator to do the same thing?

Although I do not agree with everything in their critique, I will say this: The entire submission process is subjective. Who knows, maybe they’re killing me with kindness, maybe they don’t like prison stories, maybe they’re hoping I’ll go away, maybe with my most recent submission, they’ll come right out and say, "You suck." All I can do is keep writing, keep submitting, and keep fishing.

LABOR DAY

Never mind the dapper young fellow with the most baseball patches on his jacket. Never mind his older brother with five, count them, five such patches--Do the math if you feel the need, I won't stop you. Never mind the detachable, unique, uno-level, luxury-model, camper with master bedroom and a panoramic view. Never mind that the view included a stopover in Missouri. Never mind the mangy, homeless mutt that got between the two boys. None of these things matter. It's just an old family photo of two youngsters enjoying a camping trip with their parents. I'm sure, as this Labor Day weekend comes to a close, there will be new family photos of camping trips all across the United States (and Canada too).

Fast-forwarded approximately thirty-five years, and that toe-headed youngster with the photo-scratched eye will tell you that he no longer goes camping. "I mistakenly took my wife camping once. I pitched a tent over some pine needles and her allergies kicked in. Her misery became my misery," he says. And so the story goes.

Here's the latest:

I didn't do much of anything this weekend. I stayed home and walked my dog around the subdivision each evening. On Saturday, with my dog on leash, I encountered a fawn. It followed us for two and half blocks. I ignored it, yet it kept pace and kept bleating.

"Hey Dad," I heard a kid yell, "there's a deer following that guy walking his dog."

His dad looked up and yelled, "There's a deer behind you."

I ignored the dad, the son, and the fawn. I concentrated on walking my dog. A few minutes later, the fawn trotted in the direction of a house where I smelled hamburgers on a grill. I had finally lost it.

What else did I do this holiday weekend? Ivan's going to love this; call it the tie-in no matter how contrived it seems. I read a negative comment regarding my YouTube video about a deer on my front lawn. The title of the piece, which I posted here on June 23, 2007, is "Ted Nugent Visits My House." Here's the comment:

Now go and eat your hamburgers PETA. PETA is an extremist organization. Dogs hate PETA; they do because they know PETA members refuse to feed dogs meat. And anyone knows every dog will tell you they need at least one can of horsemeat per week. PETA treats dogs the same way Hitler treated the Jews. They round'em up against their will and exterminate them. PETA kills more dogs then most hunters will ever kill deer in their lifetimes. Join NRA- hunters.

Other than that, I didn't do too much this holiday weekend.

I AM A WALKING MAN, not a Walkman

I cut back on Pop Tarts for breakfast. Way way back. And why shouldn't I? Kellogg's quit running a special Sony promotion which guaranteed a free song download with every box purchased. Besides already knowing that Pop Tarts have very little nutritional value, I also learned that you had to download Sony's CONNECT music player to your computer in order to play the songs. I grew suspicious. Sony has a shitty track record in the music industry; they were caught with their pants down when consumers downloaded purchased CD's onto their computers and discovered that Sony infiltrated their operating systems with a rootkit. Still, a man's got to have his free music. Ironically, after a few dozen songs, I discovered that I could only play them on the Sony music player, even though I prefer a different source. As for my MP3 player, anything but those F'N free Sony songs would download.

On August 30th, Sony sent me an email. I'll spare you all the bullshit and get to the meat and potatoes of their message:

Dear Valued Sony CONNECT Music Customer:

Today Sony announced its intent to move to a Windows Media Technology platform for Walkman products (they included a trademark symbol here). We strongly believe that the decision to embrace a more open platform for these devises will enable us to provide you with a better overall experience. Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, BLAH.

They would have been better off apologizing for their greed. Thanks for the headaches.

I did receive a much nicer digital message this week regarding David Lee Gilbert, the rock and roll singer for The Rockets. Last month I did a special tribute to him and the band, including a slideshow with their song "Born In Detroit." Here's the comment:

Hi, it's me, Dee Gilbert. I just loved this tribute to my late husband. He would have been so honored by this. You are the best.

Now I'm walking proud. And burning calories too. I am The Walking Man. At least for the moment. Unless it's been copyrighted.

A FEW GOOD MEN (AND WOMEN TOO)

I’m no G.I. Joe hiding in a foxhole in Afghanistan; I’m more like an ugly-ass Ken gymnasticising the parallel bars of a paramilitary organization. You don’t break the chain of command where I work; you don’t turn down opportunities; you don’t question your superiors, or your superior’s superiors—unless you’re begging to be verbally counseled and written up.

As a recent transfer to a new facility, I had forewarned my coworkers of my plan of attack, and they, in turn, forewarned me of the possible repercussions. So when our former prison warden pulled the school principal out of our staff meeting to discuss matters regarding yours truly, a former coworker, a teacher who retired years later after the State Police led her out in handcuffs, said “Damn you’re good.” And indeed, I thought I’d made quite an impression.

After their discussion, my red-faced boss returned, and with an accusatory finger pointed in my direction said, “You broke the chain of command.”

I’m no G.I. Joe, and I’m certainly not a whistle-blower either. I simply answered a memorandum the warden had sent me. I was a hostage negotiator at my previous worksite and he wanted to know whether I would continue in that capacity.

My written response started something like this: I will no longer go beyond the call of duty of a Michigan Department of Corrections School Teacher. I listed several valid reasons, including issues regarding my wage and years of service. This was the beginning of a long, tumultuous battle with various administrators. Years later, and I’m still that ugly-ass Ken protecting what’s mine. I guess you could say, “I have the power of schmooze.”

A LOSS FOR WORDS

I’ve been at a loss for words lately, more so than Michael Vick at a press conference. I was standing at the officer’s podium, my ears burning, waiting to hear about the alleged incident that took place during our immobilization. A certain OPMT (Out Patient Mental Treatment) prisoner—drawing attention to himself for modeling off his skivvies and flip-flops—refused to lock-up, a mandatory requirement during such drills. He stood his ground, barking incomprehensible nonsense to whomever would listen, and rumor had it, as soon as the siren blew and the dogs howled, he ingested an illegal substance. It wasn’t until after they cuffed him that he decided to fight.

“So what happened with Captain Underpants?” I asked.

“He went to seg,” one officer answered, knowing damned well that I was hoping to extract as many details as I could. They didn’t budge.

I decided to “push on,” a popular term used by the prisoners when you’re not invited into the conversation. As I turned to leave, I slipped and grabbed the podium to right myself. “Why is there water on the floor here?” I asked.

“It’s not water,” another officer stated.

“Then what is it?”

“Dog pee,” he answered.

If I hadn’t been at a loss for words, I would’ve said, “Well can we get Michael Vick to clean it up?”

400th POST (Reflecting Back)

The first responder to my blog (excluding the people I know outside of cyberspace) said something simple, nice, short and to the point: “I like your blog.” Filled with the enthusiasm of a novice blogger, I went to her site and learned about her ongoing battle with depression, her husband’s suicide, her recent mastectomy, and her preteen daughter’s somewhat rebellious behavior.

I think I responded once or twice—probably not giving it as much thought as needed—and she, in turn, decided not to reciprocate. I’m not sure why she felt the need to visit me in the first place, or why she even commented. Could it have been the second stage melanoma scare I had talked about? Or the Relay for Life fund-raiser I participated in? For some reason, on that particular night, she must have felt a sense of hope, a tinge of Perhaps he’ll understand. Or maybe she needed to lose herself in someone else’s problems, even if for only a moment. If she had in fact returned to my blog, I’m most certain her impression changed—my life, she may have thought, is tragically comfortable, my problems pale in comparison. And I'd have to agree.

There are other bloggers I’ve lost touch with; some of whom I may have driven away with my comments, posts, or You Tube vignettes. Some bloggers probably used my URL switch as a reason not to come back; what better method is there to cut someone loose. With that said, this is my 400th Post.

Honi soit qui mal y pense

I promise, "No more wedding pictures for awhile," and in the words of Elvis C., "My aim is true."


This past week, as I paraded a young lying-sack-of-an-excuse student down the corridor in search of the school principal for a GED verification, I observed two convicts speed-walking my way.

"What's going on?" I asked. Both inmates stopped.

"I don't know who he thinks he is," the inmate with the burnt face said, "but he ain't gonna talk to me any old way." He was referring to the Dirt Man, aka, the horticulture instructor standing at the other end of the hallway near the entrance of his classroom. The other inmate leaned against the wall, distancing himself from the conversation.

"I can't tell," I replied. "Looks to me like you're doing the chicken walk to get away from him." Now I had three convicts to deal with during mass movement in our school building. "You want his ID?" I yelled to the Dirt Man. Not that it really mattered. I knew both of them and could look up their inmate numbers.

"Yeah," the Dirt Man answered, still seething from whatever they had done.

"Give me your ID," I ordered the burnt faced inmate. He started flexing on me, but I stood my ground. And why not? Our corridors have security cameras recording our every nose-picking moment. He readily complied.

His road dog decided to speak. "All he was doing was weighing himself."

"Give me your ID as well," I said as an afterthought. He, too, complied.

I don't know if my lying-sack-of-an-excuse student followed me, but I delivered two ID's to the Dirt Man, who explained to me that the inmates in question had been in his critical tool area. Also, he informed me that the school principal was not in the building.

As I walked past the two inmates, a corrections officer asked, "Why are those two guys standing in my hallway?"

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Probably because the horticulture teacher has their ID's." By now, my new student fessed up that he did not have all of his GED scores, that he still needed to take the mathematics test. Such is an average day in the Michigan Department of Corrections.

HOOKING UP

In my bachelor days fine dining meant ordering by number, and if I had had more influence, our wedding would've been planned in very much the same manner--out of one of those Little Wedding Chapels that sold various packaged deals at reasonable prices. However, due to free loading off the future in-laws for longer than I'd like to admit (living in their damp moldy basement rent free had been a logical choice for stockpiling my money) I decided to go the traditional route. We had purchased a house jointly, and after making a deposit on a hall for a specific day, we decided to get married at the Catholic Church in our new neighborhood.

Enter Father Pasquali. We told him of our new home and that we'd like to get married on August 21st. Rather taken aback, he commented, "I hope you didn't reserve a hall."

My future-wife and I looked at each other and decided to let him continue.

"I'll have to check with Anna, our secretary, to see if that date is available."

When Father Pasquali left his office, there was no finger pointing, neither of us said, "I told you so." We simply waited. Let fate decide.

He returned with Anna in tow, and she informed us that all of August had been booked except for the 21st. I believe I made the initial comment, "We'll take it," but if you were to ask my wife, she insists that it was she who spoke first. One thing is for certain, both of us had to provide the necessary documentation in regards to our Catholic faith and pony up the money for marriage classes. Dripping with sarcasm, on the short ride back to our money-pit-of-a-home, I said, "I am so looking forward to learning all about marriage, how about you?" I needn't tell you her answer, afterall, we had already made a major purchase under different last names. What better way to demonstrate our faith and commitment.

CLOCK WATCHERS

I’ve had inmates, the type who’ve made an art form out of procrastination, tell me they can do the rest of their time standing on their head, and that’s all fine and dandy—if you’re easily mesmerized by grains of sand sifting through an hourglass. I have a name for people like them: Clock Watchers.

Regardless of the environment, I’d rather build a sand castle, even if I have to do it one grain at a time, even if others claim I’m in my own personal prison called “marriage.” I’ve tried to explain the difference between imprisonment and personal commitment to no avail. “At least commit to something,” I advise.

If they listened—truly, truly listened—they’d work in tandem, emptying pockets full of sand onto the prison yard, physically escaping the loneliness of the Clock Watchers, working toward a common goal, instead of traveling through the same tunnel vision of others. But then again, that would involve risk.

Fourteen years later, my marriage, and my sand castle continue to change, and I am the better for it.

A FEW RANDOM THOUGHTS

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be teaching convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Even when as an impressionable young boy listening to my grandfather’s stories about working with trustees at the Jackson Penitentiary Farm System, my thoughts were on becoming a dentist. For whatever reason, pulling and drilling teeth had a certain allure more so than taming the savage beast of man. And why would anyone say, “When I grow up, I want to teach the Charlie Mansons of the world.”

One time, my grandfather had an ex-felon show up on his front door step. I don’t know exactly what he had said to his unexpected visitor, but I’m sure part of it was, “Get the hell off my property before I shoot your ass.” It wasn’t until years later, after he retired and moved, that two trustees escaped and brutally murdered a family in the local farming community.

My grandfather has long since passed, and my grandmother’s health isn't what it used to be—a steady diet of radioactive iodine isn't helping. She returned a handwritten letter I had sent to my grandfather some sixteen years ago during my four-week DeMarse Academy training in Lansing, Michigan. He never wrote back, but he did enjoy knowing that I went through the same self-defense and anatomy of a setup courses.

Yesterday, I had a special treat for everyone—some 20 year-old video footage of myself as a promising public school teacher. Those were the days when I looked forward to having a positive influence on my students. Now, it doesn’t really seem to matter as much, although the graduation ceremony you witnessed (I was behind the camcorder) seems to say otherwise.

In order not to bore you, I wiped out my voice (who wants to hear a history lecture on South Carolina’s Ordinance of Nullification anyway?) and dubbed in The Wolfgang Press. Thanks for your loyalty and if you haven’t seen the video yet, now may be as good a time as any.

One last thing: Welcome home Bro.

JUXTAPOSITION