OLD NAVY WITH ATTITUDE

In my early college days I’d catch and heave cases of durable items racing down a Spartan semi-truck’s metal rollers to the next stock boy in line. It didn’t matter if I tossed cream corn, green beans, or applesauce in jars—I instinctively plucked them off those rollers and put some air beneath them. At three-thirty every Thursday morning the nature of my game had been to bury the corner of the box into an unsuspecting chest. The faster I could choreograph inconsistent hang times, the more likelihood I’d achieve my goal.

“C’mon tough guy,” I’d say to the sleepy stock boy massaging his sternum (high tosses) or solar plexus (low tosses). I had suffered from little man’s complex and my coworkers bore the brunt of my mental anguish. “What’s a matter, box to light for ya?”

Same modis operandi with the Pepsi. I knew when to man the handcart. I never claimed forearms like Popeye. If we were unloading case loads of bottles, I’d call “dibs” on one of the dollies and wheel Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and Mountain Dew into our warehouse, positioning the six cases against my right shoulder. Once I established where to park my load, I’d lean the other way, and slide the dolly out with my right foot. The not-so-bright dweebs in the warehouse would stack them twelve high, even if their arms looked like spindles. As for me, I kept wheeling more their way.

After days of searching for a mean, scary Halloween costume, I settled on today’s picture. Please, no YMCA jokes.

Have a Happy Halloween everyone.

FOG JUICE & BAD DECISIONS

There are times in our lives where we forget the boundaries of common decency, where we push the envelope beyond reason, and when we do that, when the fog clears, we realize the error of our ways. I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life time, but what I overheard in the employee lunchroom regarding a prisoner’s mail almost made me choke on my chicken sandwich.

“Excuse me,” I said. “A teacher did what?”

Nothing really shocks me anymore. Or so I had thought. I remember a young, married, female corrections teacher with two toddlers leaving her husband for an inmate doing “all day.” I saw her sitting in the prison visiting room with her new man. I wondered whether it was worth it—to sacrifice her marriage, her family, and her job to listen to a prisoner making empty promises of how their life together would be some day. I’m sure the conversation ended with “can you put some more money in my account?” This is the same old story, a real yawner if you ask me.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom, if the media got a hold of it, would shock an entire community. This isn’t anything like the gay prisoner I once knew who corresponded with a male elementary school teacher on a regular basis. “Oh look,” he said to me, “Richard sent his latest picture. Isn’t he sweet?” I thought to myself, what would the parents of Richard’s students do if they discovered his love correspondence? You could argue that Richard is entitled to his private life, and I’d respect your opinion, no need to argue. Again, a real snooze fest as far as I’m concerned.

But what I overheard in the employee lunchroom is very much different. The correctional facility’s mailroom opens all incoming envelopes and packages. Legal mail is opened in front of the prisoner. Personal mail, on the other hand, is unsealed and examined prior to delivery. So when the large manila envelope addressed to an inmate arrived, the mailroom worker followed protocol. What she found was a bunch of letters from a teacher’s fifth grade class. It had been an assignment. Some of the students claimed they were being forced to write the letter, that they really didn’t want to do it. A few fifth graders included their personal addresses. Luckily, none of the letters made it inside.

I’m not sure what the relationship is between the fifth grade teacher and this particular prisoner, but I’m willing to bet the school district will be notified. Do you think they’ll pass this information on to the parents? Or will they keep a lid on it? Time will tell. At least the Michigan Department of Corrections intercepted it. Please feel free to share your outrage.

PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

In my endless pursuit of that one scary childhood Halloween costume, I found the above silly photograph. I immediately felt sorry for the “Teddy Bear” Masked Man with his humongous, orange plastic, pumpkin pail. And why shouldn’t I? “Gritty” must have traveled down my mom’s ear canals as “glitzy” before the brain processed it into the word “grizzly” thus resulting in my being dressed out as a cute and cuddly Downy-type bear. (Snuggles? I’m guessing.) But this can’t be the case. It isn’t me. Who it is I don’t know.

My brother and I, although one year apart in age, were often mistaken for twins due to wearing matching clothes. If he wore plaid pants and a striped shirt, I wore plaid plants and a striped shirt. Our parents theorized that being fair meant giving us the same things. However, at Halloween we were able to pick and choose our costumes within reason.

If my brother said, “I want to be an Indian,” then I’d think of something within the same theme and say, “I want to be a cowboy.” But as we grew older, both of us took a more convenient route and became standard hobos, mixing and matching whatever we saw fit.

So which kid am I? Both hobo-like characters have matching Little Caesers Trick-or-Treat bags. It wouldn’t be fair if one of us had a larger sized bag that held more candy. Am I the tall, lanky, down-and-out red-nosed pharmacists advertising Hall’s cough drops, or the big-eared, big-nosed, white-collared pilgrim hobo? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had once participated in Disco Elementary’s “Thanksgiving Day” extravaganza. My mom had stitched together the black robe with white collar just for me. It must've been a positive experience, why else would I wear it again? I’m grateful that I didn’t have to wear a hunter’s orange reflecting vest that night, or if I did, that my dad never snapped the picture.

ONCE AGAIN, TRAUMA BEFORE HALLOWEEN

Why is it, after sifting through endless family photos in search of yours truly sporting at least one bad ass Halloween costume, I end up reliving the trauma of my youth? The amateur photographer—and I do mean “amateur” because of the wayward digit in front of the camera lense, which, by the way, would’ve been more convenient on the left hand side—did not have a clue as to commanding the shot. Hypothetically speaking, if the photographer calls for a gritty cowboy, and the inattentive wardrobe assistant mistakenly hears “glitzy,” he should correct her regarding anything resembling Gene Autry. If the photographer requests a great warrior chief, and the wardrobe assistant, in her infinite wisdom, thinks a squaw would be a much better choice, then the photographer needs to redirect and communicate his vision. This photo should be no different.

After taking a much closer look, I wonder if this is some type of cruel hoax, the literary equivalent of the poem “Leonainie.” Had someone suggested replacing Raggedy Andy with Raggedy Ann would make the photo more identifiable? A piece of Americana? And at whose expense? I’m almost certain that this isn’t my toy. As you can clearly see, my brother is standing there, wringing his hands as if he were an accomplice to this crime (and at such an early age). If we had just banded together, then maybe Raggedy Andy would’ve joined his sister in the Toy Museum Hall of Fame.

Unfortunately, when the wardrobe assistant does the cooking, house cleaning, and laundry, the photographer contentedly snaps the damn picture without thinking of its damaging effect.

"I'm gonna get you, Bom-baaard!"

This morning I read the extra sports section of the Detroit Free Press and reminisced about my cross-country coach, who, in an effort to foster team spirit and unity during practice, calculated staggered starting times for his runners. If you were the slowest on the team, you got a head start based on some crazy formula he had worked on the night before. If you were the best runner on the team, you had to wait … and wait … and wait for your turn to go.

Coach said, “In theory, the whole team should finish this six-mile run simultaneously.” Then he encouraged us to encourage one another as our turn came to run. The varsity squad grew tired of cheering, “See you at the finish.” It was evident we had our work cut out for us.

A teammate by the name of Keith Bombard became my victim that day. I set my sights on him instead of Matt Dorflinger, a tall lanky geek who thought running meant shuffling your size twelve’s in the dirt, because—how do I explain it?—if Keith were playing poker, everyone at the table would know his hand. His form was all wrong, he lacked fluidity, with each uneven stride, with each pump of his arms, he’d wobble his head as if water seeped inside and needed draining … and then he’d do the unimaginable … he’d look back to see if anyone was catching him.

When it was his turn to start, I shouted, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” Those of us standing around couldn’t help but laugh. Coach wasn’t too pleased, but it gave me something to do on my journey. By the time he called my name, Keith Bombard was a speck on the horizon.

It wasn’t until the third mile that he finally heard me again. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” From that point forward, as I controlled my breathing and lengthened my stride, he’d glance back and I’d yell, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

By the fourth and fifth mile, I maintained a distance of one hundred feet behind him and started breaking his spirit. At increased intervals I’d say, “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” He waited for me to pass him, but I wouldn’t. If he slowed down, I slowed down. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!” If he went faster, I went faster. “I’m gonna get you Bom-baaard!”

It wasn’t until that last mile, when I blew by him going up a hill, that he finally caved in and started walking. We didn’t say anything to each other in passing. Our roles had reversed. I became the speck on the horizon.

As I sat there having breakfast, I wondered whether he was doing the same, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the fine print of all those runners who participated in the Detroit Marathon. It doesn’t seem fair to run twenty-six miles and have your name reduced to such tiny font. I misplaced my reading glasses, so I had to squint real hard, and if somehow by chance I stumbled across the name “Keith Bombard,” I’d turn my head … and smile.

Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share

Since the Metro Detroit area public schools are sanitizing their buildings in an effort to protect their students and staff from MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus), I’ve become increasingly aware of the inmate-porter in our school building. At first, I thought he was obsessing over keeping everything clean, but the more I watched him the more I wondered whether he was trying to gain access to locked areas where a cache of supplies could be bartered away in general population. I noticed an even layer of dust on my classroom computers and bookshelves; it's been that way for years.

Then I started wondering if he might be a vindictive s.o.b., smearing God knows what on every doorknob in sight. This isn’t paranoia, I’ve heard about those random shakedowns of prison kitchen workers, where corrections officers find hidden Baggies of special sauce.

Prisoners are opportunists. They have very little to lose. One crazy porter gravitated toward the GED testing material. Whenever the GED Examiner walked the corridor with his locked brief case full of exam booklets, a dust mop surely followed. Telling the porter to “push-off” meant rethinking the next move—that is, until the GED Examiner requested his transfer to another facility.

Then there’s the Level I inmate-porters who, on occasion, clean the employee lunchroom from 1100 hours to 1300 hours. They will conveniently stay out of your way, hoping you will forget they’re in the vicinity, hoping you will unknowingly reveal something personal, something they can share with the rest of the inmate population. Although their ears are burning, I say, “Trick No Good.”

LET ME CHANGE THE TITLE

Not too long ago I was encouraged to apply for a teaching position with Montcalm Community College. They had acquired grant money for a Youthful Offender Program (YOP) and were attempting to infiltrate the Michigan Prison System. The warden at my current facility pooh-poohed the idea. Not that it mattered; other facilities were interested.

In an effort to discourage over familiarity with inmates, Montcalm, under MDOC advisement, was allowed to hire prison educators for YOP night classes, if, and only if, the facility differed from the teacher’s regular gig. In other words, after eight hours of teaching GED classes at one prison, I could pull up stakes, drive to another prison (Ryan Correctional Facility), and put on my college hat.

No thanks. Even though thirty-three smackaroos an hour is very enticing.

On a similar note, in Wednesday’s Detroit Free Press I saw a picture of my old classroom (Ryan Correctional Facility, 1992 – 1997) jam packed with college students and prisoners. According to the article, they were discussing race, class, and gender in the criminal justice system. The University of Michigan-Dearborn, through Comerica and private donors, paid for the inmate’s course materials, including textbooks, while the free-birds paid for the whole enchilada.

Hmmm … now the wheels are turning. In order to renew my teaching certificate, which expires in 2011, I need 6 credit hours. Perhaps I could enroll in this class. Do you think I could handle the course work? Do you think the Michigan Department of Education will allow it? And what about the Michigan Department of Corrections? They wouldn’t block me from such an important task as the renewal of a very important credential—or would they? Besides, I think I can beat an inmate out of his books.

Isn’t it interesting how I went from convict teacher to college instructor to college student to classroom bully in no time at all, how I went from making $33 an hour to paying for the privilege to hustle an inmate? Hmmm … decisions, decisions.

THE THREE-LEGGED SPIDER

I’m perusing and rubricating thirty GED essays written by prisoners from the Michigan Department of Corrections. Although I realize each essay is graded on logic and clarity, and points are not deducted for spelling, mechanics, or grammar, I am compelled to make a few—oh, what should I call it?—a few minor adjustments here and there, with a spackling of suggestions for good luck. My comments, for the most part, are as welcome as a police officer working undercover. The inmate-writers grow suspicious. “I done just like the book says,” Inmate Coleman defends.

I’m losing steam. “How about a rewrite?” I ask.

He shows me that dreaded "idea map" most writing textbooks promote, but I see a three-legged spider instead. Before the argument heats-up, we itemize the main ingredients: #1 introductory paragraph with topic sentence, #2 the body, including three supporting statements, and #3 a conclusion. It’s all there; he killed it; he hit all the major arteries. Give the man a gold star!

After his refusal to listen to my advice, he kicks rocks while I mutter to his back, “needs a rewrite.” I grab the next piece of drivel from the pile and think about Coleman. The whole scenario is actually quite funny considering his insistence on structure, form, and other things I’d consider mundane. He follows the same recipe; he clings to the same cookie cutter pattern; he likes that systematic process for writing essays. I, of all people, should know when to stay out of his kitchen.

If he were graded on the honesty of his words—how he changed his opinion regarding anarchy—then I’d have to give him two gold stars for not deviating from the text and for practicing what he preaches. Maybe his three-legged spider will rejuvenate its limbs afterall, or mutate into something entirely different. One can only hope.

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.