READ THIS

Working in a prison school, in an assembly-line style of educational instruction—make them do the work and send them down the line—you develop a certain callousness, a certain uncaring attitude, after all, the student population is a malleable, unstatic mess; it’s dirt swept under the administrator’s rug. Old students leave; new students arrive. Keep them moving. Keep pushing that broom.

I need a bigger broom.

When I process Prisoner Walker’s enrollment papers, documenting that he has “officially” started my class, I tell him, “I need your John Hancock.”

The inmate standing to his immediate right helps out. He says, “Where my thumb is.”

Mr. Walker scrawls his name across the document.

I continue. “Mr. Walker,” I say, “I’m going to add a statement to this report. Don’t get offended, I’m not a doctor, I can’t make the diagnosis, but I’m going to write: Student appears to be blind. He wears dark sunglasses and is aided by a cane and guide.”

Two days later I pull his school file. I discover a copied email from a Health Care Supervisor stating that Mr. Walker is indeed legally blind and will not be able to participate in school unless accommodations are provided.

Did I miss a staff meeting? Can someone please tell me where we keep our Braille? Or did Mr. Walker have some kind of cornea transplant and is playing me for a fool?

I've truly seen it all.

BUYING FEMININE DOUCHE

When there’s a family emergency the night before my midterm and I’m instructed to buy feminine douche—males are perfectly capable of using the self-checkout I’m told—I immediately cringe. “What if someone I know sees me?” There’s no time for argument. I’m off the hook … kind of … with a compromise. “Let’s go together,” I suggest.

My wife steps out of the half-bath, slides the pocket-door closed. “Hang in there baby,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

We purchase two packets, Country Flower and Vinegar and Water, eight douche bags total. And even though we do use the self-checkout, a female Kroger employee—who happened to see us entering through the exit door—gives us one of those Why-is-this-couple-buying-feminine-douche (AND ONLY FEMININE DOUCHE) at-11:30 PM-on-a-Friday-night look. Why can’t it wait?

I avoid her stare. My wife, on the other hand, feels the need to explain. “Our dog got sprayed by a skunk and our veterinarian said this was the best way to get rid of the smell.”

I’m happy to report that I did okay on my midterm, that our dog is as fresh as a the premature spring breeze, and that our house reeks something awful.

SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

Prisoner F has a metal plate in his head, a once busted orbital bone, a prosthetic eye, and a permanent smile. But don’t let his upturned mouth fool you—Car accident, he explains. You can hear the sadness in his voice.

He hates me, or not so much me, but what I represent. I’m an authority figure. I’m his gateway to a minimal education. I’m Mr. Follow-the-Policy. “Do your school work,” I say, eliciting such canned responses as “school sucks,” followed by traditional chest-thumping rituals and banter. I continue, “Keep it up. I got something for you.” I ball-up my hands.

“You can’t box,” he says. He rises from his chair.

I step to his right side, out of his periscope view and take a few slow short swings at the air. The students are amused.

“You got jokes,” he says.

On one rare occasion when he actually turned in an assignment, I inked it up, made it bleed real bad, and quickly dumped it back on his desk. “You know,” he said, “would it hurt you to praise your students once in awhile?”

“What do you want,” I asked, “a gold star?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I drew a smiley face at the top of his paper. I started with the mouth, enclosed it with a circle, then dotted it once and walked away.

He laughed. His permanent smile must’ve meant something, must’ve had meaning. The other students crowded around his desk to see what I had done. “That’s just plain wrong,” someone said, but all of them were laughing, all of them were giving him the attention he so desperately wanted.

UNPUBLISHING

I tried warning JR and that little wife of his. “Don’t go to the nursing home, the stomach flu’s incubating there, searching for new hosts.” They wouldn’t listen. He’s at Meijer’s right now, waiting for their prescriptions.

He wanted to be here to discuss the merits of on-line publishing. I’ll do that for him; I’ll summarize what’s going on. Two on-line editors (HTML Giant and Thieves Jargon ) had a misunderstanding. One thing led to another, until Blake Butler (HTML Giant) found himself “unpublished” at Thieves Jargon. As a side note, JR’s been “unpublished” himself when a certain on-line magazine severed his link like Lorena Bobbitt.

Anyway, here’s the whole enchilada regarding these two editors and the pro’s and con’s regarding on-line publishing: Now You Read It, Now You Don't: A Cautionary Look at Online Literary Magazines . If you’d like to add your two-cents regarding this incident or the entire online publishing scene, please do.

As for JR, hopefully he’ll be back soon.

Sincerely, Charlie.

P.S. Did everyone enjoy my cameo appearance in Adopted Behaviors?

S.E.E.

Isn’t it funny how our perception gets all distorted in times of change? My 84-year old mother-in-law fell and broke her hip and arm and during this S.E.E. (Significant Emotional Event) we had thoughts of confiscating her driver’s license, putting her in a nursing home, and … gasp … selling her house in a depressed real-estate market.

I’m happy to report that she is doing fine. She IS in a nursing home, but it’s not what you think—three to four weeks of rehabilitation and it’ll be business as usual. She’s already maneuvering the hallways with the aid of a crab-walker. In the meantime, my wife and I are cleaning her kitchen, living room, etc… so she’ll be able to get around her house better.

As for Charlie, her travel-companion-dummy, he’s an emotional wreck and misses all those road trips, especially those short jaunts to Canada. According to my mother-in-law, Charlie refuses to declare his citizenship. “Ma’am,” the Canadian border-patrolman will interrupt, “HE has to answer for himself. Sir, your country of origin?”

Thanks for all the well wishes. I hope to be traversing the blogosphere soon.

VOLE (FOR LACK OF A BETTER TITLE)

I was going to tell you about the traps I baited with peanut butter; how a vole got its neck snapped in my garage, but I never got around to it.

Then I decided I’d share the story about my student who threatened to kill himself last week; how he held a razorblade to his throat in contempt of a transfer notice. He was in the process of GED Testing and didn’t want to leave our facility. I’m not sure why I passed this up, why I failed to tell you.

I made myself a deadline—Saturday, February 21, 2009—I would do a two-for-one, I’d write about the vole and the student, my way of making up for lost time. I’d dispense this information like so many other bloggers—one detail after another.

Unfortunately the weekend has passed. So much for deadlines. Call it procrastination. I have my reasons. How about this one: Saturday night my 84-year-old mother-in-law tripped over a piece of duct tape on a dance floor, fell, and broke her arm and hip. My wife coordinated a 3-hour ambulance ride from a hospital in Clare, Michigan, to Detroit where my mother-in-law could have surgery closer to home. I cleaned out her refrigerator, stuffed five bags of mini-carrots, two rotten apples, some apricots, moldy pita bread, and cottage cheese down her garbage disposal. She’s not coming home any time soon. Rehabilitation will follow. “Don’t you put me in a nursing home,” she warned. I stayed out of it. My wife will handle the arrangements. It’ll probably be a 3 to 4 month ordeal.

Today I’ll retrieve her vehicle. I’m sure her senior citizen friends will miss their designated driver.

I'M A WRITER, YOU'RE A WRITER

More often than not, I’ve had killers at my doorway politely asking if they can enter my classroom. And for the record: I would never jeopardize the safety of my students. Yes, I always say “NO!”

Prisoners know better; If they go somewhere without the proper itinerary and ID card, they risk getting temporary “Out of Place” tickets. Too many infractions are bad, very very bad, in the eyes of the parole board.

One inmate in particular was determined to speak to me. “I hear you’re a writer,” he said.

My typical response goes something like this: “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve written a few school papers, letters, emails, memos…”

Next thing I witness: this particular killer’s gravitating toward my desk and trying to bond with me. “I’m a writer too.”

Yippee-Yippee-Yi-Yi-Yaaay … and I’m a convict teacher!

Sorry for the outburst. I read today’s Detroit Free Press and I just can’t get the same PR as this particular man who once approached me about writing. Here's the article: Parolee aims to keep students, and himself, on track. Hey, at least watch the video.

NANO FICTION

Wow! There are some heavy hitters in this issue of NANO Fiction:

Kim Chinquee
Randall Brown
Bob Thurber
Blake Butler

…and many many more.

I can’t wait to get my copy. Perhaps I’ll showcase my flash-fiction piece on YouTube. How about a simple coffee-house style reading?

Hey—it’s all about caring and sharing. Or am I bragging?

I apologize. I’m excited.

I don’t know; maybe it’s just me. I read in today’s Detroit Free Press about a mom who shoved her 4-year old daughter in the oven. “I’m sick,” she told the 31st District Court.

And rightfully so: She’d been cut off from her expensive antipsychotic medication and, in her daughter’s words, “tried to bake me like a turkey.”

As sad as this is, I don’t want to prejudge anyone. Instead, I want to talk about the controlled environment I work in called PRISON.

I had my first full week dealing with mentally disturbed inmates. I’m not sure exactly how us academic teachers are supposed to react, but given the circumstances, I think we coped fairly well.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure placing these inmates into our classrooms before their files arrived, before they’d had their orientation (if they’ll have one at all), was such a great idea. Maybe it’s just me, but I think I would’ve waited to make a more informed decision about enrolling them in school.

When my new students arrived, we were cautious. One student in a short-sleeved shirt, obviously a cutter, displayed his self-inflicted wounds, and smiling, pulled his skin taut with 10-inches of stitching along his rightside cheek. He lasted one day. Since I’m responsible for my students’ whereabouts and he never showed for Day 2, I wrote his name on the absence list. Here’s what I got back: Needs to be re-evaluated. Upon further investigation I found out that he kept pulling those stitches out of his face.

On my third day of class one of my heavily medicated new students fell out of his chair and had a seizure. My students made sure the tables and chairs were cleared away while I rolled him onto his side and made sure he had a pulse and could breathe. When the nurse showed up she asked me if he’d been known to have seizures. I’m sure you already know how I wanted to respond—Fuck if I know, he just got here—but I said nothing.

I could go on, but I won’t. It is was it is and I do get paid.

I GOT PANKED!

It’s not often I get two acceptance letters on the same story; Multiple rejections, that’s a given. I sometimes think my middle initial stands for REJECTION. This week, however, I received another acceptance message for “Adopted Behaviors” even though it’s under contractual agreement with Underground Voices .

Blame my crazy-ass system if you will.

Here’s why: I maintain a semi-organized logbook of my paltry list of submissions and pull stories once they’re PUBLISHED. I know what you’re thinking: I should notify the other editors as soon as I commit the story elsewhere. But for some reason “rejection” lingers like residual gun powder on my hands. What if an editor changes his or her mind? What if I give them the rights to a story and they don’t use it? One time, I submitted a story to the Wayne Literary Review, received a $200 writing award I never applied for, and did not; I repeat DID NOT get published. Go figure.

In the back of my mind I’ve always wanted recognition from literary magazines endorsed by institutions of higher learning. Michigan Tech certainly is such a place. Still, I must honor my commitment. Plus, I believe UV has a larger readership. I’ll be first to admit: bigger isn’t necessarily better; each publisher has his or her audience. Maybe I’ll get PANK(ED) in the future.

What do you think? Did I pull the trigger too soon?

THE THAW

With the steady influx of Window Lickers attending my classes—that’s what a few staff members call the mentally disturbed inmates—and with the ice-damming on my house, it seems as if I’ve had very little time for writing.

I shouldn’t complain. Chiseling two-feet of ice from my gutters seemed therapeutic, even though my hands nearly froze. Also, the fresh air did me some good, gave me time to reflect.

Now that the snow has melted from the roof and I’ve crawled around inside the attic surveying the damage, I’m hoping to get back into some kind of routine, some kind of rhythm. I’ve got these peculiar ideas scuttling about my brain, and if I can put words to paper, if I can push aside my own personal demons and record these events, then I just might get somewhere, I just might have something. Still, there's no sense in rushing things.

GOING UNDERGROUND

Film Director, Screenwriter, and Editor Cetywa Powell has selected my story "Adopted Behaviors" for the March issue of Underground Voices.

KILLER PRAISE & ABSOLUTE LEMONADE

The Swish Man surely knows the difference between soft returns, hard returns, and extra hard returns; he wouldn’t confuse “extra” to be the qualifier of “hard” and not the qualifier of “returns.” Sounds confusing, I know, but I learned a little something about “returns” in Adobe InDesign class today.

MAC: Shift + Return = Soft Return.
Windows: Shift + Enter = Soft Return.

At any rate, the Swish Man, a former meth-head and connoisseur of cheap vodka and Kool-Aid (grape, orange, or lemonade) would know all about “returns.”

“Hey Swish Man, when’s your parole date? When you gonna get your drink on?” I’d ask.

He’d pat down his cat-licked hair, flash me his rotten meth-mouth, and proudly slur that he was discharging. “I’m doing my whole bit,” he’d say. “No ERD,” meaning Early Release Date.

The Swish Man’s gone though. Assimilated into the free world, yet trapped in his addiction. He’ll be back, his return inevitable.

How’s that for gratitude?

On a similar note, I was given a lemonade stand; unfortunately, there’ll be no drinks. We’re all sold out. Shut down for the Swish Man. No posted rules. No violations. Instead, I’ve added a permanent link. Go to it. Check out the high quality documentary, the professionally trained voice, the nice crisp narrative at: Catvibe . We all need a little culture now and then. Even a convict teacher.

Reading suggestion: Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell.
Place to submit your crime fiction manuscript: Bitter Lemon Press.

*Minor announcement in February.

THE FLY SWATTER

With fly swatter in hand and beehive at foot, I back pedal.

All I wanted was the college’s computer lab hours. Nothing more. Nothing less.

My wife hands me the phone, says, “It’s the Department Head. I’m running late.”


“Yeah?” I’m speechless. Don’t know where to begin. “Hello?”

“I understand you’re having problems with your professor.”

“All I want,” I say, “are your computer lab hours.”

He continues. “We’ve had a few other complaints about her. Let’s see if I can switch you to a different instructor.”

“That’s okay, really. I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh wait, you’re in Adobe InDesign. Quite popular. Those classes are full.”

“That’s okay. I just need to learn the Apple shortcuts and familiarize myself with the program.”

I just want this conversation (which I did not initiate) to end.

He likes to talk. “Your wife tells me you teach in a prison …”

Wonderful. Just wonderful. I’m sure my instructor-in-the-business will be waiting with open arms for my Saturday morning arrival. I may need to bring that fly swatter.

SLUGS AND BLEEDS

I wish it were that simple—slugs and bleeds—a primitive solution to an aggravating circumstance called: Adobe InDesign Digital Layout. The introductory college course consists of one instructor “in the business,” a room full of graphic design students (including a few emos), and me, a convict teacher who once supervised an inmate newspaper.

You wanna talk graphic design? My layout man could work a thumbtack like there was no tomorrow (like he had all-day) cutting and pasting articles, pictures, cartoons, captions, you name it; his work exceeded my expectations. Nobody messed with the layout man—unless you wanted to be “laid out.”

Slugs and Bleeds.

I’m attending a class for six hours every Saturday morning. So far, two class sessions down, more torture on the way. “I retained about 30% of what you said,” I told the instructor.

While the others were perfecting their gutter space, their columns, their font-size, I was busy trying to learn the Apple icons, the shortcut keys, and the software menus. Not an easy task: taking notes, clicking here, clicking there, studying the barely visible screen up front for in-depth guidance.

While the others were busy organizing their assignment, putting the finishing touches on their project, I sat, my hands intertwined on the top of my head. A wounded slug. My way of saying, “Hey you, instructor lady, instructor-in-the-business, could you slow down, I’m not sure what I’m suppose to be doing.”

When class ended (forty minutes early), I waited for the instructor to approach. I told her my problem. I thought she’d help. Instead, she powered down my machine. I guess it’s the last step that counts. She informed me of their computer lab hours.

Hey, look on the bright side, I could’ve taken a harder course.

NO VACANCIES

You ain’t rentin’ no space in my head.

There’s a whole new breed of inmate coming to our facility. I’ve been told we will treat them no differently than g.p. (general population). If that’s the case, then why is five-block, where they’re double-bunked, shutting down, and seven-block, where they’re single-bunked, opening up? And why will their g.p. activities be restricted to school and religious services? Why will they have their own yard? Their own doctors from the Department of Mental Health?

They haven’t been enrolled in school yet, although I’ve seen a few of them near the control center. “Hey,” I joked with a coworker, “someone should wipe the drool of that guy’s face.”

We laugh. We brace ourselves for the inevitable. How bad will it get?

We already have a serial killer going to school, but as luck would have it, he’s in the classroom down the hall. He used to be homeless, now he’s at home. He killed seven prostitutes near Detroit’s Cass Corridor. Beat them with a brick. Returned to the scene of the crime to have his way with them. Repeatedly.

He’s not part of this new breed of inmate. He’s in general population, coping with his own personal demons.

MY FAVORITE FLASHES

It probably costs you nothing to write a short story but I find that it costs me as many false starts--and therefore failures--as does a long one. Mark Twain

To get the right word in the right place is a rare achievement. Samuel Clemens


Here are my favorite entries (in no particular order) from Jason Evan’s “Ascension” Short Story Contest (keep in mind that I have no money):


Son Games Mother by Catherine Vibert

A Balanced Life by Wayne Scheer

Up is Fine by Victor Bravo Monchego, Jr.

Static Ellen by Dottie Camptown

The Yes Man by J. Scott Ellis


Lastly, in my opinion (for what it’s worth and not much) my personal favorite:

So What if She Has No Feet? by Linda Courtland.

I couldn’t help myself on that last one. Hey, everyone’s a winner for participating.

PREDATOR OR PREY?

When you hate the world and have no way to express yourself because of the number on your back, you’ll do anything to disrupt the system. If I’ve got to endure this misery, most convicts think, then everyone else should too.

Only one problem: That elderly gentleman doing all-day (20-some years and “not” counting). He’s quiet. He’s polite. He’s articulate. He walks with a cane. He has my entire class on edge—killers, rapists, dope-dealers, and thieves alike.

“You’ve got to do something about him,” one of the younger inmates tells me in confidence.

“Why?”

“Why? You know why! He’s a predator!”

I must admit, he’s given me the heebie-jeebies more than once. The zippers running down the inner part of each pant-leg certainly are an oddity. I’ve been informed that he wears leg braces. Whether he needs these special pants, or the braces, I’ll never know.

When he enters the classroom, he hangs his cane on my filing cabinet near my desk, as if he’s marking his territory, then he walks across the room to his seat. The classroom gets quiet. No one dares steal his cane.

I confront him. “JR,” he says, “In here you’re either predator or prey. I’m a predator. You notice how no one bothers me.” His point is duly noted.

“Deal with it,” I advise a few of my students.

Their latest tactic, “He loves you JR.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. In prison it’s not a good idea to show your fear. I turn it into a joke. “As long as he does it from a distance, what do I care.”

This week I will advise him not to leave his cane hanging from my filing cabinet.

* * * * *

Tonight (after 8:00 p.m.) I will post my favorite entries from Jason Evan's "Ascension" short story contest. If you would like to read mine or view the vignette, scroll downward.

IF YOU'D ONLY PAY ATTENTION

Jason Evan's "Ascension" Short Fiction Contest at Clarity of Night.

Written form, Entry #8: If You'd Only Pay Attention (2nd Place)

Muffin Monster demonstration below.

ESCALATORS & MUFFIN MONSTERS

I haven’t participated in a prison orientation in years. This event usually takes place in a gym with row upon row of tables staffed by non-custody employees explaining the intricacies of prison survival. Whether it’s the quarter-master handing out bed rolls, the classification director dispensing advice on various programs, the principal explaining enrollment procedures/school rules, or the resident unit managers handing out pamphlets on the Prisoner Rape Elimination Act, it’s clearly too much information to process. Especially for those A-prefix inmates (first-timers). B, C, & D-prefix inmates already know the protocol and get a little irritated by the whole process.

The reason I’m bringing this up has to do with Jason Evan’s latest writing contest based on a photograph of an escalator. For some reason, when I initially saw those corrugated, metallic steps, I thought of an unfortunate child getting his hand maimed. I read about it in some newspaper long ago. It’s funny how we recall such things; Here’s an invention that transports people, it’s meant to be helpful. Did the child know of the dangers involved? Had he ever been on an escalator before? Or was this his first time? Was he under adult supervision when it happened? The questions kept coming.

Our brains work in mysterious ways. I went from thinking about that child, that horrible incident, to thinking about an A-prefix inmate being told how prison life would be, how he would need time to adjust. I hadn’t envisioned any one particular inmate. No, in my minds-eye he remained as faceless as my child did. Before I picked up my legal pad of paper and pen to write my story, I felt an underlying danger “in” (or perhaps “on”) that escalator.

There are so many things we just don’t know about. The title of my story is If You'd Only Pay Attention. There’s a treasure trove of wonderful stories in the competition. Also, if you read mine, you'll see how I incorporated the Muffin Monster.

CHOICES & CONSEQUENCES

Three students, three children trapped in men’s bodies, were having a heated discussion over the female anatomy, arguing over the best way to please a woman. As an educator I could’ve turned this into a much needed biology lesson; however, considering the environment and the serious offenses of each man-child (rape, murder, theft … you name it) I decided to redirect them to their individualized lesson plans.

One student in particular had difficulty changing course. Energized and vocal, he wanted everyone to know about his experiences, his expertise as a “Lady’s Man.”

“Enough,” I said. “Do your math assignment or leave.”

Maybe it’s instinctual, maybe they're too institutionalized, because like Pavlov’s dog salivating at the sound of a bell, Mr. Lady’s Man Man-Child made a bee-line for the door.

“Just remember,” I continued, “Leaving the classroom means receiving a ‘Disobeying a Direct Order’ ticket for refusing to do your work.”

“I didn’t refuse anything,” he summarized. “You gave me a choice.”

“And with choices are consequences,” I explained.

He stood in the doorway as if it were a huge gaping hole in the perimeter fence, contemplating whether now was the time to escape. I kept silent, stood my ground, my weapon of choice: a ticket form and ballpoint pen.

Mr. Lady’s Man Man-Child sat back down, stared out the window. You could tell he was thinking about what to do. I guess he needed some alone time to reflect on his predicament, his imprisonment. After his momentary reflection he started violently punching himself in the head. I ignored him, figuring he’d stop when he felt the punishment were enough to fit the crime.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF VIOLENCE

Every year since 2006, I hold Prisoner Lewis (an older gentleman approaching fifty) back, while everyone leaves the classroom. I ask him, “Is this going to be the year?” He diverts his eyes, looks at the floor or his feet. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Three years straight (2006, 2007, 2008) he has put very little effort into learning the required material. He could no more pass a GED Exam then walk out that front door a free man. But this isn’t about him. He doesn’t have that pent-up anger some of the younger inmates have.

This should come as no surprise: I worked over the holidays. During that short interval between Christmas and the New Year a youngster told me he would turn it around; he would behave in the classroom and study regularly. We mapped out a plan. He signed the required quarterly work evaluation. He even asked if he could take a Science book back to his cell to study during “down” time.

I was a bit hesitant, yet agreed.

At his very next class session he arrived late, went to the bathroom five or six times, and basically did nothing for the remainder of class. In fact, at one point, I found him sleeping behind a bookshelf. He had torn the covers off a textbook so he could have himself a soft pillow.

I stood over him, stared at a tattoo of a cross on his right bicep, read the words “God’s Son,” then I made him get up. “Where’s the book I gave you?”

“It’s back at my cell,” he answered.

I told him to bring it to class the next day.

“I’m going to throw it in the trash when I get back.”

I could go on and on with his antics, his insolent words, his refusing to give me his ID card, but I won’t. Why should I? Instead, let me give you the brief history of this eighteen-year old man-child:

1) On May 27, 2006, he killed someone.
2) On June 11, 2007, he was sentenced for 2nd Degree Murder.
3) His ERD (Earliest Release Date) is January 23, 2022.
4) His Maximum Discharge Date is July 23, 2078.

Need I say more? How about Happy New Year!

LET'S HOPE FOR A BETTER YEAR

I’m closing out 2008 with two unedited comments from The Copenhaver Risk Factor. Keep in mind that I have no real way of knowing the true identity of each person, but I suspect they are who they say they are. Also, due to their emotional involvement, my sarcasm may have went undetected. Let’s hope 2009 is a much better year for all of us and that I can continue writing without reprimand.

Ryan's Sister said...
Hello Mr."Know's not a damn thing that he is talking about"....I am Ryan's Older sister, and you don't know what you are talking about...First of all this is the first time Ryan has been in trouble, Ryan was never a bad kid or a bad adult, he made a mistake. And unfortunetly it had caused someone to die, and another passenger to get his leg broken, and Ryan also got hurt too. Ryan did his time, and he got out on parole, and yes he was in his friend's parent's house, with a toy gun that he knew nothing about. Ryan worked 2 jobs, he never had anytime for anyone, he worked his butt off to pay his fines, and he had them paid 6 months out on parole..The state of Michigan gave Ryan his License back while he was on parole and he called his parole officer to ask if he was allowed to drive, she had told him "No, not until he was off of parole." What everyone fails to bring up in the entire matter, is that there was no reason for them to search his residence. The only reason they did, was because at the time of the Super bowl and the Michigan department of corrections was doing surprise visits to every person who is on parole....So this is why Ryan got searched, they found 2 toy guns that were not even in his place of living, they were stored in a closet that was not even occupied by Ryan....Ryan would never hold up a liquor store, or rob a store, making that assumption is ridiculous seeing that you don't know Ryan and that you are just assuming this about every prisoner. How would you like it if someone started saying things that you would never do? I just think that maybe you should know who you are talking about. Ryan never did anything wrong on Parole. This was just something that they found and they shoved this too him, and they should've let him go, Ryan has a lawyer and he is doing everything that he is supposed to do. Ryan is a statistic, and I think that this is unfortunate that there are so many people in prison, for things that aren't even horrible and violent offenses, and these are the one's that the state should release early and focus on the one's who are violent offenders...I will be more than happy to defend my brother, and I am open for discussion on this...Erica


Jennifer Gifford said...
I too know Ryan, and the Copenhavers. Ryan was a good kid, never got into trouble. The fact is, he made a mistake and he paid for it. He is still paying for it, and he will pay for it with the rest of his life. He doesn't need some whinny holier than though individual with a skewed glimpse of the case to remind him, he has a conscience for that.

You missed the HUGE article in the Oakland Press about him, and how the system-from paroles, FIA, social services-are antiquated and in desperate need of a rehaul.

You are one of the sad individuals who like to pass judge and jury on everything that anyone does. Tell him, when did you become God? Isn't the point of going to prison to rehabilitate? I wonder what you'd say about Nathaniel Abhraham who blantantly gunned down an unarmed man, wore a pimp suit to his hearing, got out and violated his parole?

You have a limited grasp of how the system works other than what you read in the paper. Question the sources before you form an opinion.

I am by no means saying that what Ryan did, or anyone in his shoes did, is wrong. But he admitted his guilt, and is his doing his time. He's asked for forgiveness to the family of the man who was killed, and it was granted.

Tragedies happen in life. Ryan himself has even said, (and im paraphrasing), 'I will live with that for the rest of my life. It's on my conscience, no one else's.'

Perhaps your a friend of the victim or his family, and if you are, I am sorry. Loss of life, ANY LIFE, is regrettable. But to punish someone over and over again, what does that say about you? Society?

Perhaps instead of pointing out the problem, maybe try being a part of the solution. Volunteer to be a safe driver on New Year's for MADD.

THE LOW SPARK OF HIGH-HEELED BOYS

I guess to an outsider just getting “in”—the prison environment is a peculiar beast. There’s that recognized potential for danger, that heightened sense of awareness much like crossing a busy four-lane highway during rush hour; There can never be enough caution, enough looking both ways, and after years of dealing with convicted felons, that caution becomes in varying degrees part of a repertoire, a skill set, and some times a way to stave off boredom.

I don’t exactly see the logic in hiring someone right before the holidays except maybe to beat a state hiring freeze or to make someone’s Christmas extra special. I’ve observed a certain anxiousness, a certain “I’m ready to start my classes, I’m ready to make a career out of this,” and my advice (because I’ve seen it over and over again) never wavers: Take it one day at a time. There’s no hurry. These guys aren’t going anywhere.

I’m not sure sitting in a classroom observing your peers—especially when they have a combined two years of Correctional experience—is much help; I know there’s no irreparable harm in it, these guys have something to offer. They're definitely doing much better than I did as a rookie. Also, what better way to get answers to your questions than from someone who just survived their first year? No one wants a long-winded answer from an old-timer. I’ll be brief. I promise. When I started with the department, the mindset was different; it was sink or swim, Here’s your keys. Don’t lose them.

Now we have a mentoring program (something I believe has been started statewide). I’m not convinced that this new fangled idea is the cure-all either. Maybe my opinion is somewhat skewed. And why shouldn’t it be? I wasn’t asked to participate. It’s probably for the best. Our new employee already thinks I’m a bit touched, a bit crazy, as if I’ve been playing in traffic for far too long. I’m afraid he’s probably right.

THREE DOWN, TWO TO GO

I suspect that if I had been a bit more cooperative, I might’ve become more than I am, I might’ve really gone places instead of painting myself into that proverbial corner called “prison employment.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to be working, I’ve heard the same first line of a Tom Petty song each weekday morning for the past two years, She’s an American Girrrrl, and have never hit the snooze button. I kill the alarm and get up immediately. I've got bills to pay. I’ve even done my part to stimulate the economy with that dreaded activity called: Christmas Shopping.

This year, for reasons I’ll try not to delve into, I’m forced to celebrate Christmas FIVE times.

A week ago, we exchanged gifts at my parents’ house, this past weekend we celebrated SA’s homecoming. In case you may have forgotten, SA (I Am Batman) is my wife’s cousin from Chicago. She’s also the one who discovered a common, yet subtle theme throughout my blog—The Voice of Reason. Now I’m more deliberate regarding whom that voice is. But I digress.

Christmas #2 was spent in the Grosse Pointes so SA could reunite with family. As we traveled west on I-94, I gave her my camcorder and some brief instructions on how to use it; thus the following short video footage. I’ll warn you now: I had my braces tightened the evening prior; The orthodontist stuffed my mouth full of gauze due to an abscess that wouldn’t stop bleeding. There’s no arguing that my teeth and upper gum line contributed to my weekend-long, crabby disposition and perhaps played a part in the edited selection of photographs and Christmas music. But I’m much better now.

I included very little footage of Christmas #3—just me clanking my Miller bottle against some holiday knick-knacks.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and hope to visit everyone’s blogs soon.

AN ANNUAL LEAVE SNOW DAY

When you’re a correctional educator swishing corn flakes out of your braces with a shot of coffee while perusing all those school closings on the television, you know for a fact you’re wasting your time.

During the last big blizzard I drove through a foot of snow, punched in for work, and received the following greeting from a deputy warden: “You don’t have to stay. We’re not opening the school building.” Well golly-gee, a phone call would’ve been nice; unfortunately, that would mean giving me administrative leave and that ain’t gonna happen.

Most prisons are built near a county line; no one wants felons in their back yard or vegetable garden (unless perhaps you're interested in doing a character study). On that particular day, the next county over declared a snow emergency; All state employees working in that county (approximately a half-mile down the road) were told to stay home. But not us. Only two educators showed up that day and as luck would have it the other one was the Food Tech Teacher. He fixed me an omelet, hash browns, toast, and coffee. Afterwards, I went to my classroom and organized my files, sharpened my pencils, etc. etc. etc. Easy money. I did my eight and hit the gate.

As for today, I intended to drive to work, but the Voice of Reason told me not to. It didn’t take her long to convince me that it just wasn’t worth the risk. So I loosened my tie and I called the prison control center declaring today a SNOW DAY. I sympathize with all those hard working corrections officers mandated to work overtime. Some of them will work 16 hours straight dealing with Michigan’s finest. I wish them well.

Today’s picture: A childhood photo of my brother and I celebrating a snow day with the neighbor kids.

HOW TO GIVE A TEST IN PRISON

When a student Christmas Trees his answer sheet on a timed test and announces, “I’m finished. Can I leave now?”—You spread your holiday cheer, “Mr. Akers, I’m going to provide you with the full allotment of time so that you can do your very very best.”

He thinks you’re uninspiring and gets confrontational. He lifts up his evidence, wields it like a courtroom exhibit; he’s the defense attorney discrediting your statement. “It don’t take no rocket scientist to see that I’m finished.”

You provide him a viable option. “Then sit quietly until everyone’s done.”

He stews for what seems like eternity. He focuses his every evil desire onto you; if he could will it, he’d laser your forehead with his stare; if the truth were to be told … he’s killed an entire family for less than this. “C’mon y’all! I ain’t waitin’ forever!”

You press your index finger to your lips. “Sssshhh.”

“Don’t you ssshhh me.”

Five minutes pass and he hasn’t blinked once. He says, “This is a waste of time. Yours and mine.”

You don’t smile, unless you call that grin a smile. You tell him that he could have a flash of genius which could lead to his changing an answer … maybe here or maybe there, you indicate … and you tell him you will see to it that he’s not cheated out of not one minute, not one second of his precious test-taking time. Some students snicker, others laugh. They’re the brave ones. They’ve been through it before. They’re accustomed to your stock answers, Better to be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.

Twenty more ticks of the clock, one-third of an hour gone by. You call it out of necessity: “Times up. Pencils down. Booklets closed.” You deliberately collect his test material last before dismissing everyone, before saying, “Have a nice day.”

TRAVELIN' ON

I should’ve agreed years ago with the voice of reason: “There’s no need for you to keep all those cassette tapes. Get rid of them.”

Where was my rebuttal? I could no longer say, “I listen to them on the way to work.” Damn auto companies—shame, shame, shame—Why’d they quit installing tape decks in their vehicles? And what of those foreign automakers? As for my Sony Walkman, I had no problem tossing it; Every time the batteries weakened it made pasta.

Approximately ten years ago a friend donated all his cassette tapes to me—a sizeable collection, considering he at one time owned a record store near 9 Mile and Ryan Road.

I was running out of options. I was running out of room. The voice of reason had sold all our store-bought videotapes just before the DVD tsunami. “You haven’t listened to those tapes in years.”

I strategically placed a cheap GPX dual cassette tape player in my office and made the claim that I enjoyed the occasional song while writing. Truth of the matter: Too much racket, music or otherwise, and my so-called thoughts never made it to paper. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not plotting.

Those big wheels keep on turning . . .

Now the possibilities are endless. I’ve figured out how to plug that cheap GPX player into my computer. It’s all about my “I” toons. Bob H.’s guitar sings once again. Enjoy the music while watching the slide show of my family (circa 1920’s - 1960’s).

Trivia Question: What famous country singer helped Clinton River Road choose their name?

CLINTON RIVER ROAD

With Christmas fast approaching, I’ve decided to de-clutter my life. Recession be damned—there will be incoming gifts needing space in my three-bedroom brick ranch.





For all the tough macho talk, all the inner dialogue, “Do I commit or do I not commit?” I’m having problems letting go; it’s like erasing part of a tape, knowing you’ll never be able to retrieve what was once there.

Yeah, I have regrets, and yeah, right before the holidays.

My wife convinced me to sell my music albums, at least the ones I hadn’t framed and hung on our basement walls. I’ve mourned the loss of one record in particular: my Clinton River Road country album. What was I thinking?

Clinton River Road, a local band that never made it big, not even as a one-hit-wonder. Their manager, a long-lost friend, purchased a tour bus so they could perform at all those Farm Aid Concerts in the 1980’s. I rode in that bus to Harpo’s in Detroit—not a good venue for a country music shindig, not like the annual Detroit Hoedown at Hart Plaza.

I remember working in a manufacturing facility, demonstrating the art of silk-screening to CRR’s lead guitarist, Bob H., being told to “keep an eye on him” because he had a craving for coke. They figured if they kept him busy, kept his mind occupied, he’d stay clean. I don’t know if it worked, I have my doubts, but man, could that dude play!

I’m in my basement office. I’ve got a plastic garbage bag folded over a rusted metal frame, the kind used to snap a TV tray onto. I’m sifting through cassette tapes. That’s when I find it: A demo tape from Elephant Recording Studios of none other than Clinton River Road. Instead of tossing it into the abyss, I give it a listen. Instead of de-cluttering my life, I try to salvage a memory. I’ll wait for that one tera-byte external hard drive to appear under my Christmas tree. I’ll digitize as much as I can. Still, I’m wondering what happened to Tim, the lead vocalist; Vinnie, the drummer; and, of course, Bob. H, their talented lead guitarist. The last time I saw him, he was playing a small gig at the Romeo Peach Pit; I had finished bowling and stepped into the smoke-filled lounge. I can’t remember if my steady girlfriend was with me that night. I’ll ask her. I’m hoping she was. I’m sure a shared experience is worth saving. Isn’t it? I’m sure she’ll say, “Yes. Yes it is.”

OUR LOYAL MINI

Mini bore Tiny. They were Siamese. The similarities ended there. Tiny hated humans. She’d scratch and bite without provocation. Mini, on the other hand, wouldn’t hurt a flea—not an easy task for a feline with nine lives.

When the neighborhood kids came over to play, my father gave his routine. “Would you like to pet the cat?” he’d ask. Before anyone could answer, he’d pick her up by the tail and extend his offering. She’d hang there, like an offensive dishtowel, and before anyone could object, before anyone could accuse my father of cruelty to animals, she’d close her eyes and purrrr. Mini loved the attention. When he’d lower her to the kitchen linoleum, she’d rub against his leg and meow for more.

Another oddity—one that frightened the bejeebies out of our first-time visitors and served as a bathroom deterrent—occurred in our darkened hallway. A slow moving mini-Cyclops, its glow-in-the-dark eye, greeted those souls brave enough to walk the plastic carpet runner. “That’s our cat,” we’d say reassuringly.

Mini didn’t have a genetic defect. Tiny, though, must’ve had something wrong with her, perhaps a brain tumor—to be that mean, to be that unhappy—what else could explain it? It wasn’t the lineage. Mini was perfect in every way. She’d brush up against anything and everything to show her affection; her affection is what blindsided her.

Doors get slammed. It doesn’t matter by whom. It doesn’t matter whether the unsuspecting culprit is in a hurry or just plain angry. Accidents happen. A rubber-tipped spring, commonly known as a doorstopper, poked her eye out, left it dangling, and, with much pleading from two teary-faced boys, our father dug deep into his savings and paid a vet to work his magic.

Mini outlived Tiny. Twenty-one human years; that’s a long time for a cat. But not long enough for a cat like her.

Q & A Session with Bonnie Jo Campbell

Dear Mrs. Bonnie Jo Campbell,

Seems kind of formal for an email, but I don't know how else to start. First, let me introduce myself. I'm a mathematics teacher working in our lovely Michigan prison system (have been for approximately 17 years). I'm also a writer with a few publish stories under my belt ... Pebble Lake Review, Glass Fire Magazine, Foliate Oak, and Nano Fiction ... small lit mags, but I'm proud nonetheless.

As a struggling writer, I've come to appreciate the work ethic involved in the whole writing process; It's a tortuous affair (for me anyway), and I can only imagine the time and energy you spent mastering your craft.

I purchased your first short-story collection Women and Other Animals shortly after reading "The Smallest Man in the World" in a Pushcart Anthology. Awesome book! I'm now awaiting the release of your new book American Salvage from Wayne State University Press. I'm wondering whether you included my personal favorite "Candy" which I first read in the now defunct ...sob... Ontario Review --seems like a good fit (if the book title is any indication), or "My Dog Roscoe" from Witness. Both stories had great openers, really strong voices; more so than "Storm Warning" which builds momentum as it goes (read that one too in Orchid); I see you've included that one.

Anyway, I thought I'd congratulate you on your new book. Have a wonderful holiday!

Sincerely,

James R. Tomlinson

P.S. If you do respond, I hope you don't mind our correspondence being used as a blog post (doesn't everyone have a blog these days?). Of course, if you say no, I'll respect your wishes. Thanks again.



Hi James:

Thank you for writing to me. It sounds as though you have amazing experiences to relate in your writing. I'll confess I peeked in on you (via google) and found your story "This One's For the Birds," which is a situation nicely put.

Writing really is hard work, hours and hours, sometimes hundreds of hours of hard work for one story. When I learned that about writing, it came as a great relief. Originally I had thought that writing required brilliance and gigantic talent; when I learned writing was just more hard work (not unlike loading hay in a barn, digging a ditch) I was thrilled. I can do that, I told myself. Thank you for suggesting I've mastered the craft, but you know it's not true, because each new story presents a new torture... I mean, new challenge. Each new story makes me feel as though I'm starting all over again.

Thank you for asking about my new collection. I worked hard on writing the stories, and on shaping it into a collection, and Wayne State was generous in providing me editorial help. In some ways this collection is the male response to Women & Other Animals, and most (though not all) of the stories are dealing with male themes and male protagonists. And so neither of the stories you mention ("Candy" and "My Dog Roscoe") are included in the collection; those will appear in my next collection, Blood Work, which I've just put together in order to send out to contests and publishers.

I too am heartbroken over Ontario Review's disappearance. What a sad business it all is, for Joyce Carol Oates and for all of us, losing Raymond Smith.

Sure you can use my response in your blog. I just hope I didn't make any spelling or grammatical errors! I too become bloggish, with a personal one bone-eye and one in which I'm trying to include stuff about the publishing process screenporchlit.

Thanks again for taking an interest. I will be having a big book release party in Kalamazoo (at a brewery of course), and one in Detroit, through Wayne State Univ. Press. Let me know if you want to come and I can keep you posted as to the dates and times.

Cheers!

Bonnie

p.s. I'm a former math teacher myself, and I've done some volunteer work in my local prison (minimum security) teaching writing, so we have a little bit in common.

AT THE END OF NARDONE STREET

I’m no Richard Attenburrough, or Leonard Nemoy, or James Earl Jones, but it only seems fitting that I try my hand—I mean “voice”—at narration. I’ve been organizing my childhood photos for a Christmas DVD that I intend to give to my grandmothers.

Please feel free to comment. Your suggestions are greatly appreciated. I already know that a better microphone is needed; Reading from under a heavy comforter, sheltering my voice from the steady hum of the computer, seems downright silly.

Also, I plan on sharing an email correspondence I had with Bonnie Jo Campbell, author of Women and Other Animals, and Q Road, regarding her soon to be released short story collection American Salvage.

Peace.

TURKEY DAY

Barb F., my very first prison boss (1992-96), was roasted in the most unusual way. It started in the employee lunchroom the week prior to Thanksgiving amongst the overtaxed microwaves.





The Athletic Director had been conversing with the Librarian, and although they spoke quietly, other employees couldn’t help but join in. Truthfully, I can’t even remember the gist of their conversation. Perhaps it had something to do with a critical decision our boss made, a decision that had negatively impacted us. It’s a widely known fact that in corrections everyone tries to protect their turf by searching for easy non-confrontational ways to handle specific duties; maybe, on this particular occasion, we couldn’t find one.

I guess the most memorable part of the conversation, the part that triggered a series of <<<gulp>>> unfortunate events, happened at approximately the same time as the School Psychologist’s arrival for lunch.

“Barb’s a real turkey,” the A.D. complained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if her birthday’s on Thanksgiving.”

“Someone should get her a birthday card,” the Librarian added.

“Whose birthday is it?” Irene, the aforementioned School Psychologist, asked. She headed straight for the vending machines in search of a low-cal meal.

“Barb F’s,” someone must’ve answered.

I thought nothing of it. People need to blow off steam. It wasn’t until the last work day before Thanksgiving that I discovered what had happened. My boss called me into her office. “I’m a bit puzzled,” she said. She slid a Hallmark card across her desk. “For some reason, Irene thinks it’s my birthday.”

I knew not to laugh. I tried to act just as puzzled as her. “That’s bizarre,” I said.

Next came the steeple—that gesture with the hands used to show superiority. “Why would she think that?”

I did what a majority of us would do in this type of situation—I played stupid and waited for the perfect time to excuse myself, and then I booked.

At the close of my workday, Irene visited my classroom. “You’re not gonna believe what I did,” she said. Her face was all hot, as if she’d been exercising; which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You gave Barb a birthday card and it's not her birthday.” I told her about my private meeting.

“Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Hey, if you would’ve passed the card around, then maybe I would’ve put a kibosh to it.”

“You mean it never got to you?”

I guess my boss had tried playing the odds by interrogating someone who hadn’t actually signed the card. I knew how the rest of it went: each explanation centering on Irene’s request of their signatures.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving everyone, and if it happens to be your birthday, don’t get offended, it’s time to cook a turkey!

POLISHING APPLES

When an automobile is shrink-wrapped and you’re not
in on the joke (no time with a half-hour lunch),
it’s okay, because the owner supports the UAW.

It’s in the purchase;
It comes from word of mouth:
Tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so
that they can attend their local union meeting
as long as they ask for permission first.

You’re not immune; you’re not a straw boss;
you’re not a snoopervisor; they don’t need to beg
they’re hand fed and led by the navigator

of the sealed-tight vehicle, the one with
the passengers who’ve rolled down their windows
& finger-punched holes through cellophane
gasping and peering down a desolate highway.

So you highjack the steering wheel and crash
through a white picket fence, into an orchard,
your hands deflecting flying bark and York Imperial fastballs.

It’s called a U-Pick, which U-Do, placing the forbidden
fruit on the jokester’s desk to help fight his addiction
& keep him busy, polishing apples, polishing apples …
until they shine blood red, until the blue ink dries,
before the Chief Union Steward mouths his pre-ordained speech.

Austin Combs

I’m not too sure how this goes, whether my wife volunteered my services or whether Angie, our neighbor and good friend, mentioned it. It doesn’t matter; the details that night aren’t as important as the tribute to a talented musician. What I do know is Angie brought over a VHS tape of her father, who had passed away unexpectedly, and she needed it digitized for his funeral.

I’d done this type of work before, scanned photos of my father-in-law at various stages of his life, spliced in some family video footage, and added piano music. It helped with those awkward moments at the funeral home where everyone tries to engage in conversation without coming off as—how do I put it?—unsympathetic. The project before me that night was relatively easy: download several songs by A.C. and the Kentucky Fox Band; create a menu with chapters, and render and burn a DVD.

I didn’t attend Austin Combs’s funeral. Yet, I’ve come to know him as a free-spirit who lives on in the memories of his family, especially his grandchildren. From what I’ve heard, they’ve become particularly fond of his song, “Damn, the TV’s GONE,” an autobiographical account about a man’s propensity to smash television sets when he comes home, however, on this particular night, as the grandchildren might say, Grandma hid it from him.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you have time, check out the other songs.

SIMON SAYS

I’m not singing George Michael. I don’t have faith, faith, faith. There’s no glitch in my circuitry. It was a simple request. I knew fairly well how it would work. “Mr. White,” I said, “I’m giving you a direct order to sit down.” He’d been digging trenches in my carpet for ten minutes now—a true poster child for ADHD.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he replied. He stopped pacing. Yet he stood there, fidgeting in place. He raised his voice, wanting everyone to hear what he had to say, which, in my opinion was a whole lot of nothing. “You can’t treat me like I’m some little kid.”

I upped the ante. “Mr. White, I’m giving you a direct order to stay seated until class ends.” I knew this task would be impossible; if he would’ve done what I’d told him in the first place, then I would’ve cut him some slack.

He stood his ground, ready to test me. “What’re you getting mad for?”

I held firm. “I want you seated, Mr. White.”

“You can forget it. Ain’t gonna happen.”

After seventeen years of these types of scenarios, of developing my “playbook,” it still amazes me how each young inmate thinks he’s going to make a name for himself, and at my expense nonetheless. “Okay Mr. White,” I continued. “Now I’m giving you a direct order to leave my classroom.”

“Look everybody, he’s getting upset ‘cause he can’t get his waaaay.”

I repeated myself.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

It was time for my last maneuver. “Everyone,” I announced, “in the hallway.” My students dropped whatever they were doing and filed out of the classroom. As for Mr. White, anyone with little kids could figure out his next plan of attack—He. Sat. Down. What to do? What to do? Doesn’t really matter to me. I get paid by the hour.

It wasn’t long and Mr. White joined his peers. I guess he thought he could blend in, make himself invisible. Not much of a plan. I locked my classroom door and summoned an officer.

Mr. White, I’m sorry to report, is no longer a student of mine. Like so many others before him, he’s been replaced. I’m just wondering how long until the next youngster makes his move.

CLASS REUNION

The invitations are snowballing—“20-Year College Reunion.” The reply-to-all email addresses are growing exponentially. Without naming names, the list is quite impressive: Former Oakland University Student President turned successful surgeon; Social Worker/Musician who once had a gig on the Conan O’Brien Show; two former college soccer players – a successful engineer married into the Briggs family, the other (last I heard) putting his business degree to good use as a goat farmer in Mexico.

Who else? Another former O.U. Student President turned minister. More engineers (Delphi, Ford …) some jobless, ready for networking. A former pharmaceutical sales representative turned lawyer and perhaps lobbyist. Teachers, yeah, lots of them—those who “can’t” – teach. A marketing manager, his son, a participant in the Joey Travolta annual children’s movie making project. Trivial, I know, yet, I keep in touch.

More emails. More addresses. The excitement, the eagerness. Everyone wants to get together. The emails are growing out of control.

“How many reunion emails can we expect?” my wife asks before walking away from the computer, before leaving the house.

I type my response: “My parole officer said I could attend. See you there.” I click reply-to-all.

Just like that—no more emails cluttering up the inbox. Problem solved.

Wife comes home. I tell her what I did. She thinks I’m crazy. “People will talk. You’ll be the topic of discussion.”

“Yeah, I suppose I will. I hope it makes for interesting conversation.”

“Are we going?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And I mean it.

WHAT KIND OF FISH IS THIS?

Forget the fish for a minute; it’s not a Perch.


I am begging that our government bail out our colleges and universities—at least the Michigan institutions of higher learning. THEY DON’T WANT MY BUSINESS.



I tried to register for a Media & Communication on Arts class at a local community college—I figured since my state is handing out huge tax breaks to the movie industry, I’d start learning digital photography, rendering, advertising, and digital video layout—but once again I was told that I needed to re-register. This community college has my high school diploma and college degree on file, yet, because I haven’t taken a class in over two years, they want me to “re-file” or “re-apply” due to my “un-declared” status.

Give me a break.

Isn’t Michigan hurting? If they had my transcripts on file, why would they deny me access to registering for classes? Last time this happened I had to speak to some pimply faced college kid at the registrar; she advised me that I needed to get a certain college professor’s permission to take a creative writing class (Hello Michelle!)—It did not matter that my Bachelor of Arts Degree in English had been on file. What the ... ??? … Bureaucratic horse manure crap is this?

So here I go again. Every five years I need six credit hours worth of coursework to renew my teaching certificate, however, no one—and I mean absolutely no one—understands this. Teachers, they think, have this torturous desire to spend every Goddamn minute of their fricking lives in a classroom.

Sorry. Not me.

Can anyone tell me what type of fish this is? I’d greatly appreciate it.

NO MORE SQUARES

My employer is weaning the inmates from their tobacco addictions in preparation of the 2009 smoking-ban. The prison commissary continues to stock less and less Bugler, rolling papers, and matches. Come January 1st, the shelves will have more space for healthier items. Tofu perhaps. Or carrot sticks. Come February 1st, all tobacco products will be considered contraband. Not even prison employees will be able to light-up.

My employer has issued eight memorandums so far to cover a multitude of hypothetical situations. The latest: staff and visitors arriving on prison grounds via public transportation, motorcycle, bicycle, or moped … will be given the opportunity to secure their cancer sticks in the visitors or staff lockers. This, of course, is the only exception. Those who drive trucks or cars must secure their squares in their vehicles. Also, no smoking will be allowed on state grounds, this includes cigarette breaks inside parked cars. Can’t do it; they have cameras monitoring the parking lot.

It’ll be interesting to see what transpires from a complete smoking ban. Even the Native American prisoners will no longer be able to keep tobacco in their medicine bags. Instead, they will be given the opportunity to use medicinal herbs. Matches and lighters are included on the banned list as well.

Of course, none of this will keep the inmates from smoking God-knows-what. I’m sure there’ll be a few torched electrical outlets. But hey, it’s for the greater good of everyone.

I’ll need to review all the self-defense pressure points and nerve motor points of the human body. You never know when an irritable inmate will try you. I’m already getting sick of all the sticky chewed sucker sticks tossed on my classroom carpet.

SMALL TALK INSIDE THE PEN

(Mutual greeting between two prisoners)
— What up Dog?
— What up?

(In Unison)
— What up Teach?

(A white female corrections officer walks by the classroom window.)
— Checkout that flat screen.
— Ooooh yeah, I’d like to book that. Get up close and personal.
— (Laughing) You ain’t got no HD. You analog.
— (Agitated) Quit false flaggin’ you pump-fakin’ mutha.
— (Speaking to the empty corridor) I’m high def, Baby. Check-out my digital.

(A few minutes later a black female employee walks by.)
— Ooooh wee, she got two midgets on her back.
— (More Laughter) You couldn’t handle a round ticket.
— (More Agitated) Man, I’ll roll any dice table come my way. Black or white.
— No you won’t.
— (Puffs out chest) Yes I would.
— (Puffs out his chest too) Quit stuntin’ on me.
— (Clenches his fists) I got a two piece combo for yah.
— (Waves him off) Okay Little Caesar. Okay Little Man.
— I got five for five.
— Don’t make me put a tilt in your halo.

(They stand up, ready to lock horns. Their teacher approaches.)
— Do your schoolwork.
— I don’t want no smoke.
— Yeah, me neither.

(They sit back down.)
— You see Obama’s oldest daughter on TV the other night?
— Don’t even go there, my niece her age.
— She gonna live in the White House.
(They high-five one another.)
— Got that right.

ONE SQUARE AT A TIME

I threatened the Food Tech Teacher. “One square at a time,” I said. “One square at a time.” He knew what I meant based on previous conversations regarding the new carpeting in his classroom. He also knew that in order to resolve my computer problem I had cabbaged a CPU from an office area. What he didn’t know is whether or not I was serious.

Two months ago during a staff meeting, we were informed about the innovative explanation used for getting carpet approved in the Food Tech dining area. In order to simulate a pleasurable dining experience, the argument went, carpet needed to be installed. It didn’t matter what type—sculpted Berber, shag, plush, indoor, outdoor, industrial strength—as long as we were eternally grateful for management’s ingenuity. On behalf of the teaching staff, I say, Thank-You, from the bottom of our hearts.

Maintenance had no qualms laying the carpet either. Once they received the work order, their inmate-workforce opened the boxes and tackled the project as if it were a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. They were done within an hour.

I stood in the dining area, admiring its appearance. Nothing beats the smell of new carpet. And I’m sure the smell would’ve been even stronger had they used glue. Maybe management couldn't justify purchasing it.

“I’m thinking about re-carpeting my classroom,” I said to the Food Tech Teacher.

“Oh yeah?” he said, his suspicions warranted.

I kicked at the floor, toed an edge. “One square at a time.”