AWAITING TIMOTHY MCVEIGH'S SIGNATURE

An inmate tutor in my classroom drew the following diagram to illustrate how to make a bomb. He claims to have ties to the Michigan Militia. "I knew Timothy McVeigh personally," he said, as if this would validate his incomplete bomb making instructions.

His reference to McVeigh, a man who orchestrated the bombing of a United States Federal Building in Oklahoma City, did not impress me. I shrugged my shoulders. "Wasn’t he executed?" I asked.

"You don’t believe me, do you?" the inmate went on. "I have proof in the form of letters. I’ll bring them to you."

Whether he’s suffering from some sick delusional fantasy I’ll never know. And if he shows me these so-called letters, who’s to say the signatures aren’t forgeries? And why should I care any way? Will they give me more insight into McVeigh? Will they explain why he thought so many innocent people should die?

The inmate continued, "I knew Ted Nugent from my militia days. The guy's a lying punk-ass bitch motherf***ker. He said he never had ties to the militia and never did drugs."

Again, I shrugged my shoulders. Did he think knowing a former local celebrity and rock star would justify the right to bear arms, the right to belong to the militia? Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always felt that the day we give up our guns is the day we give up our freedom, but I’m not as passionate about it, I’m not willing to sacrifice innocent lives to prove my point. "I suppose you corresponded with the Motor City Madman too," I said.

"No," the inmate answered, "I saw him on the news once denouncing any affiliation with the Michigan militia. He’s a liar. He smoked pot with some fellow members. I was there. I saw it with my very own eyes."

One thing I’ve observed over the years teaching in prison is that there are no gray areas for the prisoners. Every issue is seen in black and white. You’re either wrong or you’re either right. "Let me see those letters," I said. Perhaps I’ll post their contents and let you be the judge. Perhaps I’ll scan McVeigh’s signature and let you decide whether the inmate’s claims are authentic.

On a different note: I saw "Freedom Writers" for free the other day. Excellent movie! It has inspired me to post more stories regarding my earlier days working as a teacher in the Michigan prison system. More to come.

THE VALUE OF SPONTANEITY

I definitely “jumped the shark” on my latest YouTube video production—Oh, what?—with a forced script, bad acting, untimely laugh track, and fast-paced poetry read, the only salvageable part of the whole performance came from a spur of the moment decision to hush two curious little onlookers.



“What’re you doing?”

“Are you making a movie?”

“What’s it for?”

“Can we watch?”

“We’ll be quiet.”

“Sssh, you have to be quiet.”

“I’m quieter than you.”

“No you’re not.”

“Am too.”

“Not.”

I assigned a simple line to each of them as a last ditch effort to silence their fidgetiness. With a newly found purpose, they stayed focused and ready to deliver their words: “You’re not JK Rowling,” and “Yeah, you’re not JK Rowling.” They were naturals.

I wish I could say the same for my students. I wish I could give them a purpose for hanging around. When those electronic doors to their cells clank open in the morning, a majority of them wander aimlessly from assigned place to assigned place, yucking it up with not a care in the world—as if prison were one large playground. “It looks like you came to prison to make friends,” I’d say once in awhile to piss them into consciousness.

Yesterday, a young fool was “kicking it” with his Homey for longer then what I’d consider acceptable in my classroom. I looked in his direction—Marquetting him—a term used in the Michigan prison system where you look at someone from above your wire-framed glasses for an extended period of time.

“Quit staring at me,” the young fool said, “like you wanna get busy with me.”

“It ain’t like you’re gonna do anything,” his Road Dog pointed out to him.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Nigga,” the young fool warned his fellow rapper, “stop co-signing and bring him an apple.”

I’ll admit, he deserved an A+ for spontaneity. At least his lines were unrehearsed and felt right.

TIME ONCE UPON US

Inspired by the Governor of California and Tookie Williams.










These children's books they sell
inject you with their murderous grip.
Pages flutter yonder;
mob your throat.

Quick, here's a ladle, start scooping,
spoon your Cheerios Little Boy Blue,
there's no time for perusing:

Twinkling shooting stars
dodging bullets
like a virgin
scathed and snuffed.

Scan the headlines:

Most Celebrated
death row inmate
put to death.

Makes sense doesn't it?

When you're unforgiving,
when the ink rubs off
and you finish your tea
and you ride into the sunset
on your unregistered motorbike
a sidecar, an outlaw, an accident
a big fat lip.

Presenting:
Politics and Hollywood
Crips and Bloods and Big Dippers
touched and terminated for the very first time.

Put to bed
they'll be back

once upon us.

YOU'RE NOT JK ROWLING!

Once again, I've attempted to please the crowd with a poetry reading.

FIRST SNOW

We’ve had our share of red tags quietly observing and learning the policies and procedures at our facility. Their silence is often mistaken for nervousness, as if they’re walking on eggshells. And why not? They’re an easy mark for the inmates. In case you didn’t know, a red tag is a rookie corrections officer, the nickname originating from the nametags they must wear on their uniforms. It’s a natural progression based on how much time they’ve put in; After a red tag comes a green tag then a black tag. It’s protocol for custody staff. I’ve often wondered why non-custody staff, such as myself, haven’t had to follow suit?

Some of our most memorable moments are when we experience something for the very first time. I remember my first day in a prison, I was with a group of non-custody staff, and the facility trainer paraded us around each unit, showing us off to all the inmates. It was fairly obvious the inmates were watching us, trying to figure out who we were and whether they’d be able to mess with our heads. It wasn’t until years later that I’d call a prisoner a “clear tag” if he inadvertently snitched on another prisoner. “Alright then,” I’d say loudly while clicking my ball-point pen, “give me names.” Offering up too much information usually leads to trouble. After so many years, the older inmates know how to interact and work with the senior staff. Together, we observe the newer, younger kids, eighteen, nineteen years old, playing the part of fools. Someone needs to teach them a lesson. That’s when we play our roles, that’s when we work together for the common good of teaching the youngsters how to do time.

After our first real snow in southeastern Michigan, I walked through the prison mall area, exchanging barbs with someone who completed my class seven months ago. “I see you’re putting that GED to good use,” I said. The inmate cussed at me and kept shoveling the walkway.

Speaking of novices, tomorrow, with the help of my brother, I shall do another poetry reading on YouTube. Sometimes first acts are hard to follow. I'll give it my best.

Oh, and here's a shout out to that DuPont gal in Texas, "Your girls have been notified."

CHARLIE BENDRY HOOKS

Dear Death—F**k you.
From the Editors of CakeTrain Journal.





Whenever my brother and I go fishing with our dad it never fails, one of us—usually me—catch a channel cat and have to perform an emergency tonsillectomy. How else can the hook be retrieved when it’s that far in? Pliers in hand, I’d reach into the cat’s throat and start probing and pulling. “Don’t worry if you break it,” our dad would say. “I got plenty of Charlie Bendry hooks.”

Everyone in Charlie Bendry’s tight circle of friends probably still has those hooks; Charlie was my grandfather’s fishing partner. He claimed to have found a deal in some hunting and fishing catalogue and ordered enough hooks to last several lifetimes. Twenty-some years ago he allegedly became upset over not being able to fix his FarmAll tractor so he grabbed his loaded shotgun and walked behind his barn. His wife found his body the next morning.

Although I don’t recall seeing him laid out, I do remember my parent’s neighbor’s son’s funeral which, unlike Charlie, wasn’t the result of some spur of the moment decision. Who could forget two caskets in the parlor—head to head—husband and wife? Due to the husband’s debilitating illness the couple decided to dress in their Sunday finest and embrace while waiting for the carbon monoxide poisoning to overtake their bodies. Deliberate. Planned. Their frustration, if it existed, masked, hidden. A suicide note left behind.

Then there’s my former student, Prisoner Coley. I had warned him about clowning around in my classroom. “Keep sticking your nose where it don’t belong and sooner or later someone’s gonna get tired of your bullshit.” He supposedly hung himself—but not in that typical Hollywood fashion everyone thinks of. He simply cut off his airway by tying a sheet around his neck and the frame of his cot. There were no dangling feet. Just Coley, flat on his back with his chin tucked in and the sheet taut. Class clown one minute; dead inmate the next.

No matter how hard you try, some hooks you just can’t pull out.

THE FLYING NUN

When my very first boss with the Michigan Department of Corrections asked if I’d like a classroom volunteer, I hesitated answering. “I’m sure she could help the guys with their writing skills,” she said.

I had heard horror stories about volunteers gaining access to the inside of a prison so they could perform extra-curricular activities during those rare unsupervised moments. “I’m not sure it’s worth the headache,” I responded.

For some reason though, my boss sounded enthusiastic about it. She proceeded to tell me that the woman was a nun and a former writer for “The Flying Nun” television series.

I had visions of a young, spunky Sally Fields soaring through the air during the opening credits, but as far as a story line, nothing seemed to surface. Still, a former writer for television volunteering in my classroom?-- seemed too good to be true. I changed my mind, “Sure, why not.”

On the first day in my class she sat among the inmates, freely dispensing sound advice on their essays while I worked with a few guys at the chalkboard. My classroom has never been a quiet place to study; instead, everyone interacts while doing their work. “Books are dead,” I’d often say. “But the people in here are not. Discuss your assignments in small groups. You’ll learn the material better that way.”

I knew something had definitely gone wrong when the noise level dropped off. When I turned around to face my new volunteer, she was sitting all alone at a student desk. The inmates she was helping had moved as far away as possible. She had fallen asleep. I approached her, tapped lightly on the desk, and asked if she’d like a cup of coffee. She in turn became annoyed, as if I disturbed her from a peaceful moment of tranquility.

After two days, I told my boss that I no longer needed her services. My boss looked at me incredulously. “I think she has narcolepsy,” I explained. That was my first and last volunteer.

TWO ELEVATOR STORIES

I’m an elevator boy
just trying to get to the top
of life.
—Sprung Monkey’s “Swirl”
— from Surf Dog Records

I’m not too sure where I heard this story or whether I have all the facts straight, but I’ll retell it anyway. A famous black athlete stepped into an elevator at some ritzy hotel and as soon as the doors slid closed, he noticed a white middle-aged woman all by her lonesome tightly clutching her purse. She deliberately avoided making eye contact with him out of fear. I believe he said, “Hello. How are you today?” —perhaps to get her attention, to ease her uneasiness, perhaps he thought his wealth and fame would set him apart from her perception of other black men. However, she did not recognize him, nor did she answer his question. In fact, at the sound of his baritone voice, she stiffened up and hurriedly inched forward, closer to the metallic doors, waiting for the slightest opening to escape his presence.

Now don’t get me wrong, famous athletes (no matter what origin of race) have their own personal demons—don’t we all?—but if she had only looked up she may have noticed that her fears were ungrounded. That is, unless the athlete happened to be Charles Barkley spewing racist venom, or Mike Tyson whining in that tenor voice of his about how she asked for it, or O.J. Simpson talking about his latest golf outing, or Kobe Bryant staring and smiling, or even some unruly white boys from the Duke University Lacrosse Team bragging about their sexual conquests. But the man in question, if I have my story straight, was Michael Jordan.

When I first started working in a prison setting, I wheeled a cart of GED books from my Level II classroom on the second floor to my Level IV classroom on the first floor. The reason for having two different classrooms seemed simple enough: Level IV’s were a higher security risk, and in case of an emergency, the corrections officers could respond faster. In hindsight, this shouldn’t have mattered; it had been a Level II inmate who sexually assaulted a coworker. On the day that I stepped onto an elevator with two black inmate tutors that looked like they were chiseled from granite, they reminded me that I had let my guard down, that no matter how big of a hurry I was in, I should’ve thought about my choices before going into action. As soon as the doors closed, Mr. Robinson, the larger man wearing mirror shades and dangling a toothpick from his mouth, said, “Do you think this was a good idea?” I had been sandwiched between the two of them with my cart blocking my point of egress. They laughed at my predicament and promised that they’d make sure nothing happened to me. I, in turn, said, “You guys are so full of shit. Don’t act like you’re doing me any favors.” But we both understood what needed to be done from that moment forward: I’d take the elevator and they’d take the stairs.

Yesterday, an inmate, unhappy with the parole board’s decision to flop him, assaulted one of the officers I work with. He punched the officer in the face and stabbed him with a pen. Remember: there are hazards with any job, some more than others.

STEPPING BACK INTO THE BLINDSPOTS

There are days where I feel like I’m retelling the same story, but I’m uncertain as to whether I’ve covered all the details, such as the yellow ribbon the state police used to cordon off the crime scene where a coworker had been sexually assaulted. Last week I was reminded of that detail when I attended a “Performance Learning Systems” conference at my previous place of employment. Marygrove College had been kind enough to hold a training session inside the prison; probably as a last ditch effort to drum up more business for their “Master in the Art of Teaching” program. Their sales pitch reminded me of the time a high school principal at Flint Beecher called to see if I’d be interested in teaching at their inner city school. “Recruiting in the prisons are we?” I said, implying that perhaps they couldn’t find anyone crazy enough to consider their offer. I already knew about how they couldn’t keep the laptops they assigned to their students from ending up in the pawnshops, how the media reported that some of the parents were pawning them to support their drug habits.

“This is where it happened,” I told my fellow coworker, showing him the corner room with only one small rectangular window on the door. After the investigation, the puzzle palace called Lansing, Michigan, released their findings. They claimed that the teacher had been negligent for leaving her PPD (Personal Protection Device) in her desk drawer and that custody staff did not make their rounds in a timely manner. Also, they alluded to the fact that the room was too dangerous to work in. I’m willing to bet no one in Lansing caught any flak for approving the design of the building. The blindspots became more evident as I, the outsider, had time to look about.

“When I worked here,” I told my fellow coworker, “administration reassigned this classroom to me. I guess they thought the room had magically become safe again.” I wanted to step back into that classroom and see the storage area where my coworker had been held hostage. I wanted to see if I’d missed any details. The best way to recall something is to be a part of it again, to experience it in your mind, to relive it, if only for a moment. Because of the training, I didn’t have time to go back.

I leave you with the following short story recommendation which was dedicated to the men at the Cotton Correctional Facility: Davy Rothbart’s “First Snow,” in Pieces: A Collection of New Voices. Davy’s come along way since his Ann Arbor days. His short stories continue to get better and better. Now, if only I could say the same for me.

THE APPRENTICE

All yolked out in spring’s flooded mulch
Kneecaps unhinged, tea bag exposed, palms flat
High-fiving earth, ground’s breath steeped
on Blue Blockers bent
over your bridge.

You took your chance crosscutting Wall Street
Got Humpity-Dumpitied, hedge fund expired
Your version of “The Donald” with a hairline fracture
Your woodchuck toupee clogging up the Ace of Spades
Teased out of your sleeve in a child-like manner
that no longer responds.

They split your wig
Fed you the pig

So you folded—
Like Kenny Rogers
Singing:

This one went to the market

—accompanied by dueling banjoes and
one juice-harp delivering the final crescendo:

You’re fired.

RESUSCITATING POETRY

I may not be a big fan of poetry; however, I'm willing to do CPR if necessary. Here's my first ever poetry reading. I think I'll take a day off from blogging.

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

So I’m sitting home, alone, watching reruns of F-Troop, when a voice comes out of my television and asks if I am desperate for a change. Of course I am desperate for a change. Who watching reruns of F-Troop isn’t desperate for a change? The answer, says the voice, is career training, and right there it offers certifications in Legal Assistant, Medical Assistant, Taxidermy, Creative Writing, Prison Execution, Driver Education Film Narration. The Taxidermy class was filled, so I opted for creative writing, which is how I ended up in Iowa, going for my MFA.
—William Lashner

Although I wasn’t originally given the task of organizing a GED graduation ceremony at our correctional facility, I knew that the whole event would never get off the ground without my input. It’s not that I’m any more valuable then the next person; in fact, I’ll be first to say, “Anyone can be replaced,” it’s just that I’ve kept a spreadsheet of all the inmate’s GED scores and dates of completion, and no one thought to ask for it. Thus, I took the initiative to get the ball rolling.

Our last graduation ceremony must’ve been in 2001, prior to the GED Exam’s new format. I sorted my spreadsheet by date, with a descending order of current to past. After five pages of passing scores going back to 2002, I had to compare my list with our facility’s pop-sheet. In case you’re wondering, the pop-sheet is a master list of all the prisoners housed at our facility along with their out dates. I managed to whittle the list down to 55 graduates—two of which passed the test in 2002. Now comes the real dilemma: Our facility only has 28 cap and gowns. Thus, another sort, this time from the highest score to the lowest score. The top 27 scorers will have the first opportunity to wear a cap and gown. Also, we’ll hold one cap and gown back for picture taking purposes.

On Monday, we’ll be meeting with our new school principal to iron out the details and assign job tasks. There’s a lot of planning involved to ensure that the ceremony goes according to plan. As long as I’m not the orator, I don’t mind putting forth the time and energy; afterall, this may be the biggest achievement some of our graduates will ever experience. I’m sure their families will be proud of their accomplishments, even though it took being locked up and forced to go to school for them to succeed.

AT WHAT PRICE?

And there is a charge, a very large charge,
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood ...
—Sylvia Plath

I discovered the above diagram in my classroom. It depicts one man’s way of inflicting pain onto himself. Or is it gratification? As if being locked up for raping preadolescent girls wasn’t enough, he needs to practice his sadomasochistic rituals late at night. It’s his way of validating himself, of feeling more alive.

I often wonder whether he thinks about how his victims suffered under his domination? Does it give him pleasure to think about it? I often wonder how his most current defense attorney could win an appeal for him by successfully arguing that the judge showed too much sympathy for the victims, that the judge should not have interjected his feelings while instructing the jury. I often wonder whether his client will get out, like others before him, only to repeat his crime. And if he does, will his defense attorney be able to sleep at night?

I often wonder about another convict whose lawyer (with the help of a well known realtor who purchased the nail from the Uniroyal Tire on I-94 and a popular former Macomb County prosecutor) had bite mark evidence thrown out, which in turn led to his client’s freedom. Did the lawyer know about how his client tried to get the prison dentist to pull his perfectly fine teeth? Did he care? And what about the victim? I’ve heard she has to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of her life. Is he concerned about his former client’s whereabouts now that he’s in the freeworld? Is he concerned that there may be more victims in the near future?

So when is it appropriate to give someone another chance? And which is more costly: keeping someone locked up forever, or risking more victims who will need long-term care?

REGRETS

If I could turn back time.
—Cher

You know an inmate’s been down too long when he asks you, “What’s the difference between a pop-top and a pull-tab?” and he’s fascinated with your explanation, however inaccurate, that the beverage industries created the pop-top in an effort to improve recycling.


Reflecting on his youth, the inmate says, “My little brother and I used to take those pull tabs and make really long chains and hang them in the door way of our kitchen. Our old man wore a Stroh’s hat made from the aluminum. Yarn and glue held it together.”

I nod in agreement and tell him my old man had one of those hats too, way before the deposit law. I ask him if he’s ever heard of reversible vending machines and he says, “No I haven’t.” So I explain to him, “It’s where you feed empty cans and bottles into a machine. It reads the bar codes and tallies how much money the store will owe you.”

He changes his answer, says, “Oh yes I have,” but his sense of awe changes to sadness as he realizes how much he has missed in the outside world. His main source of information comes from the staff and his black and white television. “I’ll probably die in here,” he states.

It’s the subtle changes in our world that go unnoticed. I tell him about the one time the reversible vending machine spit out my receipt and it slid under the plastic cover. I’d thought I lost about ten dollars. After several attempts at trying to fish the receipt out of the crevice, I rang the bell for assistance and waited … and waited … and waited.

I think he thought I meant for him to have patience. Unfortunately, some things can never be reversed.

VAGRANT VAGARIES & BEING POWERLESS

After the lions had returned to their cages, creeping angrily through the chutes, a little bunch of us drifted away and into an open doorway nearby, where we stood for a while in semidarkness, watching a big brown circus horse go harumping around the practice ring.
—E.B. White “The Ring of Time”

After one month of training at the DeMarse Academy in Lansing, Michigan—more appropriately known as the school for the blind, a place Stevie Wonder once attended—and after years of observation (otherwise known as “looking the other way”), I have learned the art of spin. Rule Number One (actually it’s the only rule): When an inmate complains about something, place the blame directly on his shoulders or let him talk until he’s tired of listening to himself.

Our former quartermaster knew all to well how to play this game:

A rather large inmate stretched a pair of thirty-two inch underwear across his waistline. “Do these look like they fit?” he asked.
“No they don’t,” the quartermaster answered.
“Then why are you giving them to me?”
“Look,” the quartermaster explained, “I only process and fill the orders. You wrote thirty-two’s on your form. Maybe you like wearing your underwear tight.”

Or the classic dialogue I’ve been known to use on the low-functioning inmates that bitch about my never scheduling them for the GED Exams:

“You better put me down this time or I’m going to the school principal to lodge a complaint.”
“You want me to put you down?” I ask.
“Yes,” I hear.
“Okay, you’re ugly.”

Or the inmate who discovers that I may have spun him one time too many:

“You tricked me,” he says.
“No I did not,” I reply. “If I wanted to trick you, I would’ve made you wear a wig and a butt-thong and had you prancing down Woodward Avenue.”

In our service-oriented McPrison industry, our customers are always complaining. They’ll say stuff like: “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.” Little do they know, there are plenty of fools in the world ready to join the circus.

Speaking of complaints, after phoning Detroit Edison, they paid us a visit to look at our extremely low wires. They informed us that our telephone pole, erected in 1942, is leaning towards our house and may need to be replaced. Also, they said our neighbor’s trees will need to be cut down. Hopefully I won’t be powerless. Where would I be without it?

DON'T CROSS THAT LINE!

It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.
—Duke Ellington




In the local section of the Detroit Free Press I read an article titled, “Adultery could mean life, court finds.” According to Michigan’s criminal code: anyone involved in an adulterous relationship where sex is involved can be charged with CSC I (Criminal Sexual Conduct). Our very own Attorney General Mike Cox, a confessed adulterer himself, successfully appealed a lower court’s decision to drop CSC charges against a defendant. His office went as far as to say that consensual sex between the two adults was irrelevant. I guess they really want to keep this defendant locked-up, afterall, he’s a drug dealer, and he often traded his product for a little extra curricular activity.

Speaking of overturned convictions, the Michigan Supreme Court had 90 days to grant Mr. Remick a new trial or cut him loose (see 12/15/06 posting for more information). The Attorney General’s office notified Mr. Remick’s lawyer of a hearing date regarding this matter and the information was forwarded to him:

Dear Mr. Remick:

Enclosed you will find the brief filed by the prosecutor in your case. They are attempting to appeal your case to the Michigan Supreme Court. They must attempt to file for leave within 56 days which they did. I have 21 days to file a response in opposition, no matter how incorrect the lower trial Courts have been, the prosecutors appeal everything that they lose. Unfortunately, the Michigan Supreme Court is unbelievably pro prosecution. However, it is not as if there is not case law supporting the reversal ordered by the Court of Appeals. Once I file a response, the Supreme Court can either grant leave, in which case I’ll have to file further briefs, or they can deny leave and then the ruling by the Court of Appeals stands.

I will forward my responsive brief in opposition just as soon as I file it.

Sincerely,
The Law Offices of Dewey, Cheetum, and Howe.

Now I’m wondering—whose wife did Mr. Remick sleep with? And if so, was she tried and convicted as well? They certainly want to keep him behind bars.

MORE NOTES ON FAILURE

If writing quickens one’s sense of life, like falling in love, like being precariously in love, it is not because one has any confidence in achieving success, but because one is most painfully and constantly made aware of mortality: the persistent question being, Is this the work I fail to complete, is this the “posthumous” work that can only make an appeal to pity …?
—Joyce Carole Oates

Approximately one year ago I had been running eight to twelve miles a day. This, while taking two college courses and creating a Science Olympiad event from scratch. I’d come home most nights literally exhausted, my body aching and too tired for conversation—that sense of accomplishment fading away as my head hit the pillow. After ten months of nervous energy, my wife confronted me. “You’re starving your body,” she said.

“No I’m not,” I replied. In fact, I had increased my caloric intake to sustain my newest lifestyle. After years of coming home from work and fixing myself a cocktail and hearing “You should start exercising,” I threw in the towel, got off my ass, and did something about it. When I put my mind to something, when I say, “That’s it, I’m going to do it,” there’s only one approach I’ve grown accustomed to—full throttle ahead. I still think dropping my weight from 170 to 138 pounds in a year’s time was fairly reasonable. The proof is in the picture. Some of you may think I look horrible, while others may think, “What happened to him now?” That’s an easy one to answer: kidney stones.

It doesn’t matter what the task is: exercising, writing fiction, or blogging, I’ve always been serious about everything in life I’ve tried. (Don’t get me wrong: I’ve quit or failed at plenty of things—Engineering School was my biggest disaster.) But lately, it’s the small missteps that’ll drive me crazy. Just yesterday, I mistakenly called Ellie “Emily.” She politely corrected me and didn’t get angry like I had once done when my wife informed me that her friends thought the newer, lighter version of me meant that my cancer had returned. Also, Patterns of Ink informed me that Pollyanna did not die; instead, she became paralyzed from the waist down. Still, no glad games for me. If only I could do everything in moderation, then maybe I’d achieve more in life; there’s no sense in thinking I’ll finish all those things I’ve set out to do.

HIGH RATIO FAN RESISTANCE

Once in a very blue moon, an inmate will say to me, “You’re probably the best teacher I’ve ever had,” and my typical hurried response: “What do you want?”

I’m not comfortable with compliments because in the prison system most words and actions are calculated maneuvers. Maybe the inmate wants to soften me up so he can get some typing paper or a calendar or a stick of gum—although gum requests seemed to have dropped off lately due to my gross display of offering them the chewed piece in my mouth.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I have a difficult time accepting praise. After fifteen years of working in a correctional facility, you tend to view things from a different perspective, you become cynical, and your habits seemed to get altered—like sitting with your back to the wall and facing the exit while dining in a restaurant—your optimism slowly transforms into pragmatism or worse. No Pollyanna glad games here; afterall, doesn’t Pollyanna die in the end? No one’s going to snuff me out early without a fight. At least in the restaurant I can crawl under the table during a hold up and fight for my survival.

Now that I’ve thrown all my self-loathing and negativity to the wind, I’d like to publicly thank Ellie for her kind words. If you haven’t already read what she had to say about me, I suggest you have a look for yourself: Ellie's praise. Also, if you leave her a comment, I beg of you: Don’t talk about me. Heaven forbid that the truth comes out.

Thanks for keeping me motivated, Ellie. PS “How much do I owe you?”

THE MANIFESTATION

When the electronic gate clanked open yesterday morning, a second teacher joined me in emptying his pockets and walking through the metal detector. While I was reclaiming my personal items—car keys, loose change, wrist-watch, computer disk, and eye glasses, I said to the senior officer, “Hey, he’s got a gate manifest, have her look at his.” Prior to my suggestion, the rookie officer wanted to know whether I could bring reading material into the prison, and if so, whether I needed a gate manifest.

The second teacher, who is definitely not a morning person, looked at me rather irritably and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and found his gate manifest. “So,” the rookie officer observed, “he’s allowed to bring reading material into the prison.” Then she turned to me and asked, “Where’s yours?”

The second teacher chimed in, “Yeah, where’s yours?” He knew I didn’t have one.

I went through my usual you-should-be-greatful-that-I-helped-you-learn-something-about-the-prison-system routine, which, by the way, worked. Both of us were permitted to enter the facility. My coworker looked at me incredulously, “Man, you’re something else.”

“I was trying to help them out,” I said.

“No you weren’t,” he argued. Although crabby in the morning, he was definitely alert.

Not to be evasive, but the book I was bringing into the prison wasn’t technically a book—it was a journal, an inaugural issue of “Murdaland.” I’ve been reading, discussing, and studying the stories in it. I’ve been reworking my nonfiction piece, “Kenny’s Got a Toad,” extending the storyline, making it nonfiction (there has to be a murder) and prepping it for the editor.

Not to be the one to have the last word, but if I’m confronted about reading material again, here’s my answer: “Unlike the other teacher, who is a vocational teacher, I do not need a gate manifest because I am an academic teacher.”

MEMORIES FROM A HAZY PICTURE

Some photographs are never clear; we can only guess or interpret the grainy images before us. In the picture above, I’m standing in front of a classroom bulletin board, circa 1990. I stood before a classroom full of troubled teenage girls housed in a facility called Northwest near Wyoming and Feinkel in Detroit. One of my most memorable moments had to be the day after the Pistons won their first or second NBA basketball championship—as I approached Monte Vista, the dead-end side street where I usually parked my car—I had to dodge broken glass and newsstands thrown into the middle of the road. My sleepy students informed me of the celebratory gunshots they heard all night long.

Another time, before I knew any better, I stopped to grab breakfast at the McDonald’s on Wyoming. After telling a prostitute in the parking lot that I wasn’t interested in what she had to offer, I went into the restaurant and placed my order. As I sat down in a booth, the prostitute reappeared, sliding in next to me. I threatened to get the manager; so in a last ditch effort, she told me she was a crack addict and needed some money to feed her children. I simply replied, “You’ll have to find it elsewhere.”

Yet another memorable moment had to be the ongoing use of an outdated textbook on Health and Hygiene. I’d have my students take turns reading the pages outloud, only stopping to interpret the silly cartoon messages peppered throughout each chapter. “Teisha, please read the bubble above the character,” I said. The other students objected, mainly because Teisha wasn’t pregnant like the rest of them. “I’d be glad to,” Teisha proudly responded, and then in a loud retaliatory voice she said, “Quit your urgin’ be a virgin.”

Lastly, I notice from the hazy image, the word “Happy” in the upper right hand corner of the picture. In an attempt to get my students to feel better about themselves, I had them decorate the bulletin board. Of course, the central figure happens to be a baby, sandwiched between Roger Rabbit and a duckling.

This was my first teaching job and I never did stick around long enough to see whether any of these girls succeeded in life. On a sadder note, the Detroit Free Press has been covering a torture case involving a Tamika Williams, 30, and her adopted twin girls. Could this be the 13-year old Tamika that once sat in my classroom? And if so, what triggered her to use her children as human ashtrays?