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.