THE STORY

This is not my story to tell; if it were, I’d start with closing time at the local Chicken Shack and the lone worker mopping up. I’d warn my readers of the early release of thousands of inmates and how this lone worker should’ve known better then to leave the back door of the restaurant unlocked. I’d build up to that moment of uncertainty where a man walks into the back entrance of the Chicken Shack...

But this isn’t my story to tell, a story I’d first heard this past weekend when the narrator stepped up to the microphone and in a barely audible voice told everyone she was looking for a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. I wasn’t in the same room as her; in fact, I was in a room just outside where she spoke. I’ll not forget that moment either. I, along with everyone else, needed to hear her voice, needed her reassurance, just as much as she needed a sign, any sign, that everything would be okay. She had our attention the moment her breath hit the microphone. Silence swept over the place as we waited to hear her speak.

The man at the back door, the one who took the lone worker by surprise, was her husband. She and her high school daughter waited in the car. Their daughter, tired and hungry, had made the following request: “Mom, would it be okay if we stop at the Chicken Shack?” It was 9:15 p.m. and they hadn’t had dinner. The man, the father, walked into the back of the restaurant and spoke, “I know you’re closed,” he said to the lone worker with the mop, “but I just lost my son. My wife and daughter and I just came from the funeral home. Do you have any leftover chicken?”

They fed their daughter that night, thanks to the kindness of one lone worker at the local Chicken Shack. I, along with so many others, was fortunate enough to hear the mother's story the very next day.

There is kindness in this world, even during the saddest of times, even for a grieving mother who lost her son at the age of 24.

CONFUSION (or how he clung to the frog)

I had pulled the file (like I always do) in hopes of finding decent TABE scores, an indicator of reading, writing, and arithmetic grade level equivalencies. The new student had complained (like they always do) that he had a high school diploma, that he, of all people, needn’t waste his time nor take up space in my sad-ass-excuse-of-a-classroom. I let it slide, his comment (I always do), and reassured him of my commitment to “get to the bottom of this.”

The very next day, with thin file in hand, I showed him that yes, he indeed may have a high school diploma. “See,” I indicated, “your transcript. Says right here you graduated.”

He relaxed a bit, let the tension fall from his shoulders, reacting as if I had shit on myself, reiterating that he hadn’t been bullshitting and that he had heard how F’d Up our school is.

“Uh-oh,” I continued, giving him just enough time for his I’m-right-you're-wrong dog-and-pony show. “Houston we have problem.”

“What?”

“Your transcript doesn’t have the required amount of class credits needed for a high school diploma.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your sorry-ass school made an error.” He was getting pissed. “It’s time you start studying for your GED. Have a seat.”

He scanned the classroom, looked at my students as if they were all victims. “Go ahead and write a ticket then, cause I’m not staying.” He slammed the door on the way out.

LIFE, DEATH

There’s this student of mine, an older convict, he sits in the back of the classroom, keeps to himself; he’s cheated death more than once. He survived a shotgun blast to his abdomen. He lifts his shirt, explains, “Shoot out with the police.” He used to drag race as well—illegally, on the streets of Detroit. His car careened out of control. “I lost my right-eye, broke my neck, C7 vertebrae, I had reconstructive surgery to my skull.” He smiles, a crooked, busted-jaw smile. “I was in a coma for two months.” He talks as if he’s proud of it all, as if he knows he’s blessed for beating such odds.

I’m not impressed. Should I be? He’s lucky to be alive … even if he is in prison.

***
There’s this family of four—husband, wife, son, and daughter—the nicest family you’ll ever meet. We consider them our friends; we’ve known them for seventeen years. Last Saturday they were preparing for their uncle’s funeral when the 24-year-old son complained of a headache. He stayed home while his Mom, Dad, and Sister went to pay their respects. He died that day. Peacefully. In his sleep. No guns blazing. No drag racing. Was it a hemorrhage? Was it bacterial meningitis? Who knows? There’ll be an autopsy.

We’re stunned. Everybody who knew him is stunned. Life, at this moment, doesn’t seem fair, doesn’t seem kind. Friday’s the wake. I’ll take the day off from work, pay my respect, fight my emotions … it won’t be easy … I’ll be wearing sunglasses.

FACING THE ROCK

These frogs are huddled together, facing the rock. And for good reason: The Screaming Toads have taken over.

"Oh my!" the neighbor lady says, "There goes the neighborhood."

But let's not get carried away. Let's just say the neighborhood's a changin'.

The prisoners shuffled their feet ever so slowly on the walkway, curious as to why a double-wide trailer had been delivered to the compound. Someone was busy extracting razor-sharp concertina-wire from the top of an interior fence so maintenance could remove a section and cut down a pole before one-half, then the other-half of the trailer could be parked in front of the mentally-ill prisoners' housing unit.

Rumor has turned into fact, has turned into truth. More deeply troubled, deeply disturbed, higher-security level inmates are coming our way. More healthcare professionals are needed. More office space is needed. This is a temporary fix.

While the work is in progress a corrections officer spreads false hope. "The trailer," she tells the inmates, "is for conjugal visits."

Sarcasm and the mentally-ill don't mix. Some prisoners don't know whether to believe this or not. They'll need time to reflect.

I'm at home, It's late. I can't sleep. I'm listening to the screaming toads outside my bedroom window. The weekend is almost over. It'll be back to the prison, back to the madness. I don't know why I'm thinking of it, but I'm wondering about those juice boxes, whether they'll be eliminated from the facility. From what I've heard, those sippy straws have become scaffolding, have become erector sets for some of the mentally-ill as they torture their way to pleasure.

GOD WANTS ME TO SIT

“Do you want your chair?”

That’s what I’d been asked as I pulled my fishing gear from the trunk of my car; It was a fold up chair tucked in a nylon-canvas bag. I had already pulled three fishing poles, the Taj-Mahal of tackle boxes, and a five-gallon bucket from the back seat. I had worked all day, was tired (more so mentally then physically) and hemmed-and-hawed about whether I should carry one more item a half-mile from the dead end street where I had parked to the fishing hole near the I-94 overpass. I certainly wouldn’t overburden my coworker with a luxury item that I alone would use. I knew I could lug it. Or not.

Here was my real dilemma: Do I fish standing up? Or do I fish sitting down? Do I use fishing lures, spinners, dancing baby eels? Or do I fish the bottom with a Carolina Rig and worms? And what about my telescopic fishing pole? — I’d use that with a bobber attached to the line. Definitely something I could watch from a sitting position. After a day of multi-tasking in a prison, you would think I’d choose one way to fish and stick with it. Hey, fishing’s supposed to be relaxing, however, in the back of my mind, if the fish were biting I would be standing, and if the fish weren’t biting, I’d be pacing back and forth wondering what to use, what to do next.

I knew the answer, it was based on my desire to increase my chances of catching fish—blue gills, perch, catfish, sheephead, dogfish, bass, pike, you name it—I’d put forth a monumental effort at reeling in a genuine, bonafide, whale-of-a-fish. I gave him the most logical answer I knew, “I’m going to skip the chair. I won’t be needing it.”

After two hours of catching absolutely nothing, my coworker hit a snag, and after tugging and pulling from every angle imaginable, he caught a #$&&@^* chair!!! We quit soon after that. I wasn’t about to sit down.

HOT CHOCOLATE & MICROWAVES

Once upon a time there was an 85-year-old woman who made a cup of hot chocolate for a neighbor because he was such a nice young man, always helping out around her house, always shoveling her driveway, doing nice things, such a wonderful wonderful young man. So she invited him into her home, served him hot chocolate, but her frail shaky hands couldn’t hold the cup steady enough and she accidentally spilled its contents. The young man, looking forward to warming up, didn’t take too kindly to having a hot liquid dumped on him so he beat her with his fists and he beat her and he beat her bad. Now he’s in prison for it. Let’s call him Prisoner H.C., short for Hot Chocolate.

I’ll get back to him.

Here’s the jump cut (you may start to laugh while reading this paragraph, but you won’t for long, in fact, now that I’ve warned you, you may not laugh at all): They sell petroleum jelly, or should I say lubricant? —No, no, no—let’s call it by its trademark name: They sell Vaseline in the men’s prison. It’s on the store list.

So is instant hot cocoa mix.

Before you jump to conclusions regarding a relationship between Big Bubba and the young man of our story, before you visualize him in a compromising position or think he deserves whatever’s coming his way for beating an 85-year-old woman to within an inch of her life, I’d like to talk about the dangers of microwaves. We have microwaves in the inmate housing units; something the MCO (Michigan Corrections Organization) has been trying to get removed for a long time now. Some prisoners, you see, mainly those with a history of assault, have been known to cook-up a mixture of Vaseline and water in their plastic coffee mugs. Several months ago a 49-year-old officer at Huron Valley Men’s Facility suffered 2nd degree burns to his face plus long-term damage to his eye from the deliberate actions of a cowardly inmate and his premeditated actions. Unfortunately, no one has made a decision on moving the microwaves out of the units.

Back to Prisoner H.C. - one of his peers, a fellow convict, someone who obviously knew why H.C. came to prison, someone who respects his elders, assaulted H.C. with a piping hot mixture of Vaseline and water. I can only imagine what the attacker said, “What’cha gonna do now, Bitch?”

I’ll bet the microwaves are history soon. What do you think?

CAFLISH DANCING

I’d like to buy a vowel … or two … or three. A few consonants wouldn’t hurt either. And for the price …“There is a charge, a very large charge,” Sylvia Plath …

...I should get a little extra something-something. How about a few numbers as well? Does anyone have Vanna Whites’ phone number, how I can get in touch with her? Not that I’m a stalker or anything. I haven’t oogled … spell check: googled … her—it’s just that I’m laying out my graphic design final, a slick Hawaiian Clothing Catalog and I can’t get the correct font on my computer. I need Caflish Script Pro. It’s priced at thirty-five smackaroos. If I’m going to unload that kind of cheddar I better damn well be entertained. Seriously, put me in the peanut crunching crowd, show me what you got. If it’s good, I mean really really good, I’ll come back for more. Closer, get a little closer, let me whisper in your ear: If I’m not satisfied with the purchase, can I get a refund?

BRICK, HOME

This might sound crazy, or you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been staying away from myself. What I mean is: I’m distancing those mental images of who I am from my thoughts—my identity, how I see myself—those etched in stone markings dictated by what I’ve observed around me.

We’re like bricklayers, building our walls and I, like so many others, have surrounded myself. I’m too tired, too comfortable to tear down those walls. I’ll not step away from any rubble any time soon.

This week we had an immobilization. The siren whirred at the end of our shift. We were placed on lockdown. We followed protocol. I went to the school office. I read my email. The first email offered me a Costco membership at a discounted group rate. The second email informed me of a particular student’s STG status. (For those of you who don’t know: STG stands for “Security Threat Group.”) The email informed me that he’s a Vice-Lord and that with the Deputy Director’s approval, he can attend school; however, his out-of-cell movement will be limited to one hour per day. Currently he’s waiting for a verdict on a non-bondable ticket for stabbing another inmate. Rumor has it he stuck his friend, a fellow Vice-Lord who "supposedly" had a shank tucked in his waistband. As the story goes, they were horsing around when his friend “accidentally” stuck himself, or so he says “Cuz you don’t rat on nobody in here.”

Outside our prison, two men in a stolen car made a break for it. With the police hot on their tail, they turned off I-94 and into a golf course where they ditched the car and ran on foot. Little did they know they were running toward our ERT (Emergency Response Team). Our corrections officers were armed and ready. How’s that for irony? Two men trying to get away from the police, not wanting to be arrested, yet approaching what they did not desire.

Our immobilization didn’t last long. The men were apprehended. We were free to go. As for that Costco Membership, it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t travel their way.

RAGS, WIDOWS & ORPHANS

Sounds like Dickens, doesn’t it?—Rags, Widows … Orphans.

My last post was meant to be looked at for its shape, its beauty, its style, and not so much for its content. Sorry Charles. Not Dickens! Gramlich! I never intended for you to read the jpegs. If so, I would’ve posted a PDF (which isn’t exactly the truth because I don’t know how to do that on Blogger). Because Lana's a visual artist—a painter, a photographer—she knew exactly what to do; call it my first public display of a layout design.

I’m still learning the intricacies of Adobe InDesign CS4. I’ve completed three-fourths of my graphic design class with an 89% average, or should I say: B+. Still, after perusing various on-line literary magazines, I think I can compete. Not that I’m planning on it. Too much work. Besides, there are some really dedicated editors out there.

So what’s a rag? A bad rag is that ugly shape created by the white space in your right margin; whereas, a good rag uses small increments of space, making the reader more comfortable with the written content (maybe this is why Charles decided to read). If you examine rags further, when the last line at the bottom of a paragraph or page contains only one word, it leaves way too much white space and distracts the reader. Not good typography at all. This is called a widow. Or is it an orphan? No, no, no … a widow leaves too much white space, and an orphan is a single word that makes a short line. I guess they go together; they leave too much white space.

Thank you for your patients, your tolerance.

IF I WERE A GRAPHIC DESIGNER / EDITOR

PITCH & CATCH

It’s easier using the fist-in-your-face approach instead of calmly explaining your position on a topic. How else do you make someone understand your point of view? How else do you get someone to commit to your beliefs? That’s how my students communicate. They feel getting louder and louder wins the argument; if it doesn’t, then a major ass-whipping is sure to follow.

In anger management, assault-offenders, and other self-help courses, the prisoners are instructed to write their way through various scenarios. By writing, or thinking through a situation, one would hope certain impulses would change. “Think before you react,” becomes the mantra—only one problem: the other guy; he might get a jump on you, he might enforce his own convictions. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try to change a few misguided souls, and hopefully Clockwork Orange will not be revisited.

I gave my students the following writing assignment: In 300 words or less, continue my story “Pitch” from the perspective of an inmate (in essence, put yourself into the situation). They knew this was a creative writing exercise and that I wouldn’t be diagnosing their problems based on what they wrote. Most of the stories I received did indeed have too much physical violence (I won’t divulge the numerous ways a teacher can be tortured); however, one story stood out from the rest. Without further ado:

“Catch” by I-Wish-To-Remain-Anonymous

I wouldn't let go of his wrist. He wouldn't listen to me.

He tells me I won’t get paroled if I keep this behavior up.

I tell him, “It’s too late, I’ll have LIFE once I get what I want.”

He asks, “So what’s your pitch?”

I laugh. “You think you got it all figured out.” I make my observation, “You know what goes on in the classroom, but you don’t know what happens out there on the yard … or in the cellblock.”

He asks me, “What are you getting at?”

“Let’s just say I’ve come face to face with pitches before. Sunglasses were my only option.”

He looks perplexed.

I reach back into the wastepaper basket and grab my butterscotch candy. I tell him, “You’re gonna wish you ate this, you quick-witted bastard.”

He tries to loosen my grip.

“Free is a contradiction,” I say. “Nothing in life is free. There’s always a catch. You have to pay a price for everything you do.”

REAL SCHOOL LEAVE

I took school leave to redefine myself, to reinforce the belief that I’m just as much a part of Michigan’s education system as the thousands of public school teachers armed with lesson plans. Prison teachers, you see, don’t “plan,” as much as “redirect.” We wield quarterly IEP’s (Individualized Education Plans), knowing damn well our students won’t follow a word we say. Still, a start’s a start and we do a lot of that—“starting.”

I have to remind myself that my teaching certificate is just as good, if not better than most certified teachers - even WITHOUT a Masters Degree in Educational Leadership. Too many chefs in the kitchen, too many bloated paychecks, and the diner, the consumer, ain’t consuming. But this isn’t about eating or salaries. This is about volunteering at a public middle school and gathering bags full of money—lunch money.

So I got caught up in the school’s penny wars, something The National Junior Honor Society sponsors to raise money for charity. The class with the most pennies wins an Olive Garden lunch. And it’s not just pennies collected—students chip away at their opponents’ penny total by tossing nickels, dimes, and quarters into their enemy’s coffers.

So I took the loot to a Coin Star, fed the machine, collected the receipts, then reported back to the principal’s office. Regardless of the results, here are a few of my observations: 1) the resource and special education classes didn’t collect much, probably due to class size, 2) their coins were caked in mud or foreign or Windsor Casino / Chuck E.Cheese tokens, and 3) I was not afforded the opportunity to interact with the teachers or students.

Overall, I enjoyed my day.

READING "PITCH"

IT'S WHAT I'VE STEPPED INTO

I suppose I’m like most working stiffs, happy to be employed, doing a job that I never in a million years dreamt about doing. On occasion I’ll hear people say, “I love my work. I love my job.” These are the people I love to hate. Call it envy.

When is the so-called awakening? When does one realize their special calling or talent? Without getting all religious on anyone, I’ve found times where I think I’ve stepped into my element, found my niche; then I have those days when reality sinks in, where self-discovery comes in the form of shit caked onto the waffle-bottom of my shoe.

I’ve often defined myself as a convict teacher, much to the chagrin of The Walking Man and others. In fact, TWM thinks I shouldn’t limit my self-identity; we are, after all, multi-dimensional, not cardboard cut-out characters. I know he’s right. The way I see it: I spend the majority of my waking hours inside a correctional facility supervising prisoners. It’s what I’d like to think I’m good at. It’s also what I write about most of the time. It’s what I’ve stepped into.

Twenty-some years ago, I met a fellow college student in an Early American Literature Course. We became friends, if only for a short time. She went her way. I went mine. She had an undying passion for Victorian literature and continued her studies in Illinois, earning a master degree and PhD. She also wrote a book in her area of expertise. I haven’t spoken to her in decades. I sometimes wonder if she had any missteps along the way; I seriously doubt it; I’d have a hard time believing it. Check out her YouTube video.

As for me, I’ll continue my journey, not knowing whether I’m headed in the right direction but knowing that it’s the people I meet along the way, it’s what keeps me plodding along.

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.