CRUEL & UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

He sits in a wheelchair, my classroom tutor, and he talks real sharp to everyone because, as he’s stated many times before, “I’m going to die in prison, so I’ll speak my mind.”

He missed two weeks of work due to segregation, due to running his mouth in the chow hall when another inmate cut in front of him. He says the guy sucker-punched him, that he fell out of his wheelchair, had a seizure, blacked-out.

“You’re gonna pay me,” he says.

“How do I know you weren’t found guilty of fighting?” Segregation, after all, is a revolving door—seven days in, then back to general population. My classroom tutor did fourteen days; I’m a little suspicious.

He says, “That’s absurd,” and quotes policy, “through no fault of my own I was unable to report for duty.” Then I hear about how he’s going to slap a grievance on my ass, how Carl Marlinga (ex-Macomb County Prosecutor turned convict lawyer) is already defending him in a legal case against the Michigan Department of Corrections … blah, blah, blah … the mouth in perpetual motion.

I actually enjoyed not having him in my room. I’m not sure whether he showers regularly or has a colostomy bag or both, but he stinks up my classroom and the smell lingers. I know this might sound terrible, but I think I'll write an evaluation regarding his personal hygiene and have him thrown out of my class. Between the mouth and odor, I’m tired of him.

SWEATHOGS

“They’re not people … they’re Sweathogs!”

So why should the Michigan taxpayers, or more specifically—our state legislators, earmark money for a bunch of underachievers? Cut, cut, cut! They’re convicted criminals to boot! The hell with them!

The economy’s in the toilet. Hey, while we’re at it, let’s slash Early Childhood and College Scholarship Money, and drastically reduce general education funds. The Michigan Constitution requires a balanced budget by October 1st. The financial markets have driven state revenue to a 40-year low when adjusted for inflation.

I might not be teaching for a brief while—a short temporary lay-off until the budget is determined. If so, when I return it’ll be “Welcome Back, Welcome Back …”

In other news: Congrats to Mr. Woodman for bailing from a sinking ship called the Michigan Department of Corrections and for obtaining a public school teaching job. Also, he’s started an educational blog for his students. Wish him luck here . I’m sure his boat will stay afloat. Someone said he didn’t lend anything to our prison school, but I know better. Good luck Mr. Woodman!

LIQUID PROOF COVERALLS

We had a programs staff meeting. They fed us pizza, chicken wings, salad, pop. Actually, our employee club purchased the food and we were allowed to eat it during their meeting. The agenda items were briefly kicked around while we ate. I use the terms “briefly” and “kicked around” because the discussion on hand, the dialogue, seemed so minimal, so unimportant. Perhaps it had something to do with all that chewing and digesting of food.

Later in the day, a coworker, a Danny Glover Look-A-Like, asked me, “Is it true that all male staff have to wear neckties starting October first?” I had heard the same thing; the announcement had caught me by surprise; No one contested it. I didn’t contest it. I was in-between bites. We asked around and discovered it wasn’t meant for us.

Before I left for home, I received an interesting email, something about “liquid proof coveralls.” It was sent by the ERT Commander (Emergency Response Team) and said: “I have placed 15 sets of liquid proof coveralls in the cell rush cabinet in Housing Unit 7. These are to be used in the event of a cell rush where bodily liquids or feces might be involved. They should be big enough to put on over the cell rush gear so that the gear does not become contaminated.”

I don’t think I’ll be joining ERT anytime soon. In fact, I’m more receptive to the idea of wearing that necktie.

ROW 27, SEAT 18

Admission:     $110.00

Ticketmaster:     $5.75

Parking:           $20.00

Bud Light:        $15.00

Total:             $150.75

Yesterday, my brother and I watched the Detroit Lions lose their 19th straight football game. During our outing I had a drunken idiot (one of many) spill his beer all over the back of my shirt and on my chair. When I turned around to see if he would at least sober-up long enough to offer an apology, I got nothing. His drunken buddies kept their pie-holes shut as well. The lone woman with them (hopefully their designated driver) suggested an apology. Still, nothing.

As the Lions 10-point lead slipped away, these jerks became more primitive, fueling their mouths with more brew in-between shouted profanities. “F-this” and “F-that.” At one point, I did hear an apology to the father next to me, who had brought his young son. The father replied (rather sarcastically), “It’s not like he hasn’t already heard it about 100 times.” They didn’t get it.

Fights broke out at various places inside the stadium, but not where Eminem sat—he must have bought out an entire section—and thankfully, I didn’t lose my cool. Near the end of the game these drunks started calling everyone “pussies” for not cheering for the Lions. By then I’d had enough, but knew not to say anything.

I won’t be back to Ford Field anytime soon. Not until the Detroit Lions get a new owner. As far as I’m concerned, this football franchise has invited mediocrity. I see it in the low-life drunks interspersed throughout the stadium. Losers, losers, losers.

WHAT'S IN A TITLE?

Dear Krisma, Editor:

After our initial email exchange regarding the acceptance of my short story, and after your request for a different title, I conducted a classroom survey. My convict-students were asked to read the story and choose from the following:

1. Ruth Mondo’s Chance Encounter (original)

2. Small Steps for Ruthie

3. FindYourMate.com

During this process, in which I witnessed a heated debate between murderers, rapists, thieves, and drug dealers, I discovered that there’s more to this story than Ruth’s desire to find a companion; I discovered that the story conveys a message of “missed opportunities.”

One prisoner, a man doing “all day” for murder, said, “No matter how hard you try to do the right thing, no matter how prepared you think you are, there’s always a possibility of the wrong outcome.” He went on to say how difficult it is to make the correct choices when you’ve had negative experiences all your life. “Our reactions,” he continued, “aren’t always based in reality.” Ruth and Old Man Gordy’s insecurities, he pointed out, lead them to believe they're making fun of each other’s appearances. I couldn't agree more.

In the end, my students reached a general consensus that “FindYourMate.com” should be the title of the story.

I hope this information serves you well and best wishes on the next issue of Diverse Voices Quarterly.

Sincerely, JR.

A GAME OF LEAP FROG

I’ve been told (or should I say “warned?”) that the politicians in Lansing have been keeping a spreadsheet of my monthly enrollment. I don’t have the slightest clue as to why—my numbers, after all, will have little effect on the decisions they make in the Puzzle Palace. I’ve already been warned about the possibility of a lay-off come October 1, 2009.

The Michigan House and Senate are ready to dump a budget plan on Governor Granholm’s desk, a budget with deep cuts. She’ll probably “veto” the damn thing, which in turn will bring about those lay-offs. Either way, I’ll feel the pinch.

I’ve also been told (via television) by the two main players, Andy Dillon (Democrat) and Mike Bishop (Republican), that the Governor is not instrumental in the budget making process. Hmmm… I guess they’re playing leap frog, they’ve pushed her aside, deemed her a bad leader. How’s that saying go? “Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way.” I guess the blind is leading the naked. I’m trying to figure out just who is groping whom.

JUST DOING WHAT I'M TOLD TO DO

Per the Puzzle Palace, a.k.a. Lansing (the State Capitol of Michigan), I’m to administer another series of standardized tests. My students should have the Test of Adult Basic Education memorized by now. They take it every three months to check for grade level improvements. If you were to ask me about its reliability I’d say, “The TABE is inconclusive and no longer valid for determining aptitude or chances of success.”

“Why do I need to take this when I’m scheduled for the GED Exams next week?” a student asks.

“So we can capture some of that Obama money,” I answer.

Ah yes, educational funding, such a fickle endeavor. Anyone who has taken a Probability and Statistics class knows there are ways to twist the data in your favor.

A special education student approaches my desk in the middle of testing. “The judge says I need to get my GED before he’ll consider a time cut.” He’s wondering whether these tests will help.

“That’s between the two of you," I say, "leave me out of it."

He sits back down. He’s all pissed off, as if I’m holding the keys to his freedom. I’m a dutiful prison educator; I’ve learned not to question the powers that be; I’m like that guy in those old pizza commercials on television: “Make the dough Daryl. Make the dough.”

YARD TIME

On Friday morning when custody announced “Yard is over. Return to your unit” my students did something out of the ordinary: they flocked to the classroom windows.

“Is there something I need to know about?” I asked.

After an awkward moment of silence, one student replied, “Just because a guy was killed doesn’t mean administration should mess with our yard time.”

They have difficulty dealing with schedule changes. And how dare custody restrict their movement!

I walked over to the window, looked out over the prison yard. “So they’re having themselves a sit down,” I commented.

“Yard is over. YARD … IS … OVER. RETURN TO YOUR HOUSING UNIT IMMEDIATELY.”

The prisoners continued with their yard activities as if the public address system were malfunctioning. Then the immobilization siren blew. My students cleared the building, went back to their cells for lock-up, for an emergency count.

It wouldn’t be long and those protesters would be identified, loaded onto buses, and scattered amongst the higher security level prisons in Michigan.

If it were up to me, I would’ve left them out on the yard and prayed for rain. Besides, they’d be begging to come in by suppertime.

Today’s picture: Bro, myself, and the neighbor kids enjoying our freedom.

POST LABOR DAY NEWS

I realized long ago that I work in a dangerous environment—not because of some heavy piece of manufacturing equipment, not because I’m a press operator bypassing a safety mechanism so I can punch out car hoods faster and faster and faster—no, not at all.

I do belong to the United Auto Workers Union, but I'm a teacher. I work with a much more unpredictable entity called prisoners. You never know what goes on inside their minds or what might set them off. You need to never let your guard down.

This past Labor Day weekend an inmate was found in his cell—bound and gagged, strangled … murdered. His cellmate discovered him. Soon afterward custody nabbed the suspect—another prisoner who had been advertising for quite some time how he planned on killing a corrections officer. For reasons unknown, he settled on one of his peers. Still, it’s another human being and he’s dead. Sad way to go: Dying in prison, someone's foot on the back of your head, face in the toilet.

BEFORE THE 1ST LEAF FALLS

My wife says men don’t have patience, that we don't like standing in line. She’s probably correct. I stood in line, my patience short, three feet short, the length of a hose for connecting pool pump to filter.

I’m standing at a service counter behind some perfectionist (another man who probably waited longer than I). He had the hired help testing his pool water with one of those sophisticated test kits where you combined various solutions/chemicals to check the ph, alkalinity, calcium, etc… The levels were all off. They were discussing the corrosive effects of water. I felt like saying, “Look dudes, its H-2-O okay, not some explosive element that’ll wipe out an entire block.” But I waited. And waited. And waited.

Three or four tests later I walked away. Not even a goodbye, not even an acknowledgement that I existed—no “Is there anything I can help you with?”

I find my wife in the hot tub section. She asks, “Where’s the hose?”

I tell her I’m not standing in line for another minute. She knows I’m in a hurry; I want to close my pool before the first leaf falls.

We approach the checkout. I say to the cashier, “Look, I need three feet of hose.”

She senses my frustration. She probably saw me in the service line. She gets some young kid hustling for it.

After the transaction’s complete, she says, “Get yourself some hose clamps, they’re free.”

At least someone knows how to treat a customer—not like those I-Wanna-Be-A-Chemist-Jack-Asses over in the service area.

Why I don't think I would be a good father/husband at this point in time

Not often—Hell, who am I fooling? Never before… at least not like this—I’ll get a GED Essay that tugs at thee ol’ heart strings. Most prisoners prefer the bland essay format of topic sentence, supporting statements and conclusion told without conviction or emotional honesty. What you’re about to read is based on the following question: Discuss an opinion you once held that has now changed. Without further introduction (and slightly edited) here’s one prisoner’s narrative essay:

At one time I wanted kids. I had a little girl and I loved her with all my heart. We would do things together. Although she was only 4 years old when she died, she was my life. I didn’t realize until I had lost her in a car accident how much I’d miss her. She and my wife were hit by a drunk driver coming home from a family reunion that I was supposed to attend, but didn’t.

After her death, my wife and I did not get along. We were fighting all the time. I guess I fell out of love with her.

Over a period of time, I just didn’t want the hassle, I just didn’t want to invest my energy in our marriage. I didn’t want kids any more. I just couldn’t handle it all.

I wanted to be by myself and do what I wanted to do and without the hassles. What I had always wanted in life I found out I did not want anymore. Now I’m happy I have no one, which is better for me in the long run because I’m messed up myself.

IN THE MIND OF RUSSELL SLEVKOVITCH

His name is Russell Slevkovitch. As a young man, he did a brief stint in a correctional facility. If you were to question him about it, he’d tell you he served time in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior. He would sprinkle it with a few “Hallelujahs” and “Praise the Lords.” He’d say, “God gave me a second chance.”

Two decades earlier, after his parole, he'd meet a young girl, take a liking to her, and force her into his rusty van. He'd show her his Biblical tattoo and quote scripture. He'd say, “We’re destined to be together. You and me.” He'd wipe away her tears with his meaty hands and promise not to hurt her. Over the years he'd provide her with food and shelter; He'd have sex with her regularly; He'd even bathe and clothe her.

A few years after her abduction, she'd bear him a child. He'd preach about the God Almighty, how their special bond was a gift from Him, how through the Lord’s work they were able to produce a beautiful baby girl.

Russell Slevkovitch never doubted his actions. He believed he had a positive influence on the inexperienced mother. “Do not wander beyond this fence, beyond these hedges,” he'd often say. “There are evil forces out there.” She, in turn, did her best to watch over their child, to make sure she did not slip into the valley of darkness.

The days rolled into weeks, the weeks rolled into months, the months rolled into years. The midday sun, in its infinite brightness, offered very little in the way of guidance — that is, until Russell Slevkovitch refocused his attention on their lovely preteen daughter.

Physically, escaping consisted of squeezing through the bushes, scaling a relatively small fence, and yelling for help; but mentally, mother and daughter doubted their efforts. Luckily, at that instant, a passerby rescued them.

The only saving grace about this whole ordeal is that Russell Slevkovitch is make believe, he’s fictional; yet, he’s out there every time a pedophile is released from prison. He’s out there preying upon innocent children. It’s our job to make sure that he’s put away for life. No more chances, no more victims, no more Russell Slevkovitches.

PRISON JUSTICE FOR ALL

In my next to last post I reported how Prisoner M opened a can of whup-ass on Prisoner V. Prior to this incident I had spoken with Prisoner M:

“Is something bothering you?” I had asked. “You look pissed.”

He approached my desk, sat down, and spoke softly. “My family sent me a money order to buy headphones. I just got them and one of these mother-fuckers stole them.”

Although Prisoner M is a low functioning student with an IQ of approximately 70, he does mind his own business and tends to his school work.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. I scanned the room, then added, “Look, if it’s someone in this classroom, you need to settle your differences elsewhere. Understood?”

“Oh no,” he said. “I wouldn’t do anything in here.” He claimed to have spoken with his counselor back in the unit to see if she could help.

Two days later, he cold-cocked Prisoner V; Pieced him up real good.

Here’s the irony: I claimed an assault took place in my classroom; the Hearings Officer, on the other hand, concluded that it was a fight. That’s how Kangaroo Court works I guess.

As of today, Prisoner M is back in his unit; while, Prisoner V is still in segregation. I can think of two possible scenarios: 1) custody staff shook down Prisoner V’s cell and found the missing headphones, thus letting Prisoner M out. Or 2) both were let out of segregation, but Prisoner V elected to stay there until he’s transferred.

MOVING TO A BETTER PLACE

There’s a mentoring program at our prison where seasoned veterans (old heads) train new employees how to survive. I’m not part of this program. And for good reason. If I were, I’d tell the new teachers: “Get out. Don’t stay here. You’ll never get the experience needed for the public schools and chances of getting promoted are next to nil.”

Most new teachers figure this out and leave within the first few years. Here’s why: Try interviewing with a public school district and having to bite your tongue when they tell you your prison gig isn’t “real” teaching, that for all practical purposes, it’ s not teaching at all. Try telling a panel of public school administrators that there wouldn’t be a need for all those years in a correctional education setting if they’d done a better job policing their at risk students instead of expelling them. Try telling the public school personnel director that your current job requires you to be certified by the State of Michigan just like the teachers in their school district. Try all you might, you’re wasting your breath. Doesn’t matter to them. Doesn’t even matter that you’re certified in an area of need (Math & Science). None of it counts.

I bring this up because we lost a good educator this week. Someone certified in Science at the Secondary Level. Someone holding an advanced degree and School Administrator’s Certificate. Although none of his so-called “prison teaching” counts toward his new job, I believe he gained invaluable experience. He got out with approximately one year under his belt. I wish him well out there in the free-world. Sometime in the near future he’ll become a highly effective school principal, someone who knows first hand where a student’s last resort educational opportunities might be, someone who knows just how stressful teaching in a prison really is. Good luck with your new job, Mr. Woodman! We’ll miss you!

FIGHT WITH AN "A"

This may surprise some of you, but for the past eighteen years as a Michigan Department of Correction’s educator I have never (as in “NOT ONCE”) had a fight in my classroom.

Today though, the prisoners in my “area of control” would argue otherwise.

But I’m hear to tell you (and this isn’t some Detroit bullshit where the police write in their report: Assault with a ‘G’)—THERE WAS NOT A FIGHT IN MY CLASSROOM.

Here’s what happened (in my eyes): Prisoner M quietly approached the backside of seated Prisoner V and sucker-punched him. Prisoner V fell from his chair and landed flat on his back where Prisoner M poured it on, punching him again and again and again, harder and harder and harder.

I stepped into the hallway and summoned help. The first responder pulled Prisoner M off of Prisoner V and I, in turn, escorted Prisoner V into the hallway. Both were handcuffed and taken to segregation.

As for my other convict-students, they were all shits and giggles; just another day in the joint.

The laughter stopped when a Sergeant appeared and asked “What happened?” and I answered, “Prisoner M assaulted Prisoner V.”

“That ain’t what happened,” my convict-students protested. “Both were throwing punches.”

“Yep,” I repeated, “It was an assault.”

The classroom fell silent. Fighting tickets are easier and less work then writing an assault ticket which includes a critical incident report and possible charges. The bottom line: You’re supposed to fight back in prison.

After the dust settled, the sergeant returned. “We’ll do the paperwork,” he said.

SURVEYING THE DAMAGE

We haven’t been getting our mail regularly, and it isn’t until a pine tree falls on our neighbor’s house that we learn why. He’s an old southern gentleman, a retiree; he stays pretty much to himself, tending his garden. Today though, with a limb stabbing into his roof and a few neighbors milling about admiring the damage, he asks, “You keeping an eye on Mrs. D across the street?”

My wife and I look at each other, as if to acknowledge a loaded question.

“She’s been stealing everyone’s mail,” he says.

We’re quite familiar with Mrs. D’s condition, her Alzheimer’s; she gets a little confused.

He tells us how she walked into Pete’s house the other day. Luckily, Pete’s biker tenant didn’t panic; he simply informed her that her house was across the street and waited for her to process the information, to form a logical conclusion as to her whereabouts.

Mrs. D continues to wander our neighborhood. Her 92-year-old husband comes over to the downed tree, surveys the damage, and apologizes for his wife’s illness. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He says, “Just kick her in the ass and send her on her way.”

Of course we know he doesn’t mean it. Afterall, it is he who sprung her from a brief stint in the nursing home, after having heart surgery himself.

I take a deep breath and listen to the numerous conversations; the smell of pine, for whatever reason, has me thinking about how fragile we truly are.

DETROIT DREAM CRUISE 2009

Review of Ocean of Pearls at Motor City Burning Press.

WHAT YOU'RE UP AGAINST

I sometimes think it’s easier to write a novel if you don’t know what you’re up against. Our correctional facilities are full of such people; they have nothing but time.

But it also helps when you’re encouraged to pursue your dreams, regardless of your predicament...

It doesn’t matter that you killed your best friend, rolled her up in a rug and dumped her body two counties away. You were sixteen. Your life careened out of control when you left your home at the age of twelve—not that your home life was a Norman Rockwell painting. Injecting heroine at an early age, sharing needles with your mother, undoubtedly steered you down that path of disturbing wrong.

A female corrections officer (whom I met not too long ago) had encouraged you to keep writing. It did not matter that you were involved in a 100 million dollar lawsuit against the State of Michigan for the sexual abuse of female prisoners, it did not matter to this female corrections officer that some of her peers would lose their jobs (even when she didn’t know whether they were guilty or innocent). She became your surrogate mother. She took an interest in you. In return, you acknowledged her.

In 2006, Triple Crown Publications accepted and published your book. Whether you or your daughter see any money from the settlement is not important. Sure, it would be nice to have the money, to help your daughter lead a better life, but what really matters is that the profits from your book, the fruits of your labor, will go to your daughter. I’m sure she’s proud of your accomplishment.

ANOTHER MANUSCRIPT

Once again an inmate has plunked down a handwritten manuscript for me to read. He’s a self-admitted crack-head doing time for murder.

“This is dope,” he says. His swollen tongue droops from his toothless mouth. “You gotta read it.”



I tell him as politely as I can that I’m not interested. He leaves it on my desk anyway and takes his place amongst the row of prisoners working on their computer assignments.

There was a time when he wasn’t allowed to attend classes in our building. The healthcare professionals advised against it due to his prescribed medications. Our department created a class inside his cellblock, but for reasons unknown (“That teacher,” he told me, “was a real motherfucker.”) they decided certain individuals would be allowed to come to the school building instead. I think he likes working on the computers, a luxury he didn’t have in his housing unit. He’s steadily clanging away on the keyboards and pointing and clicking the mouse.

At the end of class I try to ignore him; I’m hoping to sneak his manuscript into his student folder when he’s not looking. His brain isn’t always firing on all cylinders.

“Did you read it?” he asks.

“No.”

“I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

So I perused ten handwritten pages and found something mildly entertaining:

Boyfriend Skeet made her take off all her clothes in front of everybody so that made me feel sorry for her. I told her come on we jumped in my Cadillac and I took her shopping. I bought her bra, panties, stockings, shoes, coats, hats and a diamond ring. That was my Baby now.

Strange assortment of purchases - from undergarments to accessories to marriage proposal. At least he showed some compassion during their courtship (I think).

TIMELINE FICTION

MIXED BLESSINGS

1987: Hospital delivers Dudley (hidden complications).
1990: Dudley disappears.
1995: He's on milk cartons.
2002: His body's exhumed. DNA matches parents. Funeral.
Today: Numerous sightings.


I'm not sure whether "Mixed Blessings" fits the Hint Fiction category. It does meet the 25-word limit. How about Clue Fiction, or better still Timeline Fiction?

Some may argue that it's not a story at all, that it doesn't fit the criteria. Your thoughts?