COMMENTS

Temporarily Out of Order

And so the journey begins. See you in 2011.

Where have all the years gone? I need to concentrate on a lengthier writing project, perhaps a novel. I've been thinking about it since 1983 when Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli autographed her debut novel for me. Wish me luck.

Also, thanks for all those encouraging words. Have a happy and safe New Year.

Cheers!

GOOD PEOPLE ARE OUT THERE

Unlike our public and/or private school teachers, I reported for duty. Not that I saw any action; Classes were cancelled for the holidays. I started my yearly online computer training—real repetitive stuff, accompanied by sleepy elevator music. Had to remove my headphones after the first hour so as not to yawn.

Not all of it was dull. In my Hostage Awareness Course I’d been warned: The program you are about to complete IS NOT to be discussed with persons other than Michigan Department of Corrections employees. Guess I won’t speak about the Scott Freed incident where Prisoner Zane Sturgill held him hostage with a skillfully made shank. I won’t even tell my wife. I’ll spare her the details.

Instead, I’ll pay tribute to the kind-hearted family who read about my Grandmother in the Fall 2009 Issue of “Faith” (The magazine of the Catholic Diocese of Saginaw). This family sent my Grandmother a letter explaining how every year they send a gift of money to someone in need. For Christmas she became the recipient of their generosity.

When I visited her, you could see the joy in her eyes. “Grandma,” I said rather jokingly, “whatever you do, don’t report it as income.”

*Update: I visited both Grandmothers this past weekend. My other Grandmother has been released from the nursing home.

DELMA JANE

My Grandmother isn’t doing too well. She had to be placed in a nursing home right before Christmas. A few years back, after the death of my Grandfather, she gave me some handwritten stories, asking if I’d edit them for her. I never got around to it—until now. I thought I’d share my personal favorite. Here it is:

Once upon a time—as all good stories should start (but this isn’t just a story, this is something that really happened to your Grandfather)—this family living on a farm near Kinde, Michigan in the 1920’s, had six children: Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy, Leland, and Delma Jane. Delma Jane was the youngest at 3 months old and she had been very very sick. Roy and Mary, the parents, knew their baby was dying and sheltered their other children as best as they could from the inevitable.

It was a nice day, around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Roy and Mary told their children to go into the field and bring the cows back for milking. So off the children went down a long lane, through some woods, and into an open field. They gathered the cows and drove them through the woods. But as they entered the lane the cows stopped. The children thought that maybe something had startled the cows. They looked around, but couldn’t see anything. Then, one by one, each child looked up over the fence line. They weren’t sure about what they were witnessing; it looked like a young man with golden hair and a gown; and if so, he didn’t speak.

They prodded the cows to keep moving, which they did, and the person near the fence glided along, keeping pace. As they approached the barn yard to milk the cows, their acquaintance began to fade away. By this time, the children were so excited that they ran to see their mother and father.

When they entered the farm house, they found both of them crying. They learned that poor little Delma Jane had passed. They were too little to understand the permanence of death, or perhaps their anxiousness outweighed their sadness; they wanted to tell their parents about the flying person.

After a brief moment of silence, once their mother and father stopped crying, Doris, Katherine, Ollie, Roy and Leland retold their story, each adding a bit more detail. When they had finished taking turns describing the flying person, their mother and father informed them that God had sent an Angel for Delma Jane; that she had went to Heaven.

This happened a long, long time ago. These children have grown old; some have gone to heaven themselves. But whenever there’s a family get-together, someone always mentions the beautiful Angel and Delma Jane.

-The End-

Merry Christmas everyone!

ANIMA & ANIMUS

“The animus is the deposit, as it were, of all woman’s ancestral experiences of man—and not only that, he (man) is also a creative and procreative being, not in the sense of masculine creativity, but in the sense that he brings forth something we might call … the spermatic word.”
—Anima & Animus, Carl Jung’s Collected Works

“What we women have to overcome in our relation to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves (up).”
—Animus & Animal, Emma Jung, Carl’s wife.

After I wrote three quick flashes (“Animus,” “Cocoon Man,” and “Still Life in Detroit”) and muddled through the edits, my classroom tutor, a thirty-year member of the National Lifer’s Association, someone who confided in me that during movies he occasionally bursts into tears for no apparent reason, perused each flash and ranked them accordingly. When he picked “Animus” as his personal favorite, I asked for a reason. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say “beats me,” but after a moment of reflection he said, “It’s different … unique … sort of odd, yet understandable. Nature, you know, is one of life's great mysteries.” He did not offer to elaborate beyond that and I knew not to ask for more.

“Animus” is posted at Staccato.  If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, please do so at their website; in fact, I’d greatly appreciate it. Also, there are forty-four previous stories worth examining, with a new one appearing every three or four days—a treasure trove of interesting material.

Thanks for reading—in advance.

CFL AWARDS CEREMONY

Someone from Programs invited me to a CFL Awards Ceremony. “They’re having hot wings and fries. It’s okay if you cancel class. Your tutors can come too.”

When is it not okay to cancel class? How many students in the prison would actually complain? “CFL,” I repeat. “What’s that?” And before an answer is provided, I take a stab, “Canadian Football League?”

During our laughter, she says, “Chance for Life.” Prisoners, I’m told, are trained to be mediators. They deal with their hostile peers. It’s an intervention type program where inmates iron out their differences. The mediators are advisors, referees, and Mommy and Daddy all rolled into one; they offer brotherly advice. I’m also told that they’re allowed to have these types of meetings without custody staff standing over their shoulders. Closed door sessions? I raise an eyebrow.

So I bring my posse of tutors to the shindig. Five to be exact. As we approach the greeting table, two prisoners start filling out our name tags. A third prisoner, his hands gesticulating in the distance, runs up to the table. “We’re not going to have enough food,” he says.

“That’s okay,” I reassure him. “I already ate.”

He’s referring to the posse. He rephrases his statement, turns it into a question, as if he’s having trouble with his eyesight. “How many tutors do you have?”

I can take a hint. I turn around and instead of using my index finger to count, I point. “You, you, and you, leave.” Then I tell him, “Two.”

As my lower seniority tutors exit, one of them says to the uptight-don’t-know-how-to-count inmate, “You’re a whiny little bitch.”

I walk toward the seating area, wondering if a closed door session is needed before the CFL Award Ceremony begins. I’m sure they’ll work it out at a later date.

DON'T HATE THE PLAYER, HATE THE GAME

I often get angry when it comes to heated discussions regarding education issues, especially when our public schools and teachers become political footballs. Not that long ago our former Michigan Governor, John Engler, waived Detroit Public School’s low test score result in front of the television cameras and threatened a state takeover. Little did his viewing audience know that he was instrumental in lowering the certification requirements for new teachers. And why not? Flood the already saturated market with inexperienced, fresh out of college rookies, create competition, lower salaries—it’s all good. Anything to keep taxes from rising, along with a school funding shift from property taxes to state sales tax.

Two governors ago (during James Blanchard’s reign) the politicians, under the guidance of our fine teacher colleges, created a new law eliminating the Continuing Teaching Certificate; replacing it with Provisional and Professional Teaching Certificates. These new fangled documents would need to be renewed every five years by taking additional college coursework. So our young rising stars, the lucky ones to get hired, figured out ways to boost their salaries by earning master’s degrees online or through college extension courses. Higher salaries, although good for the teachers, meant tighter school budgets (not the only contributing factor), layoffs, increased class size, etc. As the prisoners would say, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

It’s a sad vicious cycle, a power grab for money by the teachers, by the colleges, and now by the State of Michigan Education Department in the form of Federal stimulus dollars. How can they get some of those greenbacks? Simple. Make it easier to obtain a teaching certificate. Hmmm…. We’ve been down that road before.

As for the Detroit Public Schools, their teachers have nothing to negotiate and are being asked to loan their employer $10,000 each. What about those downtown casinos? Are they not helping out? If so, how much per year?

Our public schools are a microcosm of society, of their surrounding neighborhoods. There are some bright spots. At the beginning of this week Detroit Public Schools asked for volunteers to help teach children how to read. Guess who immediately answered their call? Mark Durfee, aka The Walking Man. He’s quoted in the Detroit Free Press: “I have to have faith that the coming generation can make Detroit, Michigan, the nation, and the world a better place than the one we are leaving behind. If the coming generation of kids cannot read, they will fail in bringing that change. That is why I volunteered.”

Mark, you’re a better man than I. I guess I’ll do what I can from the inside, from those concertina-wired fences and gun towers.

EMPOWERMENT

Last Month: A young Vice Lord says, “I’m gonna get you fired.” He’s waving a torn sheet of paper in the air. It has one lousy word written on it. “They (custody staff) will know it’s your handwriting.”

“Who really cares?” I reply.

“You’re gonna look mighty stupid once they find out.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“What you gotta say for yourself, Teach?”

I choose my words carefully, giving him a clear understanding of the aftermath. “First of all,” I explain, “it was inappropriate of you to ask me to spell the M-word. I could’ve written you a 057 Sexual Misconduct ticket. Instead, I remained professional and spelled a word similar in meaning. Second, the nature of your felony (Criminal Sexual Conduct) should be enough for you not to press this non-issue. And third, it’s not as big a deal as you’re trying to make it, especially since I can make it bigger.” Then, for added emphasis, “It’s your move.”

He stuffs the scrap paper back into his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he says, “for insurance purposes.”

I tell him it’s okay, everyone needs a security blanket once in awhile.

The controversial word that’s such a non-issue: onanism.

Today: A young Vice Lord, still carrying around that scrap sheet of paper, qualifies for his GED Exams. He does it the good old fashion way—by studying and doing well on his standardized tests.

Old Pic: Fisher's 666 in Detroit

Level IV, II, I

“So,” I interrupt, I’m dealing with a surly prisoner’s temper tantrum, “are you a ‘true’ Level II or an ‘actual’?”

He knows what I’m getting at. IV’s and II’s refer to security levels; the higher the Roman numeral, the bigger the risk factor. A ‘true’ security level is where an inmate is ‘supposed’ to be; it’s based on a classification point system determined by the type of crime committed, staff assaults, tickets, and so forth; whereas, an ‘actual’ security level is determined by bed space. If a facility’s Level IV cells are at capacity, an inmate is placed at a lower security level, allowing him more access, more freedoms within the confines of the prison environment.

Level I’s are supposedly less of a threat. They sometimes work jobs out in public.

Two days ago a corrections officer supervising Level I prisoners on a work crew (roadside work) was stabbed with a pitchfork and left for dead. His assailant made a short-lived getaway in a state van full of his peers. The corrections officer is currently in the hospital. Everyone in the Michigan Department of Corrections is praying for his recovery.

“So,” I remind my student, “what’s your ‘true’ security level?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shouts. “I’m going home!”

BURNING BRIDGES

Once again I’m receiving complaints regarding Christmas music in my classroom and there’s no reason for it. I understand that being locked-up during the holidays can be downright depressing: no loved ones to gather around the Christmas tree with, no spiked eggnog to drink and no mistletoe for … (on second thought, because the prisoners are known to improvise, strike those last two). As I was saying, the radio station, I changed it, changed it last week to an easy listening format. Dick Purtan in the morning. Sure, he sandwiched “Jingle Bells” between Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and The Monkee’s “I’m a Believer,” but still, it’s better than Christmas music on the airwaves 24-7.

Prisoner H, a 20-something-year-old, is the biggest cry baby. “Turn that shit off! I hate Christmas.”

“There must be a few fond memories from your childhood that you can reflect on and smile,” I suggest.

“Not a one.”

I’m not so sure about his claim, but I know not to press certain issues; He may have burned every bridge, every connection to his family. I ignore him instead.

Within a half-hour “Frosty the Snowman” hits the rotation.

“Look,” he says, pounding his fist on the table, “if everybody in the room is warm, but one person says they’re cold, you gotta close the window.”

“That’s a bad analogy,” I reply. I’m hoping for Aaron Neville’s version of “The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire),” I think that’ll warm him up.

RIGHT HAND CLUBBING

Dale,
I haven't heard back from you regarding "The Trigger Man and his Accomplice," so I decided to take the bull by the horns and do a rewrite (see RTF attachment).

I hope it's the right fit for Left Handing Waving. I've also attached a JPEG file for your convenience.

In closing, I'd like to say that my favorite piece (so far) is by CL Bledsoe. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely, JR

*****

John,
I'm sorry I didn't get back to you.

I showed this to the other 2 editors and I'm afraid we just can't use it. Thanks for trying (twice!)

Dale

*****

Dale,

Name's JR, or Jim, or James, but not John. I'll keep an eye on LHW, see if I can come up with something better.

Thanks, JR

LEFT HAND DRINKING

Attention Dale:

Attached in RTF format is my story, "The Trigger Man & His Accomplice." I hope you will consider it for Left Hand Waving.

Sincerely, JR

*****

Hi JR,

Thanks for submitting. We've had a look at the story (and the photo). We can't use it as it is but I wonder if you'd consider a rewrite and resubmission. One of my greatest weaknesses as an editor, and there are many, is providing direction on rewrites, but I'm going to give it a shot, because we like the story and love the addition of the photo. Interested?

Dale

*****

Hey Dale,

I was a bit hesitant in sending this piece because my left hand isn't waving in the photo, so any advice on a rewrite or tidbits of what you're thinking would be greatly appreciated. Tell me what you did or didn't like about the piece (working with prisoners, I can take the criticism) and I'll try an edit.

Thanks, JR

*****

I absolutely love Right Hand Pointing and their sister publication, Left Hand Waving. So why am I waiting … waiting … waiting, I think it's still my move. *BTW, this isn't the picture.

ENDORSEMENTS? WHAT ENDORSEMENTS?

I think I know how we got on the conversation; I think it had something to do with Tiger Woods and accusations of domestic violence (his wife’s “rescuing” him with a golf club); A few students thought the media should leave Tiger be. I disagreed. Their rebuttal: Because he married “white,” and not “black,” because he had affairs with “white” women, he’s being held to a higher standard. Twisted, faulty logic, straight from the penitentiary: Yeah, he should’ve married and cheated within his own race, that way we’d all feel much better. What race is he anyway?

I pointed out Tiger’s squeaky clean image, how he, and he alone, tarnished it. More talk about race. Blah blah blah. At some point during the discussion I said, “I have no people.” Before I could finish with the standard line: “I am my own person,” a student of African-American persuasion interrupted, “We are your people.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yeah, you’re our teacher, Tommy Boy.”

“That so?” I paused, waiting for further explanation. None was offered. I continued, “So, if I came over to your house for a family barbecue, I’d be welcomed with open arms?” This elicited laughter from all my students, White, Black, and Hispanic. “If, between passing the potato salad, I asked your sister out, you would be perfectly comfortable with that.”

“You’re a funny man, Tommy Boy.” More laughter.

“Do you see,” I said, “how the setting changes the group dynamic?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Tommy Boy.”

“But it is, isn’t it? Especially when you’re making statements about interracial relationships.”

*For the record: I do not golf; this is my wife’s golf club.

A SMALL CORRESPONDENCE

After the rejection of “Cocoon Man,” I decided to try Staccato Fiction again. Here is my correspondence with the editor:

Matt,

I absolutely loved the voice in "Whatever Happened to Sue Ellen?" One of my favorites so far. You know you're picking good stories when other writers are envious.

I humbly submit "Animus" and hope you will consider it.

Thanks in advance,
JR

*****

JR-

We absolutely loved "Animus" and would be thrilled to publish it on Staccato. Is it still available? If so, can you send a short bio?

Also, I hope you won't be offended if we suggest a small editorial change: the name "Old Man Baker" sounds a bit out of place here and reminds us of old episodes of "Lassie." Would you consider changing it to Mr. Baker? It's a small objection, but in an otherwise pitch-perfect story, I think it really jumps out.

Let me know what you think.

Best,
Matt
Staccatofiction.com/

*****

Matt,

You just made my day. I love the layout of Staccato Fiction, as well as the stories. Also, you are absolutely correct on the editorial changes.

Incidentally, Staccato was my first and only choice for "Animus," and it would be an honor to have my story on your website.

Sincerely,
JR

GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

ANTICIPATION: OVERCOOKED TURKEY

Can it be true? And just in time for Thanksgiving? I’m thinking “Buy Out.” Wife’s telling me to report to personnel after the holidays. Last time I dealt with the personnel department, they were campaigning to have me escorted from the prison grounds for what they thought was an expired teaching certificate (you can’t always believe what you read—especially if it’s from a website that hasn’t been updated in months. Incidentally, I update my blog on a semi-regularly, non-intermittent basis).

But this is different … or maybe not. Maybe it’s a subtle hint for me to “push-on.” I’m examining what appear to be official looking documents sent by the State of Michigan Civil Service Commission. There’s an application too, with an assigned policy number. It says:

Dear JR,

As an eligible State of Michigan defined benefit retiree, you are being given an additional opportunity to apply for Retiree paid Benefits …

What does this mean? I’m too young to be mistaken for a retiree. I’m not even a half-century old. Is this the State of Michigan’s way of chipping away at my future pension? I need to start planning. I need to investigate what type of shenanigans the Civil Service Commission is up to. I need to do it now. I need to crunch the numbers. Or perhaps I’ll wait; perhaps I’ll do it during the Detroit Lions’ Thanksgiving Day football game. At least some things never change.

A TIME OF CHEER, TWO MORE DAYS

Maybe it’s too early, or too depressing, or whatever. I see the anguish in their faces.

“You’re killing us,” one of my tutors says. They sit in a “tutors only” area, near the GED books, answer keys, and locked storage closet. They seldom lift their asses from their cushy chairs for fear of the students swapping out their hard chairs.

I console them. “It’s only for two days.” They are not happy about the situation. “Besides,” I continue, “maybe I can flush you out of the pocket like a Detroit Lions quarterback.” This is my indirect way of suggesting they work the classroom floor to see if anyone needs help on their assignments.

“You got to be kidding,” the other tutor says. “I’ve been sacked one time too many.” He has a valid point; in here, if you try to help someone and it doesn’t go well, fingers get pointed and accusations fly. “He’s the son-of-bitch told me to do it that way,” a student might tell me.

“Today and tomorrow,” I remind them. They’re worried about the month of December.

A student joins the revolt. He enters the “tutors only” section. He’s mad as hell. He’s rattling the door handle to the storage closet.

“I’m not changing the radio station,” I respond.

“Anything but Christmas music. Anything. Even if it’s country.”

“Nope.”

A female sings, “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me,” and ends on a high note, “if only in my dreams.”

**I’d like to thank former prison educator Mr. Woodman for donating his boom-box. Also, our deepest apologies for not having a going away party for you.

YOU'RE NEVER ALONE ...

There once was a time where I held semi-normal conversations with inmates—current events, sports, the weather (small talk really)—but not so much anymore; Now it’s all gibberish and drool and impassive stares.

 Coming back from the lunchroom, I witness stacks of boxes being wheeled into the facility on a daily basis--just like clockwork. Last I heard, approximately thirty-four thousand dollars a month is spent on various skittles which are dispensed, swallowed, regurgitated, bartered, and swallowed again.

 Two days. I need to get through two more workdays. Then I can relax, eat some turkey (wife’s going to stuff it with some lemons per Rachel Ray’s recommendation) and watch some football.

 In those two remaining workdays, I need to calm down a new student, a forty-three year old man with Schizoaffective Disorder. He seems to think the Michigan Department of Corrections will honor a worn & tattered memorandum from 2005; it’s from the United States Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Prisons, granting him permission not to attend school based on his combined limited intellectual ability and serious illness. He was as proud as a nervous, ultra-hyper, peacock showing me this document.

 I guess he’s never read the Schizophrenics Anonymous Steps for Recovery:

1. I SURRENDER … I admit I need help. I can’t do it alone.
2. I CHOOSE … to be well. I take full responsibility for my choices and realize the choices I make directly influence the quality of my days.
3. I BELIEVE … that I have been provided with great inner resources and I will use these resources to help myself and others.
4. I FORGIVE … myself for all the mistakes I have made. I also forgive and release everyone who has injured or harmed me in any way.
5. I UNDERSTAND … that erroneous, self-defeating thinking contributes to my problems, failures, unhappiness and fears. I am ready to have my belief system altered so my life can be transformed.
6. I DECIDE … to turn my life over to the care of God, as I understand Him, surrendering my will and false beliefs. I ask to be changed in depth.

I’m afraid he’s stuck on steps number one and two. His choice not to attend class will result in “00 Status”—no prison job, no pay, no nothing. After thirty days, per the school operating procedure, he’ll be re-enrolled in school and subsequently placed back on “00 Status.”

MY PERSONAL PROTECTION DEVICE

There seems to be confusion regarding PPD’s (Personal Protection Devices)—that’s how the meeting starts; As if those of us on the front line of the battlefield, those of us who spend a majority of our workday with prisoners, haven’t a clue about when to use them. What’s your perception of the PPD? When should it be used?

There’s been a rash of fights/assaults at our facility, and now someone wants to play Monday morning quarterback; wants to review the tapes and tell us—strike that—wants to “imply” what we’re doing wrong. The meeting room falls silent; no one is willing to step up to the plate and offer an interpretation. And why should they? To be gutted and filleted like some young fish?

You CAN USE your PPD when two inmates start fighting. IN FACT, we encourage you to do so.

I’m holding back my opinion on this; there’s no sense in stirring up controversy. It’s a “no-win” situation.

During the forced discussion, I decide to interject some humor. “The last fighting incident in my classroom,” I say, pausing for emphasis, “… at least they waited until after everyone finished testing.”

A few chuckles, nothing more. I did not use my PPD during this incident. I honestly didn’t feel it to be necessary; I wasn’t in harms way.

Later in the afternoon, I approach two corrections officers. I say, “Look, if I pull my PPD, it’s for me, I’m getting hurt, okay?”

They understand the message and reassure me that they’ll come running; I’ve made it personal.