A Co's View

This is another back story to Willie's Dad, from the correctional officers point of view

The Back story: A Correctional Officer’s View of Jarret

Jarret really hasn’t been a problem compared to so many of the guys locked up here. I show everybody their respect, as long as they show me mine, and that works for most of the cases. My job is often made harder by having to deal with the fallout left by some guard taking out his life’s frustrations on the inmates. Some of these guys are more corrupt than the prisoners, and they act like their job is to personally punish them. It’s no surprise what happens when they get cornered by somebody they have been screwing with.

On the other hand, some of these inmates are a clear and present danger to anybody who has to deal with them. It don’t matter if you give them their respect, because they only see kindness as a weakness. In reality, they aren’t much different than anybody else. When people are put in extreme situations, they exhibit extreme behaviors, and when you think about it, the behavior makes sense, given the situation.

A lot of the other officers tell me to shut the hell up with my philosophy. They think that I feel I am better than them. Really, I just have a high vocabulary, and higher curiosity. I mean, if you are a curious person, there’s a lot to learn from studying behavior in a correctional facility.

I don’t think that I am too good for this job, but I am smart enough and adaptable enough where I could do a lot of other things. That’s not a crime. A lot of the correctional officers here aren’t really cut out to do other work, for this kind of money. I kind of want to move on. Coming in here, you get to share the misery, and the joy, of these guys, the ones who are doing time by the day, and guys like me, who kind of do time eight hours at a stretch.

Inmates ask me, “would you shoot me if you saw me climbing over the fence?"

I just smile and say, you know, it’s kind of nice having you around, so stay of the fence brother, that’s all I’m saying”. They just laugh, I laugh, but they better stat off that fence. They put me in the tower for a reason, I can shoot. I’m not afraid to shoot either, I don’t want to shoot nobody, but stay off the fence okay?

So many of the brothers locked up are from Chicago. I like to go to Chicago, hang out at the beach, go see the Cubs or Bears or Bulls. There’s a million things you can do there. I think it’s one of the coolest cities in the world. I carry my pistol when I go, though, because you never know who you might see, maybe they think they got some beef with me. I treat everybody with respect, but that don’t work with everybody. Sometimes I see brothers who been locked up. Ain’t had a problem yet, they give my props for treating them like humans, but there’s always somebody who don’t care about that. I’m tired of feeling like I need my pistol, you can’t go swimming with a gun, you can only walk on the beach. I want to go away long enough to be forgotten, do something else, maybe write a book about my life.

Now that Jarret, I didn’t think much about him, he was kind of quiet, tried to stay neutral, if you know what I mean. I didn’t have any opinion of him one way or the other. I watched him in the visiting room that day. He told another man he wouldn’t be mad at him if he took his woman as his wife and raised his son to be a man. I respected that, you know. You ever hear how some people act like crabs in a bucket, always pulling each other down from making it out? Jarret decided that if he was going to be stuck in the bucket, he wasn’t going to pull his folks down with him. I don’t know how he caught his case, but that’s how he caught my respect.

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Sticking to it

I often wonder why people choose what they choose for making money. I hope they chose it because they love it, like I did with teaching. My just is a great part of my day, because I love what I do. I love giving kids the knowledge and love they need to thrive. On the other hand, some poor people do not seem to like their jobs, even I do not like their jods.

I do not like the desperation I feel from salespeople when I walk into stores, but I understand it. I could not do well as a salesperson. I am not sure that I could be convincing. I think my stomach would be tied up in knots, trying to convince people to make a purchase so that I can buy shelter and food. That is a lot of stress. However, I am trying to publish and sell books, and CD's.

I feel a lot of pressure doing this, selling my creativity, even though I have a career in teaching. Even though I will not fall completely apart if I never get published, or sell a CD. My ego is wrapped up in these pursuits, and I definitely fantasize about getting a windfall from my works. I feel that in some ways, it is easier for me to stick to it, because it does not have to happen in order for my basic needs to be met.

I noticed that an older fellow had opened up a barbecue stand down the street. How did he get the nerve to give that a try? Was that his passion? I patronized his business once, and did not like the food. I did not go back. It looks like he is back out of business after about a month. Would his business have grown to thrive if he had stuck to it? Was my lack of patronage like a cosmic tipping point? Was the food really nothing special? I do not have any idea why he stopped selling barbecue; maybe people do not eat enough of it to keep him in business.

I hope that by sticking into it, I can find a publisher who shares my vision. Then maybe I can stick it out long enough to effectively market my books. I am inspired by the people who stuck to it, and ultimately found a patronizing audience. Those who met failure, and yet tried again inspire me. I hope that it happens for me before I die, unlike the way it worked for some people. However, even if it happened after I died, that would be cool, for somebody. It would be nice for me, if I could know that I would be a hit after I died.

Peace

Blacks Love Nice Cars and Nice Clothes

I was at Wal-Mart, getting my oil changed. You know how you just pull up and wait for someone to come out, with that big old PDA-looking thing to kind of pre-register you for your oil change? Well, before any employee could make it out to take down my information, an old man comes out. He looked to be about average sized, sixty-five to seventy-five years old, white guy, white haired, just your kind of salt of the earth factory guy, from back when we had factories everywhere.

We made eye contact, and he veered off of his path, toward me, as I sat in my car, he was smiling. He made that circular motion we make when we want someone to roll down their windows, that motion that came from a time when almost no one had power windows. I rolled down my window to see what he wanted, and he immediately struck up a conversation as if we were familiar with each other. I was fine with it. It is so easy to be virtually familiar with people you will probably never meet, not that we do not necessarily ever want to meet. This took a little more skill, but I talk for a living, and write a lot, from children s' books, to college papers at the masters level, to lots of professional writing of various genres. Communication might even be a pastime of mine, even though I feel more accomplished at it outside of the home. . I had nothing better to do, so we talked.

He commented that he noticed I was driving a KIA. It was just kind of matter of-fact, no apparent judgment. Obama has got to stop the spending, it can't work, the old man worried out loud. He said that he would not be surprised if we had to let General Motors die. General Motors would simply join the companies he had already seen go the way of the dinosaur; Studebaker, Edsel, Packard, Checker, Plymouth, Oldsmobile, etc. The old fellow strongly disagreed with the economic stimulus package, in general.

I wondered, Does President OBama see any alternative to trying to save the American car industry? What would that do to Michigan and the rest of the upper Midwest? I suspected this old fellow had already gotten through to his retirement, using the same plan that no longer works. What about the people who need time to come up with a new plan? Later in the day, I was watching the local public access channel. Education was the topic, a local superintendent was the guest. He pointed out that Michigan is a good generation late in responding to the current realities. I was reminded of one of my professors, who mentioned that the industry has not brought in new blood in a generation. When he was an up and coming teacher, and then a principal, he had high school drop-out friends who were making way more than he made. They were working in the auto and auto supply factories, and at the time, seemed clever to not invest in a college career that offered no apparent advantage for the money and effort.

I don't know what stream of thought led him to say to me, a black man, "you know, blacks just love nice cars and nice clothes." I think it was because we were inferring how Americans had monumental issues with misplaced priorities. Maybe he was giving an example of a particular wasteful behavior he had noticed during his interaction with black folk over the years. I grew up with that wasteful mindset. I know it to be true among blacks, and many, many others. I have changed dramatically over the years though. I'm driving a six and a half year old KIA, by choice! I really did not take offense, but I was glad our talk was interrupted by the oil change clerk. "Remember", the old man said, as we parted, the Bible is your blueprint for how to live, have a good day." I wondered if he was a high school graduate? Whether he was or not, he gave me a lot to think about. I do not know what I learned from him, but that may reveal itself another day.

The very next day, I was back at Wal-Mart, getting some primer for the bathroom walls. As I walked away from my register my eye caught an older white fellow at another register, checking out his merchandise. I looked at him and was not quite sure, was it the old fellow from yesterday? I just could not really say. I am not saying that all old white men look alike. I am just saying that I could not tell if he was the fellow from yesterday, or not. The lesson from our encounter stareted to crystallize for me. Life is typically not black and white in my opinion. It is instead, endless shades of gray.

Stay Out of the System

It is absolutely imperative that our youth stay out of involvement with the wrong side of the criminal justice system. Avoid probation, juvenile detention, and gang activity, among other negative activities that rob chances of long-term success. This is easy to say, not so easy to do, necessarily. Many kids are essentially born into gangs. The Bloods gang for instance, calls children born to their members, "blood drops." There is often a stated expectation that children born to gang members are part of it, from birth. Far too often, when a person becomes involved in the system, they never really seem to come out. When a minor becomes entangled in the juvenile court, and or, prison system, they essentially run the risk of graduating from the juvenile system, to the adult system, missing countless days of school along the way. The implications are staggering.

First off, involvement in the juvenile system, especially the juvenile penal system, means that kids are usually not present in the school they truly belong in, during their time in “juvie”. They are falling behind every day they are imprisoned, becoming less and less likely to ever become successful students in the classrooms they belong in. Many juvenile penal systems do have teachers available, but the nature of the job makes it highly unlikely that the quality of education will be as good as in the student’s home district.

Falling behind and never catching up is a recipe for losing hope and dropping out. Who wants to continue at a task that rarely, if ever, produces positive results? It is no secret that prison officials look at the failure rates of students, as young as lower elementary school, to project how much cell space will be needed in the future. It truly saddens me to think that somewhere, people are making plans to lock up a significant percentage of the kids running around on America’s playgrounds today. As the years go by and some students lose hope, and drop out, somewhere someone is taking note, and deciding how many extra cells will be required. Some states now budget more money to lock people up than to educate people. My state, Michigan, is one of them.

Fast forward a decade or two in the life of someone who has been negatively involved in the penal system, and now has one or more felonies. This is the case for too many of my friends and relatives. Their options for employment and upward mobility are severely constricted, compared to the group of people without felonies and criminal records. Even after they have paid their debt to society, they often cannot vote, are limited in the type of jobs they can have, and are at great risk for a return trip to jail. My heartfelt advice to those who have not yet been put into this unenviable position is simple; do whatever you can, to stay out of the system. You will lose a big part of your freedom, forever, if you do not.

JWIN (Just What I Needed)

She came home yesterday, a little dachshund mix, all of ten pounds,and nine months old. My wife has wanted something to replace her cat, which died more than a year ago. She named her JWIN, an acronym for "just what I needed." She is definitely charming, and has beautiful, soulful eyes and the ability to bond so fast that she seems like she definitely belongs here.
I took her out for her first walk, and I could imagine that we were a sight. A big 350 pound, six foot two, black dude with a black leather jacket, walking a dog a small as most cats, on a pink leash, has to look funny. I knew it and did not really care, we were having a good time, JWIN and I. At least I did not put her little pink coat on, but I felt bad about not doing so when I saw her shivering. I am not a sentimental person, and for some odd reason, I do not do well even with the concept of letting myself be vulnerable. I did not however, like to have that dog out in the cold, shivering. I decided to press on for another ten minutes, so she could really get a feel for the sights and sounds of our neighborhood.

I often think that my wife wants me to share my emotions with her as if I were one of her girlfriends. I am just not cut like that, but that dog brings out a little more mush in me, than I am comfortable sharing with any creature that could repeat what they saw. Just like I did not mean to get misty-eyed when I talked with a wonderful grandparent, raising her grandson, about how I could feel his pain at not being able to read as well as his peers. I either had to get a tissue and wipe my eyes, or let the tear fall. It was a devils choice for someone who does not want to be perceived as soft, but I went for the tissue.

I know that my wife considers me to be a closed person, I do too. Finding true understanding within a marriage has been infinitely more difficult that I ever imagined. Now we are like so many millions of other folks, worried that the other shoe will drop at any moment, and security will become just a meaningless word. I don't have to tell many people the stress that financial worries put on a relationship. Maybe when she named our little pooch JWIN, she was referring to just what I needed. For all I know, somehow, maybe JWIN can tell her what I'm thinking and feeling, and maybe those soulful little eyes can help me figure out how to be that better man, and better than any girlfriend.

My Labor of Love

Several years ago, I got a story idea that ultimately turned into my book, Willie's Dad. A few dozen people have seen the story, as I progressed through the writing and editing stages. I was buoyed by their positive reaction to the story, which was almost unanimous. I was also humbled by the emotions it brought out in me. It was somewhat disconcerting to not be able to find an interested publisher. I believe to this day that this is a story worth telling. I self-published it, as opposed to waiting for someone else's approval. The book business is similar to the record and movie business in that people's creative work is viewed mainly in terms of it's perceived profitability, and the experts get it wrong about 9 out of 10 times. These are the experts we take our creative works to, hat in hand, hoping they will make some sharecroppers deal with us. I took the position that I would write from the heart, and then try to find my market. If you stumble across my unusual little, illustrated realistic urban fiction children's story, please let someone know that it is mainly a story of unselfish love. It happens to be set in a prison visiting room, but the themes are even bigger, when you stop and look at it. You can identify with it easily if you know someone who has to deal with incarcerated family members, but you can still find a way to identify with it, if it just makes you count your blessings, or hold your kids a little tighter.

A Big Inspiration for Willie's Dad

I had to take a break, I was cleaning the garage. I was tired, and I had something on my mind. I was going through a box and some old binders and other teacher stuff was in it.

Waste not; want not, I looked through the contents of the box. My memory was triggered by a name I saw, written on one little plastic binder. On the slick, black cover, I saw the name, painted on like art, in white-out. Respect and confidentiality prevent me from saying the name, so I'll just call him Kevin, Kevin Johnson. I assure you that is a made-up name.

Kevin was in the second class I ever taught, and if I ever had a favorite, he was it. He was small and slim, and built-like a little muscleman. He was like a short-little stick or dynamite. Quick and athletic, he was phenomenal as a running back, and point guard, undersized as he was.

He came to be in my class because he could not keep it together in other classes. He was yelling at teachers, throwing incredible tantrums, and crying out loud, like a hurt baby. In many ways, he was a hurt baby. His hurt was never fixed and now, here he was, in sixth grade.

He really blossomed in my structured environment. The thing that did it, as far as Kevin becoming more manageable, was that we really hit it off. We were both basketball nuts, and loved to play. I was very good but on the physical decline, I was in my late thirties. He was extremely good and his skill was ascending like a rocket.

I was able to use sports as a form of therapy for much of my class. For Kevin, it was like setting a caged bird free. His smile was so wide when we played basketball, he seemed untouched by trouble, or trauma. I felt for sure that I could trust him with my life, I will always believe that. We had a bond that was uncanny.

I remember one week, as I was working to get my class paperwork in order for the coming year. I tried to contact all the parents of my students to share with them what I had in mind for their kids. I knew Kevin stayed with his grandmother, so I contacted her. She said that she wanted me to share my plans with his parents. They were both locked up, in different facilities.

I had conference calls with both parents about the education of their son, from two different prisons. I never had to wonder why Kevin had tantrums again. I always thought that he would be an excellent son. I never had the courage to say that I wanted to raise him. I think, subconsciously, he is a major influence for Willie's Dad. Somewhere out there, he is now a man. I pray he is okay.