MJ-Way

I was told the bushes had to be removed. Now!!! When I had received that kind of an order, and the way it was delivered to me, I always asked the wrong question. I could tell it was the wrong question by the expression on the face of the person delivering the order. They seemed perplexed. Their faces aglow in something I can only venture to explain as “emotional constipation.” I learned as a young 25 year old executive that my hearing needed to be mechanically enhanced. The doctors conducting my executive physical informed me that the scars on my eardrums were probably caused by ear infections as a child. Unconsciously compensating for the loss, I had learned to read expressions on peoples faces real well, and I also learned to read lips. The doctors told me that was natural for someone who had been gradually losing their hearing. But I still couldn’t understand that “emotional constipation look,” I saw on some of my colleagues faces.

It seemed to only occur when I asked the order givers, “why?” In the case for the bushes, I only asked, “where and not why?” A good question I thought because my class landscaped the prison grounds with well over 100 bushes. It took three years to do it. Removing the bushes would take me a lot longer than “now.” That still got me a dumb founded grunt from the order giver, and some gesturing. The hand gesturing made me believe the order giver understood I was somewhat hard of hearing and they reverted to signing. Very thoughtful. Unfortunately, the gesturing was only to wave the yard sergeant over to speak with me. So to my chagrin, the whole process of his explaining, and my questioning, got me that same befuddled look, “emotional constipation.” However, I was told this time by the bewildered yard sergeant to go see the school principal.

Now we are talking I thought. He’s having me follow my chain of command. The chain of command was an interesting concept in the Department of Corrections. It was never followed by the Corrections Administration who believed they could give orders to anyone below their inflated pay grade. When I wanted to be understood by the administration, all I had to do was invoke the rule of all rules: “you are not in my chain of command.” When I looked at the face of the order giver, after invoking the rules of all rules, a couple of things would happen. An angry scowl would appear on their faces, and they would have me repeat what I just said. Once I clarified the “chain of command “statement, some would employ a technique of spitting on the ground. Spitting on the ground was meant to intimidate me. Being all about the science I made sure to comment on any blood I saw in their sputum. Seeing blood, I informed them they may need to see a Doctor. That always got me a friendly comment about my medical concerns of their over all health. Which in most cases wasn’t always apparently the greatest.

  After invoking the “rule of all rules” I would assuredly get called to the principals office where he would be waiting for me. Our principal was very intelligent. He was a graduate of DePaul University and North Western University. He looked like an older version of Barney Rebel from the Flintstones . He had experience. As a younger man he worked at the famed Joliette Prison in Illinois. He informed me that the bushes were going to be removed from the visiting area court yard but that I could still landscape the area with annuals and perennials. The warden is requesting the new plants stay under 12” maximum height. The maintenance grounds keeper would remove the bushes. I asked why and was informed that a visitor decided to have a conjugal rendezvous with her inmate boyfriend. She apparently thought that the bushes were providing cover for the encounter. She didn’t realize (or care, maybe) that there were cameras everywhere. She ended up being removed and banned from the prison. This meant she would no longer be able to visit her boyfriend. He was now bush less.

Our school principal was very non judgmental, and made no further comment on the subject. He asked if I had enough plants in the greenhouse to landscape the area again, and I informed him I did. He got on the phone and informed the warden to have the bushes removed. The Horticulture students will replace them with low growing plants. I had my marching orders, finally. It only took four hours to get that clarification. It was kind of funny in a way. I never had a problem hearing our school principal. He definitely was a baritone, and that decibel level I could hear very well. Go figure. I think it had to do with something called the chain of command., the base in his voice, clarification and direction. Something only a good prison school principal could accomplish. He was every bit of that and more. He never failed to amaze me. His antics in his handling of the prison administration, and the education administration I found enlightening. He retired and passed away shortly there after. That is a story in itself for another time. Rest in Peace Jesse Vail. You were a great mentor. Thank you for hiring me.

..Prison Stories To Be Continued.. ”””””””””””””””””””””””””””Matthew 1: 18-25”””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””’

Psalm 18: 1-6

I wasn’t much of a country boy. I was raised in the city and I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of people boarding buses, the downtown department stores, and what I thought was some incredible architecture. My mother didn’t drive a car. She didn’t need to. She knew how to ride the buses in Detroit and that was our transportation. I enjoyed taking trips with her and my brothers. We traveled throughout the city with her as she went from one appointment to another. We usually got milkshakes at the department store’s soda fountain when she went shopping with our aunt, her sister. I remember it being one of the things that I enjoyed most about our excursions. So in much latter years, working for the Detroit Medical Center, and knowing how to ride the buses, I often took the Woodward bus to Hudson’s downtown store. The hustle and bustle, especially around Christmas, brought back good memories. I could get a bite to eat in Hudson’s cafeteria which always had something good to eat. It was grilled cheese and tomato soup for me. It cost me just over a dollar.

In latter years my father taught me how to fish, and I was permanently hooked on that. It’s one of my favorite things to do to this day. However, I never spent that much time on the farms. I received some exposure to farmers when I was asked to ride along with the Michigan State University Agriculture extension agents. The farmer was having a problem with drainage and they set out to figure out what could be done. It was interesting. Not much later, our school principal informed me that a local farmer wanted to donate straw to our Horticulture program. I believed I could incorporate it into the soil when the garden was plowed and tilled. I made the necessary arrangements to pick it up. One of our maintenance mechanics volunteered to drive our big stake dump truck to get it with me.

Upon arrival at the farm we were greeted by the farmer who immediately wanted to know who the inmate was. He looked kind of disappointed when I informed him we were civilian workers at the prison. I pointed out that I was a vocational teacher and this is one of our maintenance mechanics. He told me the straw was in the barn and we could pull the truck it but would have to load it ourselves. We pulled into the barn next to the straw and the maintenance mechanic thought it would be better to get the green straw. I never saw green straw before but as I thought about it I believed him to be correct. It looked a lot like clover and winter rye. I was using both in the garden as cover crops. I loaded about 20 bales. We left the farm not seeing anyone but as we approached the prison maintenance office the manager came out laughing at us. He told us the farmer called and wanted 5 dollars a bale for the hay. Only the straw was free. Wow, WTF? He couldn’t stop laughing at us.

I looked at our maintenance mechanic and said “so much for this looking better! It’s hay damn it.” He looked at me and said, “what class are you teaching?” He made his point. I couldn’t stop laughing. “This isn’t the first asinine thing I’ve done in my life and I’m sure it won’t be my last,” I said. We both started laughing again. On to the farm to make it right. I informed our mechanic that if the farmer asks what class I’m teaching tell him anything but horticulture. We both started laughing again. The farmer was waiting for us as we entered the farm. ” You sure you don’t want the hay ,” he asked? laughing, I shook my head no. I apologized for the inconvenience and we pulled back into the barn so I could make the switch. The hay would be sold to horse farms in the area and I could tell he was glad I brought it back. Removing 20 bundles of straw would make room for the hay he was now bundling in his fields. I thanked him again for his patience and the straw. He asked that I keep him informed on the progress of our garden at the prison. I told him I would as we said our goodbyes. This would be one of many adventures I had with our maintenance mechanic. He was a big help with our greenhouse and over all support of my class.

Prison Chronicles to be continued …

Praying for the safe return of the Israelis held hostage by Hamas.

The fog just never cleared for him. The corrections officers administered four narcan epi-pens before they got a heartbeat. In the last few years of teaching at the prison overdosing on what they believed to be fentanyl started becoming a weekly occurrence. There was a whole new protocol on handling suspected overdoses. This just added to an already stressful job for the corrections officers, and staff. Being exposed to fentanyl could get one killed. It was now officially in the prison. I was really in the dark about all of the drug trafficking. Crack cocaine, methamphetamines, heroin, cannabis, and home made spud juice(alcohol), were being trafficked throughout the prison when I began employment there. I had heard from time to time about suspected deaths of prisoners by overdose on heroin but not at the rate it was happening now.

I had a training officer tell me he thought the drugs were the administrations way of controlling the prisoners. I didn’t agree with him. I believed drug trafficking was a matter of demand and supply. “Money talks and bullshit walks” is what my father used to say. I believe that holds true here. You give them the money and they’ll bring you the honey. No money-no honey. In this prison there was a definite demand for honey, and no lack of money. The mail room staff had to be careful now opening the prison mail because just coming in contact with fentanyl without protection could be life threatening. Any kind of powder found in a prisoner’s mail by the mail room staff was reason enough for the prison administration to enact an emergency protocol. I just could not believe the amount of people who would mail drugs to the prisoners. The prison administration felt they were well paid mules and the perpetrators believed they could stay anonymous. The state police detectives would eventually hunt them down, and prosecute. Staff were the other drug mules. Everyone who worked in the prison were suspect.

The prisoner they used the four narcan epi-pens on was resuscitated but would overdose at a latter date and was not found alive in his cell. He was on his bed with the covers pulled over him. They suspected his cell mate was involved in drug trafficking, but could not prove anything. An investigation would be forthcoming. I felt sorry for the mail room staff. It seemed white powder also had to be suspected for being anthrax. Just another way for a hit to be carried out and they had to open all the mail to the prison before it was distributed. When ever I thought I was being overworked as a teacher, I thought of our mail room staff, and I felt they had it much harder than I. I could see someone getting pissed off enough to send a “gotta your ass letter.” It was happening in the real world. Nothing would prevent it from happening here. Our mail room staff gave a gallant effort and would try to prevent that from happening here at the prison. I did not envy them. They could be killed in the process of just doing their job and opening the mail. ..Prison Stories to be continued…

“Both Ukraine and Israel face foes with explicitly genocidal intentions, use terrorism, and commit crimes against humanity. Put simply, if Russia wins, Ukrainians disappear. If Hamas wins, Israelis disappear.” Alexander Motyl, and Dennis Soltys November 6, 2023 Haaretz English Edition. I could not have said it better.

Some of my student’s heroes were not sport’s stars. It didn’t surprise me. Gold chains, large bankrolls, gold grills, large diamond rings, expensive cars, designer clothes and what they called “hot babes” were the makings of successful drug lords who employed them. They were easily led. Many were parentless at a very young age and raised by grandparents, siblings or worse, the streets of Detroit. Looking at their inmate files I saw a pattern. Many were born in the same year of my own children, when crack cocaine ruled the city, and gangs fought each other endlessly for power. They were also parentless. Some were wards of the juvenile justice system before catching larger cases and going to prison. Many were involved in the city’s ongoing drug trade, and were used by the gangs to deliver the wares of the trade. They would be caught and eventually arrested never attaining the status they sought, but that didn’t keep them from trying. They were nothing to the gangs but mules. Some would never comprehend that. I believed they were the crack babies I saw in the nurseries of the hospital. That was just my myopic view at the time.

If I could get these students to understand that they were being used, I might be able to reach them in my classroom, but they were loyal to the people responsible for employing them as mules. I understood that. However, I was obligated as a teacher to show them a different way. A way that didn’t include a life of crime. I was able to reach one young man that I was made aware of by an organization dedicated to helping young men just like him. Focus Hope was that organization. I had written about them in an earlier post. I had met Eleanor Jositus at an education conference in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I found her to be genuine and would meet her again at Focus Hope, Detroit, for a conference she organized on inner city education. She informed me of this young mans progress in the machining school and again thanked me for all I do to direct our students to Focus Hope. I had to inform her I was not the only one. There were many teachers in the MDOC committed to helping these young men and women find the right direction. She acknowledged them at the conference. With that she smiled and offered me her home baked cookies.

Her praise was authentic. It came just after our Governor’s hired speaker admonished us for not doing enough and politicalizing corrections education. I was glad to hear my student was not the only young man who found his way to Focus Hope. The possibilities and opportunities could be available for them if they could break free from the drug trade. However, I had to realize that some of my students would not leave the drug trade. They would end up dead on drug deals gone bad. The glamor and glitz offered was just as addictive as the drugs they would mule. Gold chains, designer clothes, and the respect they thought that life offered them with all that wealth was hard to walk away from when you were used to not having anything. Still, I would try to teach them what integrity was all about, and how they could repair their reputations doing good in their communities. It had to start with their hearts.

As a young man running to the corner White Castle to bring my colleagues at the medical center our biweekly payday treat, I witnessed a beating in front of the Brewster Projects. Two young African American men dressed in Black Suits, white shirts, and red bow ties were beating a man for bringing “poison” to the neighborhood. When I questioned my colleagues about it they said, “The Nation of Islam does not tolerate drug dealers.” Remembering this incident, I wondered how I could bring this message to my students? I could begin my lecture with “you are poisoning your brothers and sisters by working in this trade. Why do you continue doing this? There are legal ways of earning a good living, and having a skilled trade will make you all the more valuable. Make a positive contribution in your community. Don’t poison it. My lecturing was heard by some of my students but not by those choosing what they thought was the path to wealth and fame. They would rather take their chances and dance with the devil. Unfortunately. I could only wonder, were these the crack babies is saw in the hospital nurseries many years ago? Does it matter? ..Prison Stories to be continued…

I STAND WITH ISREAL. ALL COUNTRIES HAVE THE RIGHT TO DEFEND THEMSELVES FROM TERROISM AND ELIMINATE IT.

I was out of the loop. I hadn’t been keeping up with the outside world or what was happening in the streets just outside of this hospital for over three years. I had taken a promotion at Grace Northwest Hospital in Detroit as a manager in their Facility Administration. They were part of the Harper-Grace Hospital mergers, and I enjoyed the same privileges that I had at the main hospital in midtown Detroit. They were paying for me to complete my Master of Arts degree in Business Administration from Central Michigan University and I was given the time to do that, but I didn’t have much time for anything else. Having just recently been married my wife was pregnant with our first child and her Obstetrician practiced at this hospital. My children were eventually born here. I did notice from time to time graffiti appearing on the buildings in the neighborhoods surrounding the hospital, and I was later informed by one of our Administrators that it was “gang graffiti.”

The gangs tagged the neighborhoods they would be selling crack cocaine in. A new cheaper form of cocaine. Cocaine wasn’t just a rich mans high anymore. This new form of coke could be smoked in pipes, sold in rocks, for only 5 dollars, and usually came 2 to 3 rocks per buy in small plastic bags. I was told it was highly addictive. At the time I didn’t think much of it. I had enough on my plate to keep me busy and my head out of the news papers. We began having cars being stolen out of our parking lot, and thieves were being caught inside the hospital rifling through visitor’s and personnel’s purses. Our security (all retired Detroit Police Officers) thought it to be the work of drug addict’s. We beefed up security in all patient care, and visitor areas. We implemented a strict visitor policy, and that made it very difficult for those without passes to roam freely through the hospital. That didn’t keep them from trying. Our security officers would log numerous attempts of people entering our hospital for nefarious reasons, and some visitors being arrested as well for outstanding warrants. It would make my decision to take the next promotion much easier going back to the main hospital in midtown later in my career.

It took some time but the community surrounding the hospital began to change dramatically also. Homes were being put up for sale as an older population, fearing the rise in crime, looked for other places to live which were much more elder friendly. I started to see a trend which would reverberate throughout the city known as “urban mining.” At first I didn’t know what was happening. Homes were having their aluminum siding ripped off a couple strips at a time, and eventually it started happening to houses on the whole block. A colleague informed me that crack addicts were being paid by the scrap yards for the aluminum. This in turn fueled their crack habits. The crack addicts would eventually urban mine whole blocks of homes and this over the next couple of years increased exponentially. Our neonatal units began to fill at the hospital with babies twitching and jerking. Our nurses informed me they were “crack babies.” I was shocked. How in God’s name will they survive? What will happen with them.? Time would answer my question some 20 years later when I began teaching at the prison. Some of those babies survived, were now incarcerated here, and they became protégés of the drug lords. COCAINE WARS TO BE CONTINUED…

Psalm 46:10

I had the opportunity to work for five different prison wardens in my twenty five year teaching career with the Michigan Department of Corrections. Each had their own style of management and vision of how the prison should be run. Each would hire their own personnel included in their inner circle. The inner circle of personnel would be trusted to give the warden sound advice on the security concerns of running the prison. I was never concerned about the warden’s inner circle personnel. Most were personable and would speak directly to you and still others acted like kings. The kings expected their rings to be kissed and I wasn’t a ring kisser. They found it easier to avoid me because they knew I was capable of saying something they didn’t care to hear. The warden that wanted me to run the greenhouse was one of the best I had worked for. He knew the good publicity the greenhouse would bring the prison, and the opportunities for those inmates that participated.

My job was to make sure the greenhouse and the vocational class would be accredited through Lansing’s Prison Education Administration. At the time of our programs inception, the MDOC had at least fifteen Horticulture programs in place. I was able to visit two successful prison programs, one in Coldwater, and one in Jackson. Both contributed to their respective communities immensely. Vegetable donations were being made to their area foodbanks. They also helped feed the prison population, and reduced the cost of providing meals at their facilities. They grew hundreds of houseplants which would be used through-out the prison, and maintained by the students. The Horticulture programs would also donate plants to local nursing homes and hospitals. The prisoners would be involved in every aspect of this effort. Their idle time would be reduced, and the prison administration had hoped this would result in fewer assaults within the prison. Finally, the positive impact the prison donations would have on the community would be good public relations for the MDOC.

I didn’t have any problem in the beginning making this happen at the Macomb Correctional Facility. I had the support of the warden, our school principal, and the maintenance department. The maintenance department crew were our heroes. They kept the greenhouse running in all types of weather, and I never suffered a crop loss in the twenty five years I taught here. They were exceptional and understood the intricacies of running a successful greenhouse. I couldn’t have worked with a better support system. They made the program a success. The warden eventually retired, but before leaving he sat down with me and told me that he appreciated my persistence. It was my persistence that made all the difference. I was able to take his vision and make it happen. He informed me that not everyone in the MDOC supports prison Horticulture. He was sure I would have problems in the future with this program, but that my persistence to give it credibility would make it successful. I was motivated to make it work, but I didn’t realize the stress it would bring me. My naivete was evident. By the Grace of God went I.

“Everybody has to have a buddy working behind the fences of this prison”, said our school principal. He believed the teachers needed to check on each other between classes making sure we were ok. The academic teachers watched out for each other and the vocational teachers did the same. We still carried our body alarms, and were told to use them if we were ever threatened by prisoners, but we still made sure we could see each other while class was in session. Our classrooms looked like fish tanks, with the wall facing the corridors being made of tempered glass from about waste up to the ceiling. The students and teachers were all visible from the corridor. Later in my career, we received cameras in our classrooms as well, for added protection. The school officer could see what was happening in all the classrooms from his podium screen.

There were times when the officers would come intro our classrooms and make an arrest. That didn’t happen to often, but when it did, it raised a few eyebrows. The prisoners would comment between each other about the officers just protecting “their snitch” or things like that “dirty bitch finally got caught.” I never really paid much attention to it and filed it under things that happen in my prison-classroom. On one busy morning I was reminded that this was a prison and the violence is unpredictable. I was wrapping up my morning class going over with my tutors what we accomplished this morning, and what I was planning for the afternoon class. The classroom across the hall from me was empty, so I thought, and the lights were turned off. The door was opened to the hallway. As I was instructing my tutors, inmate students for another class had tried to enter the darkened room. They were immediately stopped by a table that had been dropped, with a bang, on its side blocking the door, and their entrance. Then I heard the words, “go any further and I slit this bitches throat.” No one was visible in the room with the lights out.

The student inmates began walking back down the corridor towards the officer station, and I asked my tutors to leave the classroom as well. My heart began to pump a little faster as I called our officers station letting him know what had just happened. I was totally surprised when one of our programs personnel, who had heard what had just happened, rushed to the room, pushed the table out of the way, and flipped on the lights. She started laughing, more like a sigh of relief, seeing that this was nothing more than a drill conducted by our administration, and her partner had not been taken hostage. I questioned her as to why she thought her actions would not have gotten her partner or her killed had this been a real hostage taking incident? Her response was awesome, and I knew her “appointed buddy” was glad to have her as his partner. “He’s my friend, and we have been through thick and thin in this environment. He was scheduled to teach a class in this room, and I thought he was taken hostage. The inmate would have to kill me as well, if we didn’t disarm him.” I was amazed by her bravery and dedication to her friend as my anxiety began to somewhat subside. I thought, what an awesome woman. ..TO BE CONTINUED .. JOHN 1: 16-17

One of the worst situations in prison is a full blown riot. I did not experience the riot at The Southern Michigan Prison in Jackson in 1981 but I had worked with colleagues who had. They had informed me that there was a big riff between the prison administration and the corrections officers, and that over a period of time it had gotten very bad. The officers felt the administration was being too lenient on prisoners and the administration felt the officers were being too hard. The officers started calling off and were not coming to work in protest of the prison administration policies. To balance the 1981 budget the Governor began giving state workers unpaid days off. (I had experienced quite a few of those in my 25 year career in MDOC) The combination of the CO’s calling off, and the States mandated unpaid off days, made for a skeleton crew on a Memorial Day Holiday weekend. The CO’s not feeling safe behind the walls of Americas largest walled prison, decided to lock it down, against the the prison administrations orders not to. The prison administrators would later call that decision “A Mutiny.”

The officers concerned for their comrades safety didn’t care what the administrators called it or what discipline would be issued. They locked the prison down. To do so on a Holiday weekend would rile the inmates and it did. Their visits would be cancelled, the yard would be closed, and they would not leave their cells. When an officer went to close one of the cell blocks he was stabbed by one of the inmates and his keys were taken. This action began the riot as the inmate began opening all the cells in that block. The prisoners emerged with clubs and home made knives, called shanks. They began assaulting other inmates, those deemed snitches, and anyone who tried to stop them. I have seen the cruelty of what men can do to men in this setting, and I would not have wanted to be at work that day. Once the riot began at the Southern Complex in Jackson, riots began in Ionia, and Marquette’s State prisons. With the help of the State police and the Corrections Officers, the complexes were brought under control. It took five days. The officers were blamed and fired.

Unfortunately, history has a way of repeating itself. In 2023 the MDOC is again rife with vacancies and can not fill the openings. They are once again short staffed. Officers now are mandated to work overtime, some 16 hours a day. It leads to more vacancies as staff leave to find other jobs. It would help if the state would give the same benefits to the Corrections Staff working inside the prisons that they give State Police Officers. I believe this would help in the recruitment and retention of good, qualified, Corrections Staff. I believe the prisons are much more dangerous than they were in the 1980’s. The technology is ever evolving, and as hard as it is to keep it away from inmates, they always find a way of obtaining it. Burner phones keep them in contact with gang members. Smart phones are used to search out addresses, harass witnesses, staff, and solicit murder. The shortages in staff make it all the more easier for inmates to get this technology, and use it. I believe the MDOC needs to make some major changes in Corrections staff benefits, as they are currently leaving to find other employment. Employment that isn’t quite this dangerous. The continued vacancies and prison violence should be a wanted change agent for a current apathetic administration. Let’s not repeat the past. TO BE CONTINUED…

Mayhem finds Putin’s cook Slava Ukraini Glory to the Heroes

Psalm 139: 23-24

I don’t know where he thought he was. He was in the middle of our garden just picking everything he could get his hands on and stuffing them inside his state issued prison uniform. The out of bounds signs didn’t register with him, the orange snow fencing that separated the walkway from the garden didn’t stop him and when I began to question him, he bolted back to the housing unit. However, he was met by two officers who stopped him as I was following right behind him. He was asked to produce identification by the officers and he claimed he left it in his room and wanted to go get it. “Not so fast slick, ” the officers stopped him from leaving and then found the unit manager who identified the inmate. Not having his Identification was an issue. The officers asked him to remove his jacket. When he unzipped it about twelve large bell peppers fell out of the front of it. “Oh boy look at that,” one of the officers exclaimed. I was asked if he was my student and I informed them he was not. I informed them that I saw him in the garden and when I began to question him, he bolted.

“Not good,” they exclaimed. They directed him to remove his coat, and when he did, about thirty wax peppers fell to the ground out of his sleeves. The officers shook their heads. “looks like you are going into the vegetable selling business here Mr. B, but these aren’t yours to sell.” They then directed him to empty his pants pockets, and one of the officers examined his coat. “Interesting'” the officer exclaimed. “This coat has sown in pockets through both sleeves, the back and front of it.” I was later told what the ramifications of that was. The inmate was then asked by the officers if he had removed everything from his pants pockets and he informed them he had. There were over 100 cherry tomatoes now laying on the ground. The officers began their frisk and they stopped immediately. “what’s this under your shirt tucked into your waist ban, ” they asked? I immediately thought it was a weapon and I was shocked to see him remove a watermelon. The officers couldn’t stop laughing. I wasn’t smiling, and neither was the thief.

The officers asked him one more time, “is this everything?” He reluctantly informed them that his pants have the same pockets sown into them as his jacket did and they were full of cucumbers. They weren’t going to strip search him here. Instead they handcuffed him and lead him to our segregation unit. They said they would get back with me and I directed my tutors to pick up the stolen produce. I had them put it all out on the tables in the greenhouse. When the officers brought me the rest of the stolen produce it was all photographed as evidence. I would write a theft ticket, as well as, and an out of place ticket for him being in the garden. I didn’t quite understand why he had to steal. I was sharing our garden produce with the prisoner chow hall and they were all getting fresh vegetables. My tutors informed me he had a serious drug problem and was using the produce to pay his bills. Drug addiction in prison was not a good thing, The officers brought us another five gallon pale of cucumbers. He must have a hell of a habit to steal this much, I thought.

Once my tutors left, the officers informed me that the clothes were altered not for stealing but for escaping. The prisoner could stuff that altered uniform with what ever he could find and make an attempt to climb over the consertina wired fences. That was probably on his agenda as well. Today that would not be the case for him. He would receive the tickets I had written him, along with the photographed evidence, and he would stay in the segregation unit. After his hearing on the tickets I had written, he would eventually be transferred to a higher security prison. I had made a note to suggest he be drug tested and I don’t know if that was acted on. I do know that he would not be the first inmate to steal produce from the garden, and he wouldn’t be the last. The garden was just too inviting, and hard to stay away from when the produce was ripening for unrepentant thieves. I informed our school principal that I was going to start writing attempted escape tickets when catching inmates stealing from the garden. I would say they were picking up provisions on the way to the fences. He laughed. He didn’t think that would fly with the prison administration. However, he didn’t tell me not to and I decided that if I caught another inmate stealing from our garden, that’s what I would do.

To BE CONTINUED…

War Criminal not getting what he wanted Slava Ukraini Glory to the heroes

ACTS: 1-12

A week had passed by since I wrote the tickets on Mr. Obscenity. I was working with two of my students in the flower gardens next to the healthcare building and the segregation unit. A corrections transportation van had been parked next to the segregation unit where they normally bring prisoners in for processing or take prisoners out. I wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Obscenity being led out in handcuffs, belly chains, and shackles. At the same time a sergeant was video filming his departure. Mr. Obscenity caught a look at us working in the flower garden and went into a tirade. He started a ballistic verbal attack and threatened us with, “he paid for us to be hit.” A hit in the prison was a very real thing. I was surprised he would threaten us while being video taped. It didn’t matter to him. He was led into the van and took his seat reluctantly. It was obvious he was very unhappy. I wondered if he had paid for the hits? My students were not concerned, and laughing told him, ” sit back, enjoy the ride.” This only infuriated Mr. Obscenity.

He once again lashed into a tirade directed at me, and what a “fuckin pussy I was teaching prisoners how to grow flowers!” The officers slammed the van door shut, smiled at us, as if in agreement with Mr. Obscenity’s comment, and began their long journey. After the van pulled through the sally port, the yard sergeant made his way over to me, and informed me of the following: Mr. Obscenity was not on his way to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula higher security prisons. He was being transported to the Federal Bureau of Investigations’ Office in Detroit where he would be met by two Federal Marshalls. He would then be transported by the Marshalls to the Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Waiting for him there would be two officers from Interpol, accompanied by two Malaysian field agents. He was wanted in Malaysia for drug and human trafficking, as well as Singapore. Mr. Obscenity wasn’t aware of this and would be in total shock. Both countries carried the death penalty for the offences he was accused of. If he didn’t know that, I was sure he would be made aware of it on his returning flight.

I would not hear about his case for many years. The violence he threatened us with never transpired, and my students informed me he was “full of shit.” They thought he was delusional. They believed he wasn’t at the prison long enough to establish himself as someone to fear. He was a name dropper who used names to intimidate other inmates or staff if necessary. That’s how he operated. I didn’t share with them what I knew about him, what I believed his fate would be, or what the yard sergeant had told me. My thoughts were on the first time I had met Mr. Obscenity and his friends in my youth. How I vowed to myself and God that I would never treat anyone as bad as he and his friends treated others not part of their group. Making fun of the way they dressed, talked, looked. and just not being cool enough. It didn’t surprise me that he would be involved in the crimes he was accused of. He was practicing for it in his youth. Although, it was the first time I had heard of an inmate being picked up by Interpol, I thought, he was now going to reap the fruits of his harvest. In his own alienating vernacular, back in his day, ”he’s way too cool for you.” TO BE CONTINUED…

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