Sam Satterfield was the very first prison school principal sent there in 1943 by the University of Wisconsin to make engineers, lawyers, and doctors out of inmates. "First," Sam told university officials, "these men have to learn how to read and write."
University officials were dumfounded.
In my classroom with twelve student desks, one man studied American literature while another worked on basic spelling rules. A third worked at a grammar course; a fourth was deep in thought. Others were practicing writing four-paragraph themes in which the writer makes two points in the first paragraph. The second paragraph examines point one. The third scrutinizes point two, and the fourth is the conclusion paragraph, of course, bringing up the two points made in the first paragraph.
Class attendance was sporadic. Some students with lengthy sentences accepted choice jobs. Shop superintendents warned that even an hour's absence wasn't possible. Other students might have broken prison rules, ending up in the Greenhouse, the hole, the length of time depending upon the seriousness of the infraction. Once completing their "hole time," men returned to class, acting as if they'd never been "away" possibly a full year, or more. Other reasons for student absences were due to their being taken to a county jail on court order, lining up for sick call, lying in a hospital bed or in a cell on Idle Gang, or being escorted on a funeral visit of a close family member.
I'd go over with each new student his scores on academic tests he had taken at the start of his incarceration. I told him, "I'll take you where you're at, assign you to a self-paced programed course (I'd show him the book's exterior and then get you to where you eventually want to be. How does that sound?"
That question was met with an enthusiastic nod. I then produced a simple contract which we signed. In it, the man promised to study; I promised I'd meet with him whenever he wished my help, or when I wanted to discuss his progress, or lack of it.
First, I showed him how to work a programed course and then I grabbed a large blank manila envelope, wrote his cell number on top and name and institution number under that with a black magic marker. If the man wished to study in his cell, he stuffed his book, blank sheets of paper, and a pencil in the envelope and after class, he placed the envelope in a large basket with a handle near the school officer.
Our inmate "runner" delivered numerous baskets, stuffed with student envelopes, to one of four cell halls, each holding 250 one-man cells. Runners, assigned to each shop or program area, wore sewn-on white, upside down triangle shoulder patches, which designated they could walk around the institution without paper passes.
Arriving at the cell hall, the student could pick up his envelope and take it with him to his cell. The next morning, he placed the material in a basket. Our runner retrieved the baskets and delivered envelopes to each classroom before the start of morning classes.
Most inmates had especially loathed English classes "on the bricks," but since a written theme was part of the test for the high school equivalency diploma, each knew he had to first learn basic spelling and grammar. The best programed courses for learning grammar are designed by teacher Joseph C. Blumenthal. Blumenthal's books are entitled 2200, basic; 2600, high school; and 3200, advanced.
Besides those individualized classes, I offered a Great Books discussion course in addition to a creative writing class once a week, in which I sometimes held group discussions. (Inmate writers were more talkers than writers).
Otherwise, my room was as silent as a corpse in a casket while men studied. If a student had a question, he raised his hand. I either nodded, which meant he should come to my desk that had a chair by its side where he'd sit, or I rose and gave him the help he needed at his desk. We whispered so we wouldn't bother other students.
During my eighth week, one man positioned his workbook on my desktop, leaned over, opened the workbook, and displayed a shank, a prison-made knife. "I want you to hold this for me," he said.
"Huh?" was my amazed response.
"Put it in your middle desk drawer, please. That way, I'll know where it is. There's a guy up here who said he's going to kill me. I need that for protection."
Not wanting him to keep the knife, I accepted it and dropped it into the middle drawer. His smile and nod seemed to say we now shared a two-man top secret. After he returned to his desk, I grabbed the knife from the drawer, approached the doorway, called to the librarian, and without explanation asked him to supervise my classroom for a brief period. I gave the knife to Officer Evan "Ev" Wedman, letting him know which inmate had given it to me. I returned to my classroom, thanking the librarian. He asked me what happened. I said I'd tell him later.
In no time at all, four big blueshirts exploded into my classroom. "Which man?" a sergeant demanded. I pointed. The three-striper ordered the offending inmate to stand and take everything he had in his pockets and place them on top of his desk. After that, two blueshirts gave him a shakedown before the four escorted him out of the school and to the Greenhouse.
Once that scene was history, some students chortled. "Why are you grinning?" I asked.
"Because the muhfuh' was testing you but he found out you ain't goin' for that shit," said a young black man.
"What do you mean?"
"It's easy. You ain't supposed to hold nothin' for us, 'specially a weapon. If you wouldn't have did what you done, he had somethin' on you and then woulda' told you tomorrow to bring in somethin' small, like candy or gum, and then later it would be booze or dope, maybe even a gun, and if you didn't do what he tole you, he'd snitch you out to the man and make sure you got fired."
I wrote my first conduct report and confronted the inmate who handed me the shank in kangaroo court. He didn't deny what he had done. He was sentenced to 120 days in the hole, the first three days on bread and water. After that, he returned to my class and gave me no trouble.
I was tested by other inmates in many different ways after that but never with their asking me to stash weapons for them. The word was out: "Smullen don't play."
University officials were dumfounded.
In my classroom with twelve student desks, one man studied American literature while another worked on basic spelling rules. A third worked at a grammar course; a fourth was deep in thought. Others were practicing writing four-paragraph themes in which the writer makes two points in the first paragraph. The second paragraph examines point one. The third scrutinizes point two, and the fourth is the conclusion paragraph, of course, bringing up the two points made in the first paragraph.
Class attendance was sporadic. Some students with lengthy sentences accepted choice jobs. Shop superintendents warned that even an hour's absence wasn't possible. Other students might have broken prison rules, ending up in the Greenhouse, the hole, the length of time depending upon the seriousness of the infraction. Once completing their "hole time," men returned to class, acting as if they'd never been "away" possibly a full year, or more. Other reasons for student absences were due to their being taken to a county jail on court order, lining up for sick call, lying in a hospital bed or in a cell on Idle Gang, or being escorted on a funeral visit of a close family member.
I'd go over with each new student his scores on academic tests he had taken at the start of his incarceration. I told him, "I'll take you where you're at, assign you to a self-paced programed course (I'd show him the book's exterior and then get you to where you eventually want to be. How does that sound?"
That question was met with an enthusiastic nod. I then produced a simple contract which we signed. In it, the man promised to study; I promised I'd meet with him whenever he wished my help, or when I wanted to discuss his progress, or lack of it.
First, I showed him how to work a programed course and then I grabbed a large blank manila envelope, wrote his cell number on top and name and institution number under that with a black magic marker. If the man wished to study in his cell, he stuffed his book, blank sheets of paper, and a pencil in the envelope and after class, he placed the envelope in a large basket with a handle near the school officer.
Our inmate "runner" delivered numerous baskets, stuffed with student envelopes, to one of four cell halls, each holding 250 one-man cells. Runners, assigned to each shop or program area, wore sewn-on white, upside down triangle shoulder patches, which designated they could walk around the institution without paper passes.
Arriving at the cell hall, the student could pick up his envelope and take it with him to his cell. The next morning, he placed the material in a basket. Our runner retrieved the baskets and delivered envelopes to each classroom before the start of morning classes.
Most inmates had especially loathed English classes "on the bricks," but since a written theme was part of the test for the high school equivalency diploma, each knew he had to first learn basic spelling and grammar. The best programed courses for learning grammar are designed by teacher Joseph C. Blumenthal. Blumenthal's books are entitled 2200, basic; 2600, high school; and 3200, advanced.
Besides those individualized classes, I offered a Great Books discussion course in addition to a creative writing class once a week, in which I sometimes held group discussions. (Inmate writers were more talkers than writers).
Otherwise, my room was as silent as a corpse in a casket while men studied. If a student had a question, he raised his hand. I either nodded, which meant he should come to my desk that had a chair by its side where he'd sit, or I rose and gave him the help he needed at his desk. We whispered so we wouldn't bother other students.
During my eighth week, one man positioned his workbook on my desktop, leaned over, opened the workbook, and displayed a shank, a prison-made knife. "I want you to hold this for me," he said.
"Huh?" was my amazed response.
"Put it in your middle desk drawer, please. That way, I'll know where it is. There's a guy up here who said he's going to kill me. I need that for protection."
Not wanting him to keep the knife, I accepted it and dropped it into the middle drawer. His smile and nod seemed to say we now shared a two-man top secret. After he returned to his desk, I grabbed the knife from the drawer, approached the doorway, called to the librarian, and without explanation asked him to supervise my classroom for a brief period. I gave the knife to Officer Evan "Ev" Wedman, letting him know which inmate had given it to me. I returned to my classroom, thanking the librarian. He asked me what happened. I said I'd tell him later.
In no time at all, four big blueshirts exploded into my classroom. "Which man?" a sergeant demanded. I pointed. The three-striper ordered the offending inmate to stand and take everything he had in his pockets and place them on top of his desk. After that, two blueshirts gave him a shakedown before the four escorted him out of the school and to the Greenhouse.
Once that scene was history, some students chortled. "Why are you grinning?" I asked.
"Because the muhfuh' was testing you but he found out you ain't goin' for that shit," said a young black man.
"What do you mean?"
"It's easy. You ain't supposed to hold nothin' for us, 'specially a weapon. If you wouldn't have did what you done, he had somethin' on you and then woulda' told you tomorrow to bring in somethin' small, like candy or gum, and then later it would be booze or dope, maybe even a gun, and if you didn't do what he tole you, he'd snitch you out to the man and make sure you got fired."
I wrote my first conduct report and confronted the inmate who handed me the shank in kangaroo court. He didn't deny what he had done. He was sentenced to 120 days in the hole, the first three days on bread and water. After that, he returned to my class and gave me no trouble.
I was tested by other inmates in many different ways after that but never with their asking me to stash weapons for them. The word was out: "Smullen don't play."
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