Why, I can't be certain, but Ferguson, Missouri, prompted thoughts of my classroom experiences at both the maximum security Wisconsin State Prison (WSP) and the medium security Kettle Moraine Correctional Institution (KMCI).
In 1968, when I started teaching at WSP, a number of White and Black inmates volunteered to attend basic education classes, striving to learn the rudiments of spelling, grammar, and writing. Of those many students, a small number graduated to my advanced high school English classes because they wanted to earn their HED's, High School Equivalency Diplomas.
After their release, they told me they wanted good paying jobs. Most industrial employers insisted their higher paying jobs be filled by employees with a high school diploma or an HED. Also, most employers of my Black students resided in our largest cities of Milwaukee, Racine, Kenosha, Madison, Janesville, and Beloit. Because they were such willing and hardworking students, I felt deep satisfaction at the time for being a teacher.
One White student, Scott Poulter, doing five to twenty five for 2nd degree murder, had murdered a Black woman he had never before seen in his life. Drunk, while riding in a car, he grabbed a pistol and shot and murdered his unfortunate victim who was simply walking on the sidewalk, traveling from Point A to Point B. Poulter's rationale for the heinous crime? "She was there."
Naturally, when he enrolled in my class, many Black students treated him with utter contempt. I fully understood their feelings but warned them I would not permit student harassment in my classroom. Thus, they chose as a group to give the killer their total silent treatment. I saw that as no problem.
One day, Poulter asked me about poetry, and I started explaining rhyming technique, or lack thereof, and cadence of spoken language, when all of a sudden Poulter said, "Poets. They're fags. Aren't they?"
"Some are homosexual," I said, adding, "I write poetry and I happen to be heterosexual."
All the other students guffawed and pointed at Poulter.
"Now, now," I warned.
A few weeks later, Poulter not only started writing and showing his work to me for criticism, he eventually had a number of poems accepted by small magazine editors, much of his work exploring the senselessness of his crime and the personal fallout of his subsequent incarceration. His wife divorced him and remarried. He could only see his two young daughters occasionally, and that was in the prison's visiting room. Inmates are allowed one hug and kiss upon visitor entry and one hug and kiss when the visit was completed. No more. Or else.
A book of his poetry was published eighteen months after he first approached me about the subject, not knowing much at all about the basics of good writing. Two years later, he was named Wisconsin's "Poet of the Year." An article in the Milwaukee Journal's "Sunday" magazine featured a lengthy piece about him and me. It was a slick story, accompanied by photographs. My picture was there, the story making note of my teaching philosophy.
Black students not only read the article but started reading Poulter's poetry, especially those works concerning the irrationality of the horrific act although many of his poems concerned doing time in a five by five by eight foot cell. Doing time was no picnic, according to the poet, but the wall he had built for himself and the walls his fellow inmates had constructed for themselves were much higher and thicker than the state could ever erect. Soon, many Black students began to treat Poulter as just another inmate, viewing him as they viewed themselves, men who defied society's rules but wanted to change their lives around and become productive citizens upon their release.
Don't get me wrong. All my students didn't want to become law abiders. Many men I taught were dedicated criminals and intended to stay that way. Doing time was just a small bump in the road for their chosen lifestyles. When one criminal returned with new time, I overheard a fellow dedicated felon ask him how much time he received from the judge. "A dime," the man answered, which meant ten years.
The other man chortled and said, "I could do that standing on my head."
When WSP morphed into Waupun Correctional Institution (WCI), Wisconsin legislators deemed it a proviso that all inmates, in order to become eligible for parole, had to have an HED. What an asinine move. Many basic education inmates could not read or write, no matter how desperately they tried to learn. One day, they'd "get it." The next day, they'd report, "I forgot." Thus, those students would have to do all the time the judge gave them. I explained to my superiors in Madison the folly of the legislative dictate. Madison paid no heed.
Eventually many men, unable to learn how to read and write at the basic level, were transferred to Kettle Moraine Correctional Institution where they would be given full time schooling. Six years after I was held hostage in a riot at Waupun, I applied for a transfer and was accepted as a basic education teacher at Kettle Moraine where the majority of inmates were expected to attend fulltime classes. As was the case in Waupun, some of my Black students studied hard at KMCI. However, they were either shunned or called out by fellow Black inmates because it was obvious to them serious students didn't know what they were doing.
I had one large, tall loudmouthed individual in my classroom who exhorted fellow Blacks to shun learning. "What do you want to become, a Hunky like your teacher?" He pointed at me and laughed. I told him to be quiet.
"Did you know," he suddenly asked of me, loud enough for everyone to hear, "that human life started in Africa?"
"Yes. Now, would you please be quiet, Bro."
"Bro? You're no Bro," he countered with a dismissing wave of his hand.
"As you said, human life started in Africa. Thus, my ancestors were African as were yours, correct?"
He thought about that for a while and then answered softly, "Yeah, but you're no Bro." Most students in the classroom muffled their laughter.
Next, I asked the man if he had ever read Pogo. "Read him? I know him. He got out of Waupun a few years back."
"No," I said, "not that Pogo. The one I'm talking about is an animal character in the Sunday newspaper cartoon section." Reading his demeanor, I assumed he wasn't aware of the comic strip. I then continued. "The Pogo I'm talking about said about human nature, 'We have met the enemy, and he is us'."
"That's dumb," the large man retorted.
I smiled and did not say another word. He, however, never again warned any of my serious students not to study hard.
Why, I don't know, but what has taken place in Ferguson, Missouri, reminded me of those two classroom experiences.
In 1968, when I started teaching at WSP, a number of White and Black inmates volunteered to attend basic education classes, striving to learn the rudiments of spelling, grammar, and writing. Of those many students, a small number graduated to my advanced high school English classes because they wanted to earn their HED's, High School Equivalency Diplomas.
After their release, they told me they wanted good paying jobs. Most industrial employers insisted their higher paying jobs be filled by employees with a high school diploma or an HED. Also, most employers of my Black students resided in our largest cities of Milwaukee, Racine, Kenosha, Madison, Janesville, and Beloit. Because they were such willing and hardworking students, I felt deep satisfaction at the time for being a teacher.
One White student, Scott Poulter, doing five to twenty five for 2nd degree murder, had murdered a Black woman he had never before seen in his life. Drunk, while riding in a car, he grabbed a pistol and shot and murdered his unfortunate victim who was simply walking on the sidewalk, traveling from Point A to Point B. Poulter's rationale for the heinous crime? "She was there."
Naturally, when he enrolled in my class, many Black students treated him with utter contempt. I fully understood their feelings but warned them I would not permit student harassment in my classroom. Thus, they chose as a group to give the killer their total silent treatment. I saw that as no problem.
One day, Poulter asked me about poetry, and I started explaining rhyming technique, or lack thereof, and cadence of spoken language, when all of a sudden Poulter said, "Poets. They're fags. Aren't they?"
"Some are homosexual," I said, adding, "I write poetry and I happen to be heterosexual."
All the other students guffawed and pointed at Poulter.
"Now, now," I warned.
A few weeks later, Poulter not only started writing and showing his work to me for criticism, he eventually had a number of poems accepted by small magazine editors, much of his work exploring the senselessness of his crime and the personal fallout of his subsequent incarceration. His wife divorced him and remarried. He could only see his two young daughters occasionally, and that was in the prison's visiting room. Inmates are allowed one hug and kiss upon visitor entry and one hug and kiss when the visit was completed. No more. Or else.
A book of his poetry was published eighteen months after he first approached me about the subject, not knowing much at all about the basics of good writing. Two years later, he was named Wisconsin's "Poet of the Year." An article in the Milwaukee Journal's "Sunday" magazine featured a lengthy piece about him and me. It was a slick story, accompanied by photographs. My picture was there, the story making note of my teaching philosophy.
Black students not only read the article but started reading Poulter's poetry, especially those works concerning the irrationality of the horrific act although many of his poems concerned doing time in a five by five by eight foot cell. Doing time was no picnic, according to the poet, but the wall he had built for himself and the walls his fellow inmates had constructed for themselves were much higher and thicker than the state could ever erect. Soon, many Black students began to treat Poulter as just another inmate, viewing him as they viewed themselves, men who defied society's rules but wanted to change their lives around and become productive citizens upon their release.
Don't get me wrong. All my students didn't want to become law abiders. Many men I taught were dedicated criminals and intended to stay that way. Doing time was just a small bump in the road for their chosen lifestyles. When one criminal returned with new time, I overheard a fellow dedicated felon ask him how much time he received from the judge. "A dime," the man answered, which meant ten years.
The other man chortled and said, "I could do that standing on my head."
When WSP morphed into Waupun Correctional Institution (WCI), Wisconsin legislators deemed it a proviso that all inmates, in order to become eligible for parole, had to have an HED. What an asinine move. Many basic education inmates could not read or write, no matter how desperately they tried to learn. One day, they'd "get it." The next day, they'd report, "I forgot." Thus, those students would have to do all the time the judge gave them. I explained to my superiors in Madison the folly of the legislative dictate. Madison paid no heed.
Eventually many men, unable to learn how to read and write at the basic level, were transferred to Kettle Moraine Correctional Institution where they would be given full time schooling. Six years after I was held hostage in a riot at Waupun, I applied for a transfer and was accepted as a basic education teacher at Kettle Moraine where the majority of inmates were expected to attend fulltime classes. As was the case in Waupun, some of my Black students studied hard at KMCI. However, they were either shunned or called out by fellow Black inmates because it was obvious to them serious students didn't know what they were doing.
I had one large, tall loudmouthed individual in my classroom who exhorted fellow Blacks to shun learning. "What do you want to become, a Hunky like your teacher?" He pointed at me and laughed. I told him to be quiet.
"Did you know," he suddenly asked of me, loud enough for everyone to hear, "that human life started in Africa?"
"Yes. Now, would you please be quiet, Bro."
"Bro? You're no Bro," he countered with a dismissing wave of his hand.
"As you said, human life started in Africa. Thus, my ancestors were African as were yours, correct?"
He thought about that for a while and then answered softly, "Yeah, but you're no Bro." Most students in the classroom muffled their laughter.
Next, I asked the man if he had ever read Pogo. "Read him? I know him. He got out of Waupun a few years back."
"No," I said, "not that Pogo. The one I'm talking about is an animal character in the Sunday newspaper cartoon section." Reading his demeanor, I assumed he wasn't aware of the comic strip. I then continued. "The Pogo I'm talking about said about human nature, 'We have met the enemy, and he is us'."
"That's dumb," the large man retorted.
I smiled and did not say another word. He, however, never again warned any of my serious students not to study hard.
Why, I don't know, but what has taken place in Ferguson, Missouri, reminded me of those two classroom experiences.
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