The Wisconsin State Prison's academic school was located on the second floor of a one hundred year old stone building. On its ground floor were the welding shop, machine shop, yard gang, and sign department.
Because the institution's former English teacher had taken over the librarian's job after the previous librarian had retired, my first classroom was next to the library and away from all the other classrooms. Arnie Jensen, the school principal, and I might add the best boss I ever served under, assigned me to that classroom.
In the other classrooms, inmates could learn typing, drafting & blueprint reading, advanced mathematics, sociology, adult basic education, and basic mathematics. Welding classes were taught below the library. The music classroom was adjacent to the Upper Laundry in the laundry building. Average number of students in each class was twelve.
Directly behind the academic school was the old visiting room which, at the time I started work, housed the mail department where officers read incoming and outgoing inmate mail.
Before the second floor was remodeled into a school, inmates produced nylon stockings in that area for a privately owned manufacturer that had contracted with the state. During the country's Depression, state legislators enacted a law which halted any private contractual work done by prison inmates. That bill was lauded by law-abiding workers who didn't want convicted felons to take the jobs they needed.
It didn't bother me at first that I was isolated from the other classroom teachers who were "down the hall." However, I felt the librarian entered my classroom much too often while students were present and warned me about such and such man in my room with whom he had prior problems.
Simply, I encountered no behavioral problems whatsoever in my first six months of employment. Each inmate was in my classroom because he wanted to be there in order to learn grammar and how to read and write and speak well and also to pass his state-approved high school equivalency test.
From the very beginning, I addressed each man by his last name, preceded by the word, "Mister." It was common courtesy on my part but the students were amazed I did so, they told me. Usually, staff referred to them by last name or Institution number.
All students were part time. Each had an assigned job at which he worked either in the morning or afternoon. Thus, each morning student worked weekday afternoons, and the afternoon student worked at his assigned job in the mornings. Inmate pay was thirty-five cents a day, which enabled them to buy a pack of cigarettes.
If the inmate didn't want to spend all his earnings on manufactured cigarettes, called "tailor made" or "squares," he could purchase a can of Bugle tobacco and roll his own. Just about everyone smoked, including me.
Smoking was allowed in the school once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Before the bell announced smoke break, most students and teachers had cigarettes dangling from their lips with a match in hand, ready to strike the moment the bell sounded. Smoke break lasted for fifteen minutes. Each ended when the second bell rang.
Two cigarettes a day were not enough for me. So, I made occasional visits to the teacher's bathroom, a small 5X5 foot room, and there I'd get my extra smokes.
Each teacher received one hour of preparation time at differing class periods of the day. Most teachers during their prep time left the school and walked over to the Officer's Lounge on the second floor of the administration building in order to buy a cup of coffee from a machine and enjoy a smoke break. It didn't take me long to follow suit.
Dave Schafer, the advanced mathematics teacher, and Charlie Bare, the sociology teacher, had the same prep time as I. We three, virtual chain smokers, drank coffee and chatted about numerous subjects, none of them too serious.
At the start of each class, we teachers took roll and submitted our attendance sheets to the principal's office within a few minutes. There, the principal's civilian clerk, Wayne Linde, would go over the attendance sheet and contact the security office if the missing man wasn't on sick call or named on the daily Change Sheet as being out of the prison on court order, in the hospital, on a funeral visit, or doing time in the Greenhouse.
Since it was a maximum security prison, it's obvious that supervision of inmate movement was a top priority.
Inmates attended school only if the shop or cell hall officer who supervised them received a "pass" from the school officer, a small paper chit, also signed by the security director.
Their supervising officer would call out the man's name and remind him of the pass. Promptly and expectedly, the man changed from work clothes to his khakis. His shop officer then wrote the exact time the man left the shop before he was allowed to make his way to the school.
While each inmate walked outdoors on concrete walkways between the buildings, he had to carry the pass in full sight in his right hand. Naturally, if he was missing a right hand, the left hand, in that case, would do. If the pass was not in plain sight, tower officers ordered the man to stop before the tower officer radioed the security office.
At least two "Utility" blue shirts were ordered to check out the problem. Nobody ran, including utility officers, unless there was a fight or an assault underway and tower officers were first warned by "Control." Utility officers, however, walked hurriedly and forcefully. Everyone got out of their way.
If utility officers felt the inmate did not have a legitimate excuse for not displaying his pass, (there was no legitimate excuse) they ordered the inmate to first empty his pockets, hold in his hands whatever was in his pockets, and then raise both hands high in the air while officers gave him a quick shakedown (exterior body pat search) in order to discover if he carried any weapons or contraband.
Once the shakedown was completed, the officers wordlessly pointed the direction the inmate had to start walking. He already knew where he was going—to the Adjustment Center—Madison's Central Office official name for the building. WSP inmates and staff referred to the building with its exterior green walls as either the Greenhouse or the hole.
In that building, talking was not allowed except for a half hour each day. Greenhouse inmates were allowed one hour of recreation a day. They spent the other twenty three hours locked up in a 5x8x8 cell. Recreation took place in a chain link fenced area, five feet wide and twenty-five feet long, attached to the rear of the building. The building had six recreation areas, one assigned to a "group," if inmates had made a request to be in a group of three. These rec. areas were appropriately called, "dog runs." Recreation consisted of walking, running in place, and pushups, or just plain enjoying the out of doors.
Each inmate given a school pass was fully aware he had but five minutes to show up at the school. When he approached school officer Evan Wedman at his desk, located between the classrooms and the library and my classroom, Wedman checked the official wall clock and then wrote down the time and signed his initials to the pass. If the student was one minute late, Wedman told the man to remain at his desk while he telephoned the security office.
Shortly, two utility blue shirts arrived at Wedman's desk. They told the man to empty his pockets and place whatever was in them on the officer's desk. Then, they ordered the man to hold his hands high in the air. While he did so, the officers shook him down. Finished, they told him to pick up his things and return them to his pockets before they pointed the way out of the building and escorted the inmate to the Greenhouse where he remained locked down, pending investigation. His status was termed, "Temporary Lockup," or TLU.
If his stated reason for being late was found to be questionable, which was nearly always, he then faced the Associate Warden of Security in court, held in the Greenhouse basement each weekday afternoon. Inmates and staff referred to this court as the Kangaroo Court, composed of a social worker, teacher, and Roger Crist, the Associate Warden of Security. If Crist was not available, a captain took his place. Crist invariably had his sap, or blackjack, ever at the ready. If a man even thought of making an aggressive move toward Crist, that leather-covered lead-weighted club most effectively changed his mind.
Besides that blackjack, four huge correctional officers were just outside the windowed room, ready to enter the room and take care of the assaultive inmate.
After Crist read the charge and let the man explain what happened—it better be quick and concise—Crist normally said, "Guilty," a second later eyeballing first the social worker and then the teacher, each nodding his agreement with the judgment. Sometimes, Crist gave the man a break. No matter, we had better agree with Crist, or else.
Since work was considered a privilege, if an inmate decided he didn't want to perform his assigned job, he was given a shakedown before being escorted to the Greenhouse and referred to the Kangaroo Court and found guilty of malingering.
While assigned to Idle Gang, the inmate was not allowed to do any work of any kind at all. Even whispering to the man in the next cell was considered work and a violation of rules—which would guarantee him additional time in the hole plus anywhere from three to nine days on bread and water, depending upon the seriousness of the violation. Every fourth day, he would be given a full meal. Being assigned to Idle Gang must've been awfully boring because there weren't too many men who remained in that status for long.
Because the institution's former English teacher had taken over the librarian's job after the previous librarian had retired, my first classroom was next to the library and away from all the other classrooms. Arnie Jensen, the school principal, and I might add the best boss I ever served under, assigned me to that classroom.
In the other classrooms, inmates could learn typing, drafting & blueprint reading, advanced mathematics, sociology, adult basic education, and basic mathematics. Welding classes were taught below the library. The music classroom was adjacent to the Upper Laundry in the laundry building. Average number of students in each class was twelve.
Directly behind the academic school was the old visiting room which, at the time I started work, housed the mail department where officers read incoming and outgoing inmate mail.
Before the second floor was remodeled into a school, inmates produced nylon stockings in that area for a privately owned manufacturer that had contracted with the state. During the country's Depression, state legislators enacted a law which halted any private contractual work done by prison inmates. That bill was lauded by law-abiding workers who didn't want convicted felons to take the jobs they needed.
It didn't bother me at first that I was isolated from the other classroom teachers who were "down the hall." However, I felt the librarian entered my classroom much too often while students were present and warned me about such and such man in my room with whom he had prior problems.
Simply, I encountered no behavioral problems whatsoever in my first six months of employment. Each inmate was in my classroom because he wanted to be there in order to learn grammar and how to read and write and speak well and also to pass his state-approved high school equivalency test.
From the very beginning, I addressed each man by his last name, preceded by the word, "Mister." It was common courtesy on my part but the students were amazed I did so, they told me. Usually, staff referred to them by last name or Institution number.
All students were part time. Each had an assigned job at which he worked either in the morning or afternoon. Thus, each morning student worked weekday afternoons, and the afternoon student worked at his assigned job in the mornings. Inmate pay was thirty-five cents a day, which enabled them to buy a pack of cigarettes.
If the inmate didn't want to spend all his earnings on manufactured cigarettes, called "tailor made" or "squares," he could purchase a can of Bugle tobacco and roll his own. Just about everyone smoked, including me.
Smoking was allowed in the school once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Before the bell announced smoke break, most students and teachers had cigarettes dangling from their lips with a match in hand, ready to strike the moment the bell sounded. Smoke break lasted for fifteen minutes. Each ended when the second bell rang.
Two cigarettes a day were not enough for me. So, I made occasional visits to the teacher's bathroom, a small 5X5 foot room, and there I'd get my extra smokes.
Each teacher received one hour of preparation time at differing class periods of the day. Most teachers during their prep time left the school and walked over to the Officer's Lounge on the second floor of the administration building in order to buy a cup of coffee from a machine and enjoy a smoke break. It didn't take me long to follow suit.
Dave Schafer, the advanced mathematics teacher, and Charlie Bare, the sociology teacher, had the same prep time as I. We three, virtual chain smokers, drank coffee and chatted about numerous subjects, none of them too serious.
At the start of each class, we teachers took roll and submitted our attendance sheets to the principal's office within a few minutes. There, the principal's civilian clerk, Wayne Linde, would go over the attendance sheet and contact the security office if the missing man wasn't on sick call or named on the daily Change Sheet as being out of the prison on court order, in the hospital, on a funeral visit, or doing time in the Greenhouse.
Since it was a maximum security prison, it's obvious that supervision of inmate movement was a top priority.
Inmates attended school only if the shop or cell hall officer who supervised them received a "pass" from the school officer, a small paper chit, also signed by the security director.
Their supervising officer would call out the man's name and remind him of the pass. Promptly and expectedly, the man changed from work clothes to his khakis. His shop officer then wrote the exact time the man left the shop before he was allowed to make his way to the school.
While each inmate walked outdoors on concrete walkways between the buildings, he had to carry the pass in full sight in his right hand. Naturally, if he was missing a right hand, the left hand, in that case, would do. If the pass was not in plain sight, tower officers ordered the man to stop before the tower officer radioed the security office.
At least two "Utility" blue shirts were ordered to check out the problem. Nobody ran, including utility officers, unless there was a fight or an assault underway and tower officers were first warned by "Control." Utility officers, however, walked hurriedly and forcefully. Everyone got out of their way.
If utility officers felt the inmate did not have a legitimate excuse for not displaying his pass, (there was no legitimate excuse) they ordered the inmate to first empty his pockets, hold in his hands whatever was in his pockets, and then raise both hands high in the air while officers gave him a quick shakedown (exterior body pat search) in order to discover if he carried any weapons or contraband.
Once the shakedown was completed, the officers wordlessly pointed the direction the inmate had to start walking. He already knew where he was going—to the Adjustment Center—Madison's Central Office official name for the building. WSP inmates and staff referred to the building with its exterior green walls as either the Greenhouse or the hole.
In that building, talking was not allowed except for a half hour each day. Greenhouse inmates were allowed one hour of recreation a day. They spent the other twenty three hours locked up in a 5x8x8 cell. Recreation took place in a chain link fenced area, five feet wide and twenty-five feet long, attached to the rear of the building. The building had six recreation areas, one assigned to a "group," if inmates had made a request to be in a group of three. These rec. areas were appropriately called, "dog runs." Recreation consisted of walking, running in place, and pushups, or just plain enjoying the out of doors.
Each inmate given a school pass was fully aware he had but five minutes to show up at the school. When he approached school officer Evan Wedman at his desk, located between the classrooms and the library and my classroom, Wedman checked the official wall clock and then wrote down the time and signed his initials to the pass. If the student was one minute late, Wedman told the man to remain at his desk while he telephoned the security office.
Shortly, two utility blue shirts arrived at Wedman's desk. They told the man to empty his pockets and place whatever was in them on the officer's desk. Then, they ordered the man to hold his hands high in the air. While he did so, the officers shook him down. Finished, they told him to pick up his things and return them to his pockets before they pointed the way out of the building and escorted the inmate to the Greenhouse where he remained locked down, pending investigation. His status was termed, "Temporary Lockup," or TLU.
If his stated reason for being late was found to be questionable, which was nearly always, he then faced the Associate Warden of Security in court, held in the Greenhouse basement each weekday afternoon. Inmates and staff referred to this court as the Kangaroo Court, composed of a social worker, teacher, and Roger Crist, the Associate Warden of Security. If Crist was not available, a captain took his place. Crist invariably had his sap, or blackjack, ever at the ready. If a man even thought of making an aggressive move toward Crist, that leather-covered lead-weighted club most effectively changed his mind.
Besides that blackjack, four huge correctional officers were just outside the windowed room, ready to enter the room and take care of the assaultive inmate.
After Crist read the charge and let the man explain what happened—it better be quick and concise—Crist normally said, "Guilty," a second later eyeballing first the social worker and then the teacher, each nodding his agreement with the judgment. Sometimes, Crist gave the man a break. No matter, we had better agree with Crist, or else.
Since work was considered a privilege, if an inmate decided he didn't want to perform his assigned job, he was given a shakedown before being escorted to the Greenhouse and referred to the Kangaroo Court and found guilty of malingering.
While assigned to Idle Gang, the inmate was not allowed to do any work of any kind at all. Even whispering to the man in the next cell was considered work and a violation of rules—which would guarantee him additional time in the hole plus anywhere from three to nine days on bread and water, depending upon the seriousness of the violation. Every fourth day, he would be given a full meal. Being assigned to Idle Gang must've been awfully boring because there weren't too many men who remained in that status for long.
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